Sunday Dinner

The smells of home-cooked goodness permeate the long room, the dim lights shooting through the slight haze of heat, spice, and warm carmaderie. The pungent aromas of curry, cumin, and chives, interspersed with the cloying sweetness of mandarin oranges and raisins, is almost overwhelming, stamping the room with a strong sense of tradition. It’s deja vu. These are the smells, sights, sounds, and memories of the Sunday dinners of our grandmothers, the mortars and pestles of smoky village hearths transformed into backdrops of modern stovetops, granite countertops, and teflon saucepans. It’s impossible to gauge the exact moment, but it’s done – it’s complete.  We have now become our mothers.

guacamole

Two summers ago, I made the perfect guacamole. Fresh avocadoes from the local farmer’s market, ripe yet firm, vibrant and tender. I couldn’t help myself – I had to cut one open, sprinkly some salt on it and dig in with a spoon. Followed by fresh onion, also haggled for at the farmer’s market, sliced and diced so thinly I might have as well pureed it with a food processor – impressive, if I do say so myself. Some cayenne pepper, hastily “borrowed” from the cabinets above the kitchen counter in the common kitchen of the college dorm. Fresh lemon juice, slightly chilled, zesty from the slight pounding the lemons got before they were squeezed into a bowl. A dash of black pepper, a dash of lemon pepper, a light spraying of italian seasoning, a sprinkle of salt, and voila! – perfection. Served cold with a side of Stacy’s Simply Naked Baked Pita Chips…that was a perfect day.

Quite possibly…

These past two days have been the worst days ever. In six words, I can sum it all up: my life is out of control. It started when I woke up early and was supposed to go into lab to start purifying some proteins by precipitating the excess media that was in the solution. When I woke up, I felt like roadkill ran into the gutter twice over, so I must have fallen back asleep, because the next thing I know, I’m running out the door two minutes before an important seminar starts. Racing my body through campus, I arrive at the seminar 10 mins later, my body is sticky, I’m out of breath, and I’m trying to sneak in and try to stay awake. I went to have lunch, which then turned into an hour lunch cos I was so tired and decided to take a nap. I went in to lab, and realized that I had only 30 minutes before my class. I managed to make intelligent comments in my advanced biomaterials class, even though I had read nothing, and then it was off to immunology, which was even worse because there were class presentations, and we were supposed to have written down questions to papers that I should have read but didn’t because I had been feeling nauseous and tired the night before. So I managed to skim the papers and asked questions in class, then hurriedly jotted down questions on a sheet of paper and turned it in for the extra credit. Then after going to lab and finishing preparing my cells (proteins as of yet were not purified), I realized that I had bible study in an hour. Only to receive a phone call to be asked where I am that bible study is now. Hmm…I swear I remember talking about this and we had decided that Bible study was at 7pm not 6pm, but I then pack up my crap and head out. And then it was suggested that we go to neighboring university to attend their Bible study, and I drew the line. It’s like, wait…I actually have a test in two days that I need to study for, and I really don’t want to go over to another Bible study if we’re having one here. Twenty minutes later, I’m stashed in a car and driven to the other university, and we end up spending two extra hours. I’m semi-livid at this point, not at anyone in particular but at the craziness that is my life. At the end of this meeting, it was like I was being volunteered for stuff that I hadn’t agreed upon, which is fine, but still…

So I’ve gone silent at this point because that’s what I do when I’m particularly stressed out, and it must have showed because I was asked what was wrong. How do you respond? So I was like, I’m just thinking about what we talked about in Bible study, which was partially true, because the present out-of-control-ness of my life is directly proportional to the state of my spiritual life. Anyways, I practically leapt out of the car when I was dropped in front of my dorm, and I grabbed my immunology books and started studying for the test. Only to wake up at 1:45am in the study room and realized that I must have dozed off. Aarrrrgggaghh.

So I tried to wake up early again today, for real this time. I was marginally successful, until the business outfit I had chosen for a presentation today looked incomplete and I realized that the earrings I had were all wrong. In looking for the correct earrings, I realized I had like 4 minutes to catch the bus to a nearby campus where the presentation was, and I again dashed out of my room. I knew I was going to miss the shuttle, but then I tried to see if there was someone who could drive me there. No one was there in lab, presumably because they were all at the presentation already or were on the shuttle. I finally called one of my good friends and she said that she was already on her way. Aaarrghaghhh!

So I tried to take public transportation, tried to take a shortcut, missed the bus, had to go to another station, missed that bus by 3 mins, and realized that if I waited for the next bus, I would be at least 45mins-1hr late for the presentation. At which point I wanted to kill something. It must have showed cos a guy at the train/bus station told me to cheer up. I didn’t trust myself to say anything. I took stock of my life, and in that moment, I realized that my life was out of control. How is it that I am perpetually late, unprepared, sometimes unfashionably dressed, and always feeling like I’m trying to catch up? Why has the disarray that is my calendar translated itself into other areas of my life? And why is it that when I promise to do better, shit happens to just blow all my words in my face and make them seem so empty and stale?

All I know is, I can’t afford to screw this up any more than I already have. Get your  life together! By any means necessary. Which probably means I should stop writing and get back to studying.

Long Overdue

 

Hola amigo mío, 

I’m responding to your wonderful message to let you know a little bit of my life since we last spoke. It’s been a while since we’ve chatted, messaged, poked, said hello. So as promised, a little bit o’ me since we last spoke. 

So I got the job to go to Spain (see earlier post, “Interview”), and I must admit that it has been the highlight of my young life so far. It was with a travel agency, but in exchange for exploitation and hard labor, I was given a free trip to Spain, as well as a very meager stipend for food, hostels, nightlife, attractions, travel, etc. At the end of the day, you weren’t supposed to make an money at all — the joy of the journey should suffice, they kept reiterating. Perhaps I should have taken their constant warnings at face value and should have become more cynical sooner — cynical in the sense that it’s just a job — no one did it perfectly, and I shouldn’t have striven for perfection. I mean, the majority of the work was to put down dates and time (to cover themselves in the case of a lawsuit), a comment here and there on the notes of the previous traveler, and say something interesting, like if museums had closed, if the taurino was no longer open, if there is a major new nightclub/bar, what the local color was, how the immigrant situation was, if there was a strange local quirk that everybody should know about…things that could be summarized in few sentences if you paid attention and didn’t get too caught up. I did get caught up, to a point. I’ll tell you the gory details, and then I’ll move on to better things. So picture this. I’m back in the States, and I have literally 30 lbs. of literature, pamphlets, marginalia, maps, brochures, etc, and I’m struggling to sort everything and write something cohesive before my flight leaves the city for my hometown, right? And who happens to walk by but Kathryn, and of course, the first thing she asks is if I’m okay, and it’s like, yeah, why wouldn’t I be…of course, her eye flickered to the war zone that I’ve now made of the café in MD, and it’s like, my life is out of control! But that too passed, and I learned a lot about myself. Namely, that I’m a perfectionist, and while that’s sometimes a good thing, no one really cares, and in the long run, ends up hurting me. So I’m trying to quit these tendencies. I also learned that I can survive on my own — with God, gmail, and my family and friends, I was able to go and come back alright  

But that was the mostly worst of it. I’ll email you later about the worst of it. But really, I had amazing fun. I don’t know if I sent you the newsletter I made about my experience — it was only 2 pages, so I can send it if you like and have the time I went to the South of Spain and also went to the South of Portgugal — starting inland in the region of Extremadura and worked outwards to the coastal cities, then basically hugged the coast until I had to haul ass back to Madrid for my flight home (hehe — that’s another story). I must say that Spaniards in Extremadura and some parts of Andalucía were not very welcoming — I was made to feel like an outsider, and some were downright racist. The flipside being some people who thought that it was okay to proposition me, or be nice to me and at the end expect more than a thank-you. Case in point: So in my first town Cáceres, this restauranteur took me to the Old Quarter, gave me an excellent tour, pretty much got me in free to this festival, where I got to show off my fancy press pass and take pictures, and at the end, he was like, I want you to meet my son. I was like, umm, what? And he was like, oh yeah, that I think you and my son are perfect for each other — I was like, so, I’m leaving town tomorrow — I seriously doubt it will work out In another town Badajoz, I met this Portuguese Angolan who really told me about the town and talked with me for an hour. I thought I was doing research on the town for my review, but apparently, he thought I was sending out vibes and tried to proposition me. And he was Angolan! — I was like, seriously, come on. Anyways, Badajoz redeemed itself because I met some people who were immigrants that were very kind to me, and it was so nice to make friends with the very few people who looked like me. 

Fastforward to Córdoba — my favorite city ever! This is what they say in their tourist DVD: “We are born in one place, but we belong to many. Everybody belongs to the place where they had their first experiences, the place where they cried, loved and felt, even if just once in a lifetime. Each person may come from many places, and all these places live on in the same person. Cordoba is the city of sweet paradoxes, where a mixture of races produces purity, a city of passion and character in equal measure, of bewitching love, and a nightlife that goes on till dawn. A place you will always want to return to. A place that speaks only one language, but understands them all. A bed and a mat made of Sparta grass, lying under a canopy of the stars. A city where the street lamps reminds us they were once oil lamps. A crossing of paths where the future began some time ago, and tradition co-exists with the vanguard of technology and thought. A lively modern city with infinite expectations for enterprising minds ahead of their time. A city of three cultures, three colors, and three ingredients, which make make up one magical formula. It is generous with the worried, and obliging with the calm. Where one breathes out of pleasure, rather than need.” And after reading this, I thought — that’s exactly how I feel about Córdoba – it’s like they listened to a thousand voices and crystallized the essence of all that is Córdoba into that one paragraph. It’s the only city that I’ve seen so far that could claim the tradition and respect for diversity as one of their hallmarks. Jewish, Muslim, and Christian traditions are preserved even now, and my absolute favorite thing in the city, after La Mezquita, is La Torre Calahorra, which explores this synergistic atmosphere that was Córdoba in its Golden Age when all three traditions coexisted. And they treated me like royalty. I was basically given a card to the city, taken to tours, treated to tapas (and wine!), entered museums for free, toured La Mezquita, went to the Madinat Al-Zahra, which was the court of one of the major princes of the Umayyad dynasty, who basically catapulted Córdoba into fame as the nexus of the Muslim empire in Europe. I will forever be grateful to the two people who made it all possible, and I ended up taking my sister back there from another town we were in for her birthday. She had a blast — it was awesome seeing my favorite city through her eyes — and we ended up going to see the Julio Romero de Torres museum, as well as dining in this awesome restaurant. My heart was so full on that trip, and nothing can ever take that away. In retrospect, I think Córdoba was definitely worth the trip to Spain.

Córdoba is also the city where I met this awesome lady who invited me to stay with her in another city that I went to called Marbella. Marbella is the worst kind of tourist-warped town there is. I hated it with such a passion. Ugh — I get angry just thinking about it. The entire city is like Miami beach on crack — sun-fried bodies that are just passing the time until the sun sets so that they could engage in various acts of craziness, only to wake up and do it all again, thereby effectively annihilating what little culture this once-sleepy town-on-the-sea ever had to offer. It turned out that I could only stomach 3 things in the city – the amazing pastry shop deep in the town (away from the tourist crap), a homey restaurant called El Gallo (specialties included rabbit (omg), chicken, and this paella-type thing — also away from the tourist crap), and this small museum (need I say it? – away from the tourist crap) that had a ton of Francisco Goya’s sketches. And of course, this lady’s house and family. I miss her so much — you don’t even understand.  :) Her grandmother was a Christian really really really inspired me and taught me that following God can be really simple if you just believe that He loves you and that conveying that truth with as much honesty as you can without any agendas can really move and touch people. I still remember this woman as though she was sitting right beside me as I write this. That family really salvaged the disaster that was Marbella.

Fastforward through the majority of the other cities in Spain (Malága, Gibraltar (populated with the meanest, dumbest, and most racist police on the face of the planet), Ronda (so pretty!), and Antequera (the most religious small town I’ve seen)). Portugal was equally amazing. My favorite Portugese city was called Sagres (pronounced Sa-gre-SH). It was here that I felt the most alive in the sense of being in tune with nature, it was the first real conversation I had with someone about my alternate dreams (what I would be doing if I wasn’t doing what I’m doing), and it was the first time that I felt comfortable enough to pull out my laptop, play some music, dance, and laugh out loud. So I went to Sagres on a Sunday — again, one of those, ‘this is one of three buses today that will go to where you want, so you had better catch the last return bus or you will be stuck’ days that I got so used to while in Portugal — it’s a sometimes inefficient system, but you soon learn to depend on the inefficieny to keep things moving. I went there about 2 in the afternoon and had until about 5 or so. 3 hours, right? Right. So, it’s this really tiny town that is the southermost point in Western Europe. Henry the Navigator had his sailing school here, and from the coast of Sagres, he sailed his ships to great, adventurous exploits.

This spirit of exploration really permeated the town because people were really open to new cultures (well, except Spain’s — one constant in Portugal was this deep-seated rancor and repugnance of all things Spain — umm, problemas sobre la memoria del colectivo y las tradiciones del pasado much? — in fact, I was told on multiple occasions to stop speaking Spanish and speak English even though they could understand Spanish — I finally had to ask this guy in Sagres because I felt so comfortable with him if my Spanish was that bad, and he was like, umm, no, we just don’t try to speak Spanish if we can help it because we hate them. I was like, umm, sure, that’s fair enough.) So anyways, Sagres, for all its openness, was not very spread out. Imagine one long street, perhaps about a 2 – 3 mile walk, and on either side of the street is pretty much the entire town open to the single glance — pharmacies, grocery stores, restaurants, main attractions…everything. It was pretty ridiculous So anyways, I finished collecting information for the travel guide in about an hour, and I was like, man, 2 hours to kill. So I saw this new restaurant that we hadn’t mentioned in the guide…so I was like, what the hell, why not, right? It turns out that there was also some rooms adjoined to the restaurant, so I thought, I’ll kill two birds with one stone. I can report on both the lodgings and the restaurant and if it’s good, I can showcase something new. I walk in, and there’s nobody in the restaurant. I call out multiple times, yell, walk around, decide to go to the restroom, wash my hands, leave the bathroom, making sure to bang the door of the bathroom in case someone came out….nothing. I looked at the menu briefly, thought about what they would do if I walked out with any of the fine bottles of wine that were within reach, decide that that wasn’t how my momma raised me, decide that they were lucky my mommy raised me this way, look at the architecture on the walls, sigh…I walk outside. Walk back in. Still nothing.

So by this time, about 10 mins have gone by and I’m getting antsy. So I decide to go over to the room side of things. Again, I call out, nothing…I notice a doorbell and ring about 6 times before this young guy comes out. I was like, dude, you know I totally could have robbed your store, right? I think I made some comment about how everything is so open, and he was like, yeah, it’s really not a stressful town, everything is safe…I kind of laughed skeptically at that and he joined in. About 3 minutes later, I’d found out that he’d been hired to run the bar as well as the hotel, and that he used to live in Lisboa but wanted to get away for a while to clear his head and work on a novel (I perked up at this). I’d also found out that he had a LOT of spare time (of course, I already knew this, but he admitted it), and he said that he really had the best job in the world. So after brief introductions and such, I was like, well, I might as well slip into work mode, so I asked him a whole bunch of questions like how much are the rooms, what types of rooms do you have, do you have any restrictions, can people pay with all types of credit card, what are your busiest months, do you have terraces or special rooms, do you have a curfew for your guests, can guests bring pets, bikes, cars, etc…, basically asking everything under the sun.

It’s at this point (and you get good at gauging this) that when they are just when they are at their limit and are about to ask why the hell are you asking all these questions do you get to present a back story for yourself (the greatest euphemism ever applied to the bald-faced act of lying through your teeth). In essence, my job can be simplified thus: I travel on a budget so that you can too (yay!), except I do it by lying or otherwise coercing people to tell me the best deals around. Ha. The first time they told us about the backstory tactic, we were like, umm, you mean you want us to lie…well, stretch the truth a little, they said…we were like, wait, so you mean lie…okay, fine, they said, we mean lie, but we promise it’ll make your job go easier. And how right they were. If people know that you’re reviewing them, they will tell you crap, promise you the world, show you their best room, show you their rooms, lie about menu prices, make up special deals on the spot, etc…By the time I was done, I’d had more family members than I actually have want to visit me from the States, from other parts of Europe, from Canada…I’d had obstinate aunts with pets who won’t travel without loved dogs, cats, or whatever else came to mind want to come and stay with me — at times my family was almost weirdly close-knit, wanting to say as many in a room, at other times, we wouldn’t tolerate anything less than two single beds for my parents even though “they’re quite married and very much in love.” I learned early on to steer clear of saying that I was waiting for my sister to visit me cos that seemed to bring out the crazy in the male hostel owners…but I’m getting off-track.

So I’m standing there in Sagres, right, and I realize that I can’t lie to this guy. At least not yet. So I’m like, look, why don’t we go down to the restaurant and you can show me the restaurant? Is it okay if I sit for a while and wait for my bus…of course, and asks if he can join me. Half a can of pineapple zumo and a tiny pastry later, I realize that even though I’m sitting at the one table and he’s sitting diagonally behind me at another, this was possibly the most relaxed I was on my trip, and this was probably the most happy I’d been in some time. My sister just before my trip to Spain had shared this CD with me of this French-Nigerian singer called Asa. In that moment, I knew that the only thing that could possibly make the moment better would be listening to Asa, so I asked if I could play some music. He said, sure go ahead, and I put it in. I sat in silence for a while and then I was like, well, I might as well multi-task. So I open my word processing program, and I start to take notes on all that he had said about the restaurant and the hotel. After about writing a few paragraphs about Sagres and sneaking more than a few clandestine peeks at the menu to gauge prices, selection, variety, and everything else, I jerk because he asked me who the singer of the music emanating from my computer was. I get into this conversation about Asa, and I start to relate the content of the songs…By this time, he told me that I didn’t have to speak Spanish, and this is when he tells me that the Portuguese don’t really pride themselves on knowing or pretending to care about anything Spanish-related.

So we start speaking in English. I ask him what the hell he’s doing in Sagres, a bit more comes up about his writing. He notices that I, too, am a writer…I didn’t want to cultivate his illusions, so I decided to shatter them by telling him that I was a writer only of sorts…This is when I realize that I can’t lie to him, so I tell him that I’m actually a travel guide writer, although I’m an aspiring engineer by training, and he got a kick out of that. We talk about where I was from, the journey that led me to Spain and Portugal, and we start talking about Fernando Pessoa. I was like, who? He gave me this incredible look, and he took the time to say that (and you could almost hear him insert the words “Well, if you must know”) Pessoa (whose name means “person” in Portuguese, I found out) was considered one of the foremost Portuguese writers/literary geniuses in general. Born in Lisboa, emigrated to South Africa, basically an immigrant all his life, he is considered genius because of the four or so characters (heteronyms) that he penned who were really reflections of himself, with different biographies, histories, personas, and writing styles. And this is when I’m realize I’m as close to doing what I’ve always wanted to do apart from doing engineering.

This was why I went to Spain. Córdoba delivered a good total package, but this single dose was the reason I made the trip. I LOVE writing, I love art, I love immigrant culture, I love the dichotomy between writing and identity, and always at the heart of all this is the question of authorship, memory, and the relationship between the author and the reader. We spent close to 20 mins just talking about Pessoa, and I learnt so much from the conversation. After a while, I just went silent processing everything in my mind, and then he decided to start getting ready to open the restaurant-bar for the early evening. The music was still playing, I still had some zumo, and I still had Pessoa. When it was close to time of getting to my last stop before reading (the fortress from which sailed Henry the Navigator), we chatted a bit more and I exchanged email addresses with him. I still have the card that has the little green logo of the restaurant with his bold yet undeniably male (ahem, stereotypically male). Really, Sagres is the reason why when I consider all the good and all the bad, I realize that even while I wasn’t actively looking for God, if though I hadn’t been aggressively praying, and though I certainly didn’t bring my Bible (the one I have is still my big teenage one and it definitely couldn’t fit my single backpack), God was making himself apparent in the little things, and that God was being faithful to give me what I had been seeking for a long time. He had someone come so softly that I didn’t notice him, and then inserted himself at the most opportune of moments, and basically rejuvenated my being. I just realized that I really went to Spain also to find God.

I specifically remember writing that the most fulfilling “encounters aren’t always on the big, well-marked paths — they’re often accidental meetings with strangers on small and quiet paths.” I also said that “I want these “well-met by moonlight” experiences. I want to write about sites of memory, identity, authorship, local food, that breathtaking view of the city in a month and a day that I will never again experience in that way because the moment, though treasured forever and captured to memory, will never return again. I want to feel joyful and sad at the same time — ecstatic that I got to experience the moment, while sad that life and time are fleeting.” This four, maybe five sentences were why exactly I had gone to Spain and Portugal. Spain certainly didn’t give me authorship and identity – it gave me some art, it gave me hospitality, it gave me my sister’s birthday, it gave me Córdoba, it gave me Trujillo, and other wonderful things like my Marbellan family, but in a sense, I was disillusioned because I realized that all the cool stuff that I had been learning about Spanish culture was really the distillation of all that was noteworthy, laudable, and exemplary of that one particular culture.

I had been fighting so hard to get away to experience a culture that I had almost thought better than the culture that I live in now, maybe better than the culture where I came from, perhaps even better than a culture I have always wanted to create whenever I have the opportunity to do so. I had been fighting so hard and I realized that the focus of my fight was all wrong. I always thought that all the stuff I saw — the Goya, the Dalí, the Albertí, the Remedios Varo, the Lorca…the whatever…I thought that it was really cool that these cultural treasures and the legacy of these amazing people were carved out from Spain because their culture could create something beautiful from the midst of the turmoiled environment and from all that pain and sorrow. In short, I envied what I thought was a transcendent culture. Well, it’s true that I met and was inspired by some people/organizations/cities that certainly were transcendent — they pushed the boundaries, and encouraged me to do the same, but I realized that just like the the Regina Spektor song says, “people are just people| they shouldn’t make you nervous | the world is everlasting | it’s coming and it’s going | people are just people | people are just people like you.” Certainly not everybody will make a big difference, or will have the same opportunity to do so, but they certainly have the same potential to something beautiful and impacting on their patch of green earth. I think Sagres, Spain, and Portugal taught me to be content with who I was, where I was in life, and to take my regrets (oh man, Pandora’s box threatens to open again) and to just give them over to God and ask Him to help me listen for those quiet moments of epiphany, strive to do better in every area of my life, not to focus too much on details, fight harder to be a better friend, aim more to be compassionate and to give openly and cheerfully, and to be happy and to not become embittered. 

I definitely could write about Sagres for a while, but I have to tell you how the trip ended, no? I caught the last bus, and enjoyed a very picturesque trip back to where I had put my stuff. When I came back from Sagres that day, nothing could really touch me — I made paella in the casa de juventud, ate, wrote, and listened to music. I had gone to Sagres from this city called Lagos.  It’s the nexus to some of the smaller cities along the coast, and it boasts a “reliable” bus service to and from town…Well, here’s the deal about Lagos. Lagos is this city where people go and they never leave. Why? Because this is the city where you are the most free to be yourself — it’s the Californian devil-may-care, what matters is beach and sun, I could move on, but I don’t have any money kind of deal. It almost happened to me. Why? Cos this is where I ran out of money. Haha…I didn’t really tell anyone this except for my sister, but I ran out of money because they didn’t pay me for a while, so I basically was like, I can either   a) work for a restaurant  b)work for a bar   c)live on the streets for a few days    or  d) cry and give up.

It was worse because I had money in my credit cards but they had recently renewed and were being held in the States in my bank. It was rough for a while, but I ended up begging my bank to do a cash advance and wire money into my debit card. For about three days, I lived in constant fear of not having enough money to even go to Madrid or miss my transportation to the next town. I tricked the hostel into giving me a free lodging by sleeping in the common area overnight for about two days, but they caught on, and then I decided that my best bet was finishing up Portugal coverage and hauling it back to Madrid, which had the cheapest hostel ever — 11-12 euros a night, which is about $20 a day. The day I left for Madrid, I was in this town called Beja, Portugal — arguably the smallest town ever — it had about 8 buses that came in and out of the city total per day, and this was to all the surrounding cities. I was trying to decide if I should go to Lisbon (more connections) and then transfer to Madrid, or if I should just haul it to Madrid. Based on the money, I was like, whatever, I am prepared to go to an extreme and take the riskier route because although Lisboa was safer and more levelheaded, it was going away from Madrid. So I basically booked the last bus from Beja to Évora, then Évora to Badajoz  across the Spain-Portugal border, then did Badajoz to Madrid. Or at least that was the plan. Everything works in theory, right?

I planned everything down to the minute, and even factored in the 1hr time difference between Spain and Portugal. The hiccup came in going from the Badajoz bus stop on the border to the bus stop in the heart of the city — almost 22 euros later and a breathless dash to the bus terminal, I realized I had missed the bus to Madrid by like 3 mins (ugh!) and had to take the next one. I was so mad…I ended up staying at the bus station for a really long time, until I could leave on the next bus. Almost 17 hours later and a rushed patchwork meal of bread, chocolate, cheese, a plum, and zumo, I stumbled into the youth hostel in Madrid late the next morning, I secretly applauded the guy at the front desk who didn’t bat an eye at my appearance when I asked for a room. I mean, I didn’t look that bad (lol, maybe I really did), but my eyes probably were like, ’say one thing to me that’s not “We have a room for you, how many nights are you staying?” and I will probably kill you.’ Lol. Good times. Thank God they had an elevator. I was so tired, I didn’t think I could walk another step. I crawled out of the elevator, heaved my crap across the little foyer area on the 2nd floor (all female floor), and crashed into the room. I realized later that there was a camera on every floor, so the lobby attendant had probably witnessed my very ungraceful exodus from the elevator and crash landing at my room. I’m glad I’m not sensitive about that sort of thing

Turns out that I had a roommate who had taken the bed assigned to me and had fallen fast asleep. Man. I was all ready to sort through my stuff, do laundry, make some noise, play music to relax, and such, but I had to settle for taking a tepid shower and heading to the public library to catch up on emails and such. I am so glad that I didn’t have to cover Madrid. It is a beautiful city and all, but in terms of navigational ease, it is a hot mess. Kind of like New York, but without the dizzying sense of parallel streets and trains tracks. Definitely not so Madrid. There are angled streets that feed into each other and drop off, usually at some restaurant, bar, or nightclub, and usually you’re like, what is going on, and is this where you kill me? It’s probably not as sketchy as I’m making out to be, but I was trying to come back from the grocery store and 60 seconds later found myself at a dead-end street with no lights on it. I even got lost while going to the public library in broad daylight, even though there were clearly-marked signs. Add in the language barrier for those who don’t speak Spanish, and I quickly realized why what I do brings the powers that be who hired me a hefty profit. Good times.

Seriously. Why? Because I met up with a college classmate of mine. We’d done some computer coding together, the agony of which binds people together in the unbreakable bonds of sitting up late nights coding until it’s time for breakfast or just crying yourself to sleep. Well, we didn’t actually cry, but mainly because there were cameras in the computer basement and we came to the decision that our dignity was the very last thing we would sacrifice to that class. It turns out that the punk went on to major in computer science, while I “settled” for engineering. He he. Anyways. So he’s in Madrid. I’m in Madrid. I email him, and I’m like, um…how’s it going? He’s like, I’m bored out of my mind. I’m like, well you’re in luck, because I finally dragged myself in to Madrid, want to just meet up and talk? So we decide to meet at La Puerta del Sol, and we just walk and talk. It’s like 11 or so by the time we meet, and of course the city is coming alive. So he tells me what he’s been doing. Apparently, this guy, though he’s being paid in dollars, is still making craploads of money to do some coding for this new company, which also bought him and the three to five other guys on the same project a bachelor pad. I was like, R u KiDdInG ME? He was like, no joke. I told him, so, either you’re saving all this money and/or you’re planning to give me some, right? He kinda laughed…But anyways, the rest of the night was uneventful. We went into a chill bar and had a drink, talked for a while and then realized that the subway would be closing in a few minutes, so we dash for the train, plead with the train attendant to let me in (which he did), and then I dashed for the actual train platform. I went home, realized my punk roommate still had her crap on my bed but was still out, so I went downstairs to resolve issue (mainly because I didn’t want her to check out of our room and leave me with the bill associated with my bed, which sometimes happens if beds are switched), then proceeded to stay up all night writing because it was so hot in the room and there was an older lady trying to sleep in there. I didn’t understand how she could possibly sleep there, but whatevs…Good times.

One final good news and bad news. I was at the airport early (good news), but my sister wanted me to credit the international flight on her flight points, and I couldn’t find the stupid piece of paper on which I’d written her member number (bad news), and I was freaking out because this was the one thing she had asked from me this whole Spain trip, and I realize that I would rather waste points than be stuck in Spain (see, trying not to be too focused on details), and at that very moment, who decides to call but my sister (ahh, this girl knows me so well) to tell me the number (“I just wanted to make sure that you remembered the member number” –> Dang — I tried not to be too insulted), so she gives me the number (good news), and then I run to the gate, at which point they tell me that they had seconds before just closed the gate (horrible news), at which point I almost collapse from shock and plead with them to let me in, that I overhead someone just now check in for the same flight, at which point they agree (good news), at which point I have to stand in line for like 5 more minutes because it’s so busy(bad news), then I realize I have all these euros that I have no need for anymore so this means I have to change my money (bad news).

So I change my money (good news), and then the idiots at the gate try to ask me all these questions to figure out if I have contraband (I call them idiots only for the condescending way they kept asking the same questions over and over and then they started asking me particulars about my job — I almost yell that I’m helping people come to your country, buy into your tourism market, and sustain your economy! Let me catch my flight, I swear I’m not a terrorist), at which point the woman at the gate lets me go, and I find my seat. I was not the last person to sit down or even come on the flight, so I was happy about that. I think I ended up watching The Golden Compass, and one other movie before seriously crashing into the least comfortable sleep I’d had in a while.My body went completely haywire because of the combination of the lack of a healthy, filling meal, lack of sleep, and the near stress of missing my flight. I woke up feeling so weird, but I flew to school to pick up my crap before heading home. When I got back home, I still felt so weird cos of all the craziness that happened to me in the last 72 hours. The jet-lag was kind of harrowing but I got through it with a LOT of sleep and a lot of home-cooked meals, and a single bar of Hershey’s cookies-n-cream (he he…indeed).

Fastforward to graduate school. So my first introduction to graduate school was this event that they had for minority graduate or transfer students. It was so helpful and fun, and I got to meet a lot of the students that I know now. At the time, the dorms were charging an exorbitant fee to get into your rooms early, so I called my aunt who lives about 45 mins from town and asked to stay with her. I love that lady so much. It turns out that two of my young cousins — I think they’re really my niece and nephew or something because my aunt is their grandmother (what does that make us?) — were there, so I bonded with them. Those kids LOVE to swim. Swimming because a negotiating tool for me and my aunt to get them to wash dishes, turn off the TV, read their books, do math homework (in the summer!), and clean the house. My nephew made me really mad one day, and I couldn’t speak to him for a while because he was being so disobedient, but we eventually got around that. Anyways, one of my favorite memories is that I was sitting in the living room when my sneaking cousins decided to waylay me and threw one of the cushion throw pillows at me. My niece totally started it. Of course, this signaled the beginning of a pillow fight.

It was a long and glorious battle –> of course I won, although I was very quick to tell them to go to bed when the game turned in my favor. The pillow fight had made me realize that at the beginning of the week, I was their cool aunt, then I became the disciplinarian (which I hate being cos it drains me so much), then I became their tough but cool aunt at the end of the week. I miss those tykes Anyways. I’m focusing on my cousins because the rest of the week was really just a blur of tutorials, orientation, paperwork, long lines for payroll, ID, etc, and interminable tours, and the worst was getting shots. Yeah…But finally, the week started.

The thing about my program is that it spans two campuses, and it’s very interdisciplinary. As such, students have  a lot of freedom in choosing their classes. The first semester, I chose to take physiology (cell biology), mass transfer (chemical transport), and math (ODEs/PDEs). I liked the math class the best. The worst part of the semester was the final exam because all three of them were within one 18 hr time period. I had about 15 mins between two of them. Suffice to say that it was not pretty and it just got so that I couldn’t think on the last one, which happened to be math. But thank God that’s over. I definitely learned a lot, although the consensus was that though our mass transfer teacher tried to placate us with wine and cheese and chocolate events, he could have been a better teacher, and our cell biology teacher always used to ask at the end of every slide, “Are we good?” then immediately reply “Good” and moving on before pausing to see if we actually misunderstood something. It was the running joke of the class.  

So the way that our program works also, is that unless you’re on a training grant or fellowship that specifies that you should rotate labs every semester, you have exactly one month to interview, negotiate, and find your professor. We were all kind of shell-shocked when we heard this the first time because programs usually give you at least a semester. Nope. So I interviewed about 6 people (It ended up being 5 because one of the professors was abroad at the time, and I didn’t think that was a good way to begin our time together with him gone). I loved all of them, so I was like, umm….go back to basics. In which environment would you most thrive? What support has the professor shown you thus far? Are the graduate students in the lab happy? How competitive or cutthroat is the environment of the lab? How may papers have they published in the last 5 years? What have the alumni of the lab done? WHAT IS THE REPUTATION OF YOUR PROFESSOR IN THE DEPARTMENT? Stuff like that. So then I was torn between 2 people, one on each campus. 

You know that I have a tendency to freak out, or drive something to death, so I called everybody and asked. They all tried to be diplomatic…well, except my mom. She told me to focus on logistics. How far are points A & B from where you live? Point A? Do you like Professor A? Have the people in Professor A’s lab been nice? You said Professor A’s lab has someone from the same background as you, who’s already helped you out, whereas Professor B’s lab has been consistently empty when you’ve been there, possibly because they’re en route or have a different schedule than you? And then she was like, do you see where I’m going with this? I was like, well, I’d be blind not to… So I emailed Professor A’s student, the one with the same background as me  at like 11pm and asked if he could give me a tour of the lab before the final deadline of noon the next day. I took it as a good sign when he responded almost immediately and agreed. So we rendezvous at about 11, he shows me the lab, I meet a few more (hilarious) people in the lab, think it’s a good environment, call my sister one last time for last-minute advice, then turn in the form. I had put Professor A as top choice, Professor B as second choice. And I got matched with Professor A! It turns out that Professor B also wanted me as his top choice. Thank God for small blessings, no? I really couldn’t have found a better lab. I have such awesome and chill co-workers…everybody comes and goes, and it’s like, yes, indeed, this is what lab culture is really all about. 

In terms of actual reasearch, I can share more with you online about specifics, but I had been working over on the second campus on a collaborative project. It kind of stalled late November because of a hiccup in our cells, and then soon after I had to take exams, so I didn’t really get a lot done this first semester except take classes, apply for grants, and try to read a lot of papers. I’m really trying to hit the ground running this second semester. Today, though, I realized I may have actually accidentally temperature-shocked my cells to death. $400 and a huge pile of regret in my stomach later, I order new cells and decide to shake it off. Success in grad school I’m realizing is 55% confidence and daring, 25% hard work, 10% serendipity and about 10% intelligence. Although the intelligence part is what got us in, it’s not what’ll keep us here. 

A bit more on the logistics. So I will take qualifying exams exactly one year from now…then I will teach one class the next semester. That same semester, I will present my thesis proposal, after which I will work like crazy to get done in 5 years That’s the current plan right now. I’m really praying that I gain momentum and that I stop letting confidence issues get in the way of getting my hands really dirty. I really couldn’t say more specifically without possibly giving away my identity, which I’ve tried to protect, so if I was too vague, let me know and I can try to explain more through another means.

Ojalá que esta mensaje te encuentre bien de salud. Si quieras responder, mandame un email por la red como facebook? Hasta luego!

I miss you,

Tu amiga

Keep breathing…

This has been the most chaotic week of my educational life. I’ve had a thesis, a problem set, a presentation, a student rally, meetings, organizational elections, and church stuff to complete in the past week. I now have to catch up on five essays, two math problem sets, a thesis revision, and research in the next week — all but the research needs to be completed between now and Wednesday. My tutee wants help on her computer science homework, so I have to tutor her. And my room is a mess! I did laundry so it’s still in the basket — I’ve got stacks of books lying around and stacks of papers lying around, and empty bottles of SoBe drinks around my computer. And I have to go shopping for cute jeans soon because it’s starting not to be a good look.

And yet, I’m reminded that ‘all I can do is keep breathing..all we can do is keep  breathing…”

sEXILEd

Dear roommate,

Please don’t let your boyfriend sleep overnight in the room, especially since I’ve asked so nicely before…It’s weird to wake up to (semi-)random people walking in and out of our bathroom…I don’t care if you are(n’t) doing anything, please stop –> it’s awkward.

Sincerely, ME.

Interview…

I interviewed for a summer job today. At 9:40am. I was one minute late. It involves a ton of writing, updating, summarizing, taking pictures — in short, working for a travel guide. I think it went well. I pray that it went well. Ever since I can remember, I have remembered places…not just places, but specific sites. I remember the round-about in downtown Owerri, next to the public library and the bus stop, which was one of the most major places in the city. I remember Canal Street in New York City, but specifically the shop that I went in and bought a scarf for quite cheap. I remember sitting in Central Park, watching dancers from around protest a genocide through their art. I remember the church on Wetheral Road, the Catholic one that had beautiful stained glass windows and a bi-annual bazaar outside. And yet, I’m frustrated. Or tired…perhaps both.

I have tried so hard to gain an international experience, but I don’t think that the powers that be recognize nor appreciate the simple but desperate wish to immerse yourself in another culture, to learn the language, and to engage the people: to take the time to process the last few years of your life before moving on to another stage and a new experience. These formative experiences don’t have to be painful and tortuous — most people who are saving the world in a big and glorious way only smile when the camera is on. That was unfair…I’m sorry. But what I mean to say is that ministries don’t have to be miraculous to be impacting — we can find meaning in the small things, and we can impact people on our patches of green earth. But we need to get away sometimes, a distancing in order to look back on our lives and process it from a different reference point. What I don’t understand is why sometimes people feel that getting away is unjustified if it’s not doing something major and huge. Don’t get me wrong. There is a time and a need for intrepid citizens to embark upon a trek through southern China to teach women how to market their jewelry in order to better their existences. There’s also merit in traveling to India to visit among the urban poor in an attempt to radically effect change, whether through redesigning the urban slums or working with a non-profit to teach women to start bank accounts to gain financial security from the men in their lives. But I think there’s also merit in instilling the behavioral disposition towards accepting others who look, think, achieve, and believe differently than you do, and those sorts of lessons take place in city buses, churches, synagogues, and mosques, concerts where you’re waving your hands to a greater theme, or just sharing dreams about a better reality. These encounters aren’t always on the big, well-marked paths — they’re often accidental meetings with strangers on small and quiet paths.

I want these “well-met by moonlight” experiences. I want to write about sites of memory, identity, authorship, local food, that breathtaking view of the city in a month and a day that I will never again experience in that way because the moment, though treasured forever and captured to memory, will never return again. I want to feel joyful and sad at the same time — ecstatic that I got to experience the moment, while sad that life and time are fleeting. I need to process the last four years of my life. And I strongly believe that it would do me a world of good to travel outside of the United States to do this. I really don’t want to save the world, or at least, that’s not why I want to go abroad, which is to say, not right this summer.

I love when I’m pleasantly surprised. I’ll let you know. I really want this. It’s a beautiful day today.

East-West

There’s this song that says that only “[He] know(s) how far the East from the West.” I mean, only God knows the immeasurables in life — the intangibles — the things that we play at and think we know but really have no clue about. I’m reminded of that truth — I just heard some pretty devastating news. This couple that I know who have been together for quite some time now — they were engaged — just broke up. I seriously thought that they were perfect for each other. It makes me wonder what true love really is or what it means for two people to commit to each other in body, spirit and truth, and how fragile we truly are and how shakily this thing we call relating actually comes together. We spoke about true love at church today.

I really can’t write anymore without feeling like ish.

If you really ever need some cheering up or to laugh with somebody or just meditate on your life, I strongly urge you to turn to www.air1.com.

Conquering the Fear of Flight

Wavorly – Praise And Adore
From the album Conquering The Fear Of Flight

What I have to say is obvious
A knowledge free, for all of us are
Your Word leaves us with no excuse
The paths we choose make us who we are
There’s a breeze blowing through here tonight

(Chorus)
So I praise and adore you
Lay it all down before you
In every way you’re beautiful
From my heart
I praise and adore
You made the world beautiful
I cannot stand and deny
You created life
And some live without it

Wake up morning sunrise in my eyes
At night the moon lights all the sky
The sound of hope that’s in the air
In everything, it’s everywhere
There’s a breeze blowing through here tonight

(Chorus)

It’s true, it’s all you

So I praise and adore you
Lay it all down before you
In every way you’re beautiful
From my heart
And every breath I take
There’s no way
Accident created this place

Slow Me Down

I just discovered Emmy Rossum. I’m seriously behind. I know. But I love her sound, her pop sound, that is. Mind you, it’s not “bubble-gum pop.” Check out her Good Morning America interview.

Writing to say that this single pretty much encapsulates everything that I feel at this moment in my life. “Men travel faster now, but I do not know if they go to better things.”

She’s been getting a lot of crap lately, but she’s got balls to put herself on the line and try consistently to be true to herself, to be compassionate, and to be brave. If only we looked to her instead of the “bubble-gum” pop-stars. Goodness. Some lady mis-pronounced her name when giving her the CCA award for best young actress. It’s Ros-sum. As in (o)possum. She took it in stride, as she always does.

So far, my favorite leading ladies are: Katherine Heigl, Jennifer Connelly, Kristen Stewart (Twilight is going to be ridiculous), Franka Potente, Jena Malone (when she stops giggling — ach!), Madeleine Stowe, and Emmy Rossum.