Friday, November 21, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
A Surprising Thing I Hate About Working in an Office
That Monday-morning small talk about what you did with your weekend.
If you did a ton of fun, interesting stuff, no one really wants to hear you recite it all, and if you did absolutely nothing, just sat around in your sweats, knitted a bit, maybe made that banana bread you've been promising your roommate for weeks, you end up feeling so so boring.
And everyone in the office manages to ask you about it individually, so you end up reciting the same boring list 20 times. By the end you have the same stupid non-jokes all outlined every time. "Ha! I know! It's like, maybe the cable guy could come when he said he would! Ha! Ha!"
Most devastatingly though, once all the little bits have been recounted, "oh, I puttered around, did some errands, saw a movie Saturday night, blah blah blah," it all sounds like SO LITTLE. WHAT HAPPENED TO MY WEEKEND??? I SWORE there were 48 hours in it last time I checked!!
Sigh.
If you did a ton of fun, interesting stuff, no one really wants to hear you recite it all, and if you did absolutely nothing, just sat around in your sweats, knitted a bit, maybe made that banana bread you've been promising your roommate for weeks, you end up feeling so so boring.
And everyone in the office manages to ask you about it individually, so you end up reciting the same boring list 20 times. By the end you have the same stupid non-jokes all outlined every time. "Ha! I know! It's like, maybe the cable guy could come when he said he would! Ha! Ha!"
Most devastatingly though, once all the little bits have been recounted, "oh, I puttered around, did some errands, saw a movie Saturday night, blah blah blah," it all sounds like SO LITTLE. WHAT HAPPENED TO MY WEEKEND??? I SWORE there were 48 hours in it last time I checked!!
Sigh.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Recommended Reading
A couple of days ago, I read this article (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/20/magazine/20wwln-lede-t.html) by one of my favorite authors, Micheal Pollan, and I keep thinking about it. The article begins with Pollan working through this question of why bother about trying to save the environment - there seems to be too much to do, and not any reasonable assurance that others will join in on the efforts that need to be made, and we are not sure that it would not all be too late anyway.
I think it particularly speaks to me because I really struggle with this question - "why bother?" - not exactly as he describes it, not so much at the beginning of the effort, but more in the middle. I find that I can easily get myself worked up to make changes and save the world, yaddayaddayadda, but that in the middle, when the sacrifices and challenges are no longer novel and all I want is to just eat a cheeseburger and get on with my life, or not spend 3xs as much on the fancy green light bulbs and instead get the regular ones and have enough left over to buy a pretty new skirt. I find myself wilting at that point - find myself standing in the aisle with a light bulb in either hand, talking myself into buying the cheap one. But I think Pollan is right - I believe that it will take one person after another making all the changes they can, it will take one person after another calling for technological, legislative, and truly, moral, change. I do believe that.
And I believe something that Pollan doesn't talk about directly, but opens the way to with his discussion of "living as if". Pollan uses Vaclav Havel, a Czech politician who was instrumental in the overthrow of communism in Czechoslovakia, as an example of what can happen when people go ahead with what they believe is right even when all but sure that those attempts will be futile if not personally dangerous. I think that what Pollan doesn't explicitly say, but is exceptionally true, is that there is something very pure and valuable about doing what you believe is right, regardless of surrounding situations. That in a very direct and simple, yet somewhat elusive way, there is value in doing all the little energy saving, emission reducing things you can - whether or not they lead to others following, to legislative changes, or to technological advances. I believe that there is something valuable in doing what you know to be right, even if that action is ineffective or fruitless.
Additionally - I also wanted to point you towards Pollan's comment about observing Sabbath - I kinda love this idea - it's so simple and direct. I've been thinking about implementing it in my own life, perhaps with the modifications of allowing for use of lights and food-related devices.
I think it particularly speaks to me because I really struggle with this question - "why bother?" - not exactly as he describes it, not so much at the beginning of the effort, but more in the middle. I find that I can easily get myself worked up to make changes and save the world, yaddayaddayadda, but that in the middle, when the sacrifices and challenges are no longer novel and all I want is to just eat a cheeseburger and get on with my life, or not spend 3xs as much on the fancy green light bulbs and instead get the regular ones and have enough left over to buy a pretty new skirt. I find myself wilting at that point - find myself standing in the aisle with a light bulb in either hand, talking myself into buying the cheap one. But I think Pollan is right - I believe that it will take one person after another making all the changes they can, it will take one person after another calling for technological, legislative, and truly, moral, change. I do believe that.
And I believe something that Pollan doesn't talk about directly, but opens the way to with his discussion of "living as if". Pollan uses Vaclav Havel, a Czech politician who was instrumental in the overthrow of communism in Czechoslovakia, as an example of what can happen when people go ahead with what they believe is right even when all but sure that those attempts will be futile if not personally dangerous. I think that what Pollan doesn't explicitly say, but is exceptionally true, is that there is something very pure and valuable about doing what you believe is right, regardless of surrounding situations. That in a very direct and simple, yet somewhat elusive way, there is value in doing all the little energy saving, emission reducing things you can - whether or not they lead to others following, to legislative changes, or to technological advances. I believe that there is something valuable in doing what you know to be right, even if that action is ineffective or fruitless.
Additionally - I also wanted to point you towards Pollan's comment about observing Sabbath - I kinda love this idea - it's so simple and direct. I've been thinking about implementing it in my own life, perhaps with the modifications of allowing for use of lights and food-related devices.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
When You Get What You Ask For
One of my girlfriends here is a woman who is significantly older than the rest of our little group, a woman who went through some major change and upheaval in her life, and moved down here for an indefinite period of time, looking to really find fulfillment for herself. She subscribes to a somewhat more “new-agey” vision of the world than I do, but I love to hear her talk about her process in moving here and staying here and planning the next stages of her life now that she’s substantially altered its course and is no longer on a traditional path. Recently, she was talking about how hard it has been for her to get her career set up here, how she has had to do so much waiting, and being patient. She said that she has been using the time to do a lot of writing, both personal and work-related, but she was becoming increasingly frustrated with all this waiting, until recently she remembered that before moving here she had been thinking over and over and saying to all those around her that she just wanted time to write. She wanted to just write and write, and look! Here she was with so much time to write! How funny, then, that she had been seeing this period with so much impatience. She was using this as evidence that the universe is listening to you, that you will receive what you ask for if you can keep asking for it and keep moving towards what seems like the right destination.
As much as I scoff at the idea of the universe “listening” to you, and delivering what you ask for if you can only keep the faith, I realized that something very similar has happened to me over the past year. This time last year, as I am sure some of you will remember, I was telling anyone who would listen that all I wanted to do was to go sit on some beach somewhere, to just go stick my head in the sand and sit still for a year. I kept asking ironically, “Does anyone pay for that?” I was sitting in my carrel at Firestone Library, staring at the putrid green walls feeling awash with how low I felt my inner self to be, with how exhausted and depleted and done I felt, not just with my thesis but with the world as a whole really. I was not really feeling all that excited by the wonderful job opportunities revealing themselves, or able to power through the writing process, or coping all that well with what were my responsibilities and obligations. I was flailing a fair bit, and very very scared.
I have had about 8 months of a paid semi-vacation. I’ve struggled with the fact that it isn’t quite a vacation, but that there isn’t really much in the way of real work either, and I’ve struggled with the culture and my place here, and with disappointed expectations. But I have done a lot of sitting in the sun, and waking slowly in my own rhythm, with no classes to run off to, panicked because I was late, a lot of swimming and reading and watching TV even!, a lot of talking with friends and going out for drinks. Someone has paid me to do all these things. I got what I asked for. Look at that.
And it feels pretty good. The first part of the year was difficult, but ever since I accepted what this was, I’ve felt (for the most part) happy. The happy isn’t always effortless or easy, but I’ve managed to find it and to continue to find my way back to it when I fall off the horse. This happy is about a number of things: finding friends whose company I enjoy and who I can share my true self with, finding pieces of this culture that I can love, finding ways to block or ignore or simply brush off some of the pieces I cannot find a way to love. But even more than all of that, I think I am beginning to come to see that some of the deep, bubbling happiness I have been feeling recently is about the replenishment of myself that I was doing even when I was not aware I was doing it.
I have been quiet. And not even in a spiritual, open, questing way – just quiet. As me. I have let my brain stop thinking all its thoughts for brief spans. I have Sat Still and have not attempted to unduly enrich myself. I have read some books, but not that many, and probably 60 or 70% non-classic, non-revelatory novels. I have watched a lot of TV. And not great documentaries, or news, or even film.
I feel like the little kid who has spent the summer running and swimming – tan, more flexible, muscles exercised again, head emptier, full of easy grace and easy smiles and the confidence of mastering all the nooks and crannies of the woods on my bike.
As much as I scoff at the idea of the universe “listening” to you, and delivering what you ask for if you can only keep the faith, I realized that something very similar has happened to me over the past year. This time last year, as I am sure some of you will remember, I was telling anyone who would listen that all I wanted to do was to go sit on some beach somewhere, to just go stick my head in the sand and sit still for a year. I kept asking ironically, “Does anyone pay for that?” I was sitting in my carrel at Firestone Library, staring at the putrid green walls feeling awash with how low I felt my inner self to be, with how exhausted and depleted and done I felt, not just with my thesis but with the world as a whole really. I was not really feeling all that excited by the wonderful job opportunities revealing themselves, or able to power through the writing process, or coping all that well with what were my responsibilities and obligations. I was flailing a fair bit, and very very scared.
I have had about 8 months of a paid semi-vacation. I’ve struggled with the fact that it isn’t quite a vacation, but that there isn’t really much in the way of real work either, and I’ve struggled with the culture and my place here, and with disappointed expectations. But I have done a lot of sitting in the sun, and waking slowly in my own rhythm, with no classes to run off to, panicked because I was late, a lot of swimming and reading and watching TV even!, a lot of talking with friends and going out for drinks. Someone has paid me to do all these things. I got what I asked for. Look at that.
And it feels pretty good. The first part of the year was difficult, but ever since I accepted what this was, I’ve felt (for the most part) happy. The happy isn’t always effortless or easy, but I’ve managed to find it and to continue to find my way back to it when I fall off the horse. This happy is about a number of things: finding friends whose company I enjoy and who I can share my true self with, finding pieces of this culture that I can love, finding ways to block or ignore or simply brush off some of the pieces I cannot find a way to love. But even more than all of that, I think I am beginning to come to see that some of the deep, bubbling happiness I have been feeling recently is about the replenishment of myself that I was doing even when I was not aware I was doing it.
I have been quiet. And not even in a spiritual, open, questing way – just quiet. As me. I have let my brain stop thinking all its thoughts for brief spans. I have Sat Still and have not attempted to unduly enrich myself. I have read some books, but not that many, and probably 60 or 70% non-classic, non-revelatory novels. I have watched a lot of TV. And not great documentaries, or news, or even film.
I feel like the little kid who has spent the summer running and swimming – tan, more flexible, muscles exercised again, head emptier, full of easy grace and easy smiles and the confidence of mastering all the nooks and crannies of the woods on my bike.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
The Long Way Around
In 2006, after my study-abroad program in Prague ended, I took a trip to Croatia with one of the girls I had been living with. Michelagh and I flew into Dubrovnik, on the south-eastern coast of Croatia, and were flying out of Split, on its north-western coast. We had a loose idea of the places we would like to see, and the idea was to make our way up the coast, traveling from place to place, and arriving in Split the day before our flight back to Prague. One of our last destinations was the city of Havar, located on the island of Havar, one of the largest islands right off the coast.
Because of the way that this type of travel goes however, when we went to get our bus tickets to Havar, we discovered that because of the length of the trip, we hadn’t left ourselves enough time to both see the city and make it to Split in time to catch our plane. The woman at the bus station suggested that instead of taking the most common route, we take a bus to another port along the coast, and then take a ferry to the island. The catch was that the ferry would take us to the opposite side of the island from the city of Havar. The woman assured us that there must be a bus that would take us to the city however, and so we happily set off. The bus ride was hours and hours shorter than it would have been had we been traveling the regular route, and the ferry was located in a tiny town full of Croatians on beach vacations. We got gelato and Michelagh bought a pair of flippers and a snorkel mask and by the time we got on the ferry we were ecstatic with how beautiful everything was and what ingenious travelers we were, to find the hidden routes that would get there faster and would let us see what was off the beaten path to boot!
I’m sure you can guess where this is going. We got to Havar the island, and disembarked from the ferry, only to find ourselves in a one-street town which did (!) have a bus, but since it was (groan) SUNDAY AFTERNOON, the next bus wouldn’t leave until 5am the next morning. We spoke with the town’s only taxi driver, who would drive us to Havar the city, but for just over $200 US. Since $200 US was about what we had combined to last us the rest of the trip, this was not an option. We tried to hitchhike, but to no avail, and ended up sitting for a few hours in the sweltering shade of an old abandoned brick building at the crossroads where the road that led into town left the road that served the island. Finally we gave up and found a room to rent for the night.
At 5am the next morning we were groggily standing outside of the house we had been staying in, backpacks on, waiting for the bus to drive by. When the “bus” showed it was a small white van full of Croatians commuting to work. We climbed in and stowed our packs as well as possible (read: on our laps) and the van took off, flying across the deserted road which climbed and wove through the hills.
Havar is famous for its lavender, which grows both wild and cultivated across the island. This is not lavender like you are used to – that powdery, stuffy smell infused into soaps and constituting overwhelming perfumes. This is another element altogether and as we sat in that small white van that morning, clinging to our seats as the van flung itself around curves in the road, the smell of wild lavender blew through the wide-open windows. Havar, like the rest of coastal Croatia, is all rocky cliffs plunging into the indigo sea, and as the van drove the scenery would abruptly change from green, rocky hillside, strewn with lavender bushes and white stone houses, to impressively tall and steep cliffs falling away into the sea.
I predict that this will be one of the abiding memories of my life and it certainly was not part of any plan or recommended by any travel guide. I did not set out in search of it and in fact would probably have avoided it if I could have. It was the most indirect way to get to where we were going, and it cut down on how much time we had to spend there for sure, but knowing what I know now, I might make sure to stay overnight in that little town on a return trip to Croatia, just to re-experience that bus ride.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For awhile now I’ve been ruminating on the idea that I don’t really know exactly what I’m doing or where I’m going. I think I used to, in that childish way where your dreams are formed by half-imagined pieces of things, and never really involve work. You were going to be a firefighter, but when you saw it in your mind’s eye you were wearing the suit, and climbing down a ladder, holding a child who was clinging to your neck, the crowd below clapping. Paradoxically your firefighter’s suit was crisp and clean, and there was no similar dream of crawling through the flames, sweating and hot, scared that the fire-damaged building might collapse around you at any moment.
I think one of the reasons it’s so hard not to know is because I used to. I used to have these ideas about what I was going to do and who I was going to be when I was a “grown-up”, but now that I find myself here, at the precipice of adult-hood, I find that all the things I have learned over the years have worn away at those dreams. I am still holding firmly on to the honorable intentions so many of my dreams proposed to follow, but without the framework the dreams provided, the intentions can start to feel more like anchors than buoys.
I sort of kinda maybe have some half-formed ideas, and the knowledge of a few pretty concrete things that do or don’t make me happy. A couple of moral values I’d like to hold onto, a few financial goals I’m shooting for, a very loose 5-year plan. Or whatever. You know? And even those things I’m calling concrete or “plans” – well, I’m pretty convinced that they would give way under the sweetest of breezes.
I have been pretty worried about this. Well, I suppose worried isn’t quite the right word. I’ve been panicked by this a little. Ok, a lot. Not knowing where or what or when or how? I find that difficult. Challenging. Recently however, more days than not, I am not so worried. Not so worried, or concerned, not panicked.
The thing is, looking back, I think it’s often taken an indirect route for me to get to where I was going.
And I’ve been pretty fortunate with where I’ve ended up.
I feel relatively confident that I’m going to get somewhere, even if it’s not where I once thought it would be. I’m pretty convinced of the fact that there are a million ways to lead a satisfying and meaningful life, and recently I’ve been able to keep that in the forefront of my mind.
It’s very cliché all this – this idea that life is the journey (the bus ride) not the destination, the idea that the most amazing moments are those we could never plan for or anticipate, that the road less-traveled is the road to take. I don’t know that it’s always true - I definitely have had amazing moments that have been planned out, that are in every guidebook, and learned things I needed to know from the most conventional of sources – but I know that like in the story above, I have in the past been truly blessed by the fact that my plans were laid to waste or that I didn’t have plans in the first place.
And at some point, it’s clear to me that it doesn’t really matter whether or not I agree to this reality of my life. I can fight it with my wide-eyed panic if I like, but that won’t fill in all these blank spaces I am so thrown by.
I am just going to have to take The Long Way Around. And just trust that it will get me where I need to be going.
P.S. Full disclosure: “The Long Way Around” is a song. By the Dixie Chicks. I know. I know.
Because of the way that this type of travel goes however, when we went to get our bus tickets to Havar, we discovered that because of the length of the trip, we hadn’t left ourselves enough time to both see the city and make it to Split in time to catch our plane. The woman at the bus station suggested that instead of taking the most common route, we take a bus to another port along the coast, and then take a ferry to the island. The catch was that the ferry would take us to the opposite side of the island from the city of Havar. The woman assured us that there must be a bus that would take us to the city however, and so we happily set off. The bus ride was hours and hours shorter than it would have been had we been traveling the regular route, and the ferry was located in a tiny town full of Croatians on beach vacations. We got gelato and Michelagh bought a pair of flippers and a snorkel mask and by the time we got on the ferry we were ecstatic with how beautiful everything was and what ingenious travelers we were, to find the hidden routes that would get there faster and would let us see what was off the beaten path to boot!
I’m sure you can guess where this is going. We got to Havar the island, and disembarked from the ferry, only to find ourselves in a one-street town which did (!) have a bus, but since it was (groan) SUNDAY AFTERNOON, the next bus wouldn’t leave until 5am the next morning. We spoke with the town’s only taxi driver, who would drive us to Havar the city, but for just over $200 US. Since $200 US was about what we had combined to last us the rest of the trip, this was not an option. We tried to hitchhike, but to no avail, and ended up sitting for a few hours in the sweltering shade of an old abandoned brick building at the crossroads where the road that led into town left the road that served the island. Finally we gave up and found a room to rent for the night.
At 5am the next morning we were groggily standing outside of the house we had been staying in, backpacks on, waiting for the bus to drive by. When the “bus” showed it was a small white van full of Croatians commuting to work. We climbed in and stowed our packs as well as possible (read: on our laps) and the van took off, flying across the deserted road which climbed and wove through the hills.
Havar is famous for its lavender, which grows both wild and cultivated across the island. This is not lavender like you are used to – that powdery, stuffy smell infused into soaps and constituting overwhelming perfumes. This is another element altogether and as we sat in that small white van that morning, clinging to our seats as the van flung itself around curves in the road, the smell of wild lavender blew through the wide-open windows. Havar, like the rest of coastal Croatia, is all rocky cliffs plunging into the indigo sea, and as the van drove the scenery would abruptly change from green, rocky hillside, strewn with lavender bushes and white stone houses, to impressively tall and steep cliffs falling away into the sea.
I predict that this will be one of the abiding memories of my life and it certainly was not part of any plan or recommended by any travel guide. I did not set out in search of it and in fact would probably have avoided it if I could have. It was the most indirect way to get to where we were going, and it cut down on how much time we had to spend there for sure, but knowing what I know now, I might make sure to stay overnight in that little town on a return trip to Croatia, just to re-experience that bus ride.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For awhile now I’ve been ruminating on the idea that I don’t really know exactly what I’m doing or where I’m going. I think I used to, in that childish way where your dreams are formed by half-imagined pieces of things, and never really involve work. You were going to be a firefighter, but when you saw it in your mind’s eye you were wearing the suit, and climbing down a ladder, holding a child who was clinging to your neck, the crowd below clapping. Paradoxically your firefighter’s suit was crisp and clean, and there was no similar dream of crawling through the flames, sweating and hot, scared that the fire-damaged building might collapse around you at any moment.
I think one of the reasons it’s so hard not to know is because I used to. I used to have these ideas about what I was going to do and who I was going to be when I was a “grown-up”, but now that I find myself here, at the precipice of adult-hood, I find that all the things I have learned over the years have worn away at those dreams. I am still holding firmly on to the honorable intentions so many of my dreams proposed to follow, but without the framework the dreams provided, the intentions can start to feel more like anchors than buoys.
I sort of kinda maybe have some half-formed ideas, and the knowledge of a few pretty concrete things that do or don’t make me happy. A couple of moral values I’d like to hold onto, a few financial goals I’m shooting for, a very loose 5-year plan. Or whatever. You know? And even those things I’m calling concrete or “plans” – well, I’m pretty convinced that they would give way under the sweetest of breezes.
I have been pretty worried about this. Well, I suppose worried isn’t quite the right word. I’ve been panicked by this a little. Ok, a lot. Not knowing where or what or when or how? I find that difficult. Challenging. Recently however, more days than not, I am not so worried. Not so worried, or concerned, not panicked.
The thing is, looking back, I think it’s often taken an indirect route for me to get to where I was going.
And I’ve been pretty fortunate with where I’ve ended up.
I feel relatively confident that I’m going to get somewhere, even if it’s not where I once thought it would be. I’m pretty convinced of the fact that there are a million ways to lead a satisfying and meaningful life, and recently I’ve been able to keep that in the forefront of my mind.
It’s very cliché all this – this idea that life is the journey (the bus ride) not the destination, the idea that the most amazing moments are those we could never plan for or anticipate, that the road less-traveled is the road to take. I don’t know that it’s always true - I definitely have had amazing moments that have been planned out, that are in every guidebook, and learned things I needed to know from the most conventional of sources – but I know that like in the story above, I have in the past been truly blessed by the fact that my plans were laid to waste or that I didn’t have plans in the first place.
And at some point, it’s clear to me that it doesn’t really matter whether or not I agree to this reality of my life. I can fight it with my wide-eyed panic if I like, but that won’t fill in all these blank spaces I am so thrown by.
I am just going to have to take The Long Way Around. And just trust that it will get me where I need to be going.
P.S. Full disclosure: “The Long Way Around” is a song. By the Dixie Chicks. I know. I know.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
PARTY!PARTY!PARTY!
Here in the Dominican Republic it is Independence Day and also maybe the end of Carnaval - these little details are incredibly unimportant and if a silly American girl asks you about them you should probably just hand her a rum and coke and turn up the music.
I am just here to tell you about the noise really - I was so excited that today was a National Holiday and that I was going to get to sleep in to all sorts of crazy hours (because that's so different from my normal life, but still, National Government sanctioned sleeping-in just feels different) but those plans were abruptly and rudely exterminated by the Party of all Parties that is happening all across this half of the island, starting at 9am SHARP (Dominicans are nothing in life if not SERIOUS about the PARTY).
I mean, seriously people, this is a small island. There are just not that many people living here. How can it be possible for them to sustain this decible level?
I am going to a friend's house down by the Malecon later to watch the parade from her roof. In the meantime, I am dancing, no matter what else I am doing, for there is music literally everywhere.
I am just here to tell you about the noise really - I was so excited that today was a National Holiday and that I was going to get to sleep in to all sorts of crazy hours (because that's so different from my normal life, but still, National Government sanctioned sleeping-in just feels different) but those plans were abruptly and rudely exterminated by the Party of all Parties that is happening all across this half of the island, starting at 9am SHARP (Dominicans are nothing in life if not SERIOUS about the PARTY).
I mean, seriously people, this is a small island. There are just not that many people living here. How can it be possible for them to sustain this decible level?
I am going to a friend's house down by the Malecon later to watch the parade from her roof. In the meantime, I am dancing, no matter what else I am doing, for there is music literally everywhere.
PARTY!PARTY!PARTY!
Here in the Dominican Republic it is Independence Day and also maybe the end of Carnaval - these little details are incredibly unimportant and if a silly American girl asks you about them you should probably just hand her a rum and coke and turn up the music.
I am just here to tell you about the noise really - I was so excited that today was a National Holiday and that I was going to get to sleep in to all sorts of crazy hours (because that's so different from my normal life, but still, National Government sanctioned sleeping in just feels different) but those plans were abruptly and rudely exterminated by the Party of all Parties that is happening all across this half of the island, starting at 9am SHARP (Dominicans are nothing in life if not SERIOUS about the PARTY).
I mean, seriously people, this is a small island. There are just not that many people living here. How can it be possible for them to sustain this decible level?
I am going to a friend's house down by the Malecon to watch the parade from her roof. In the meantime, I am dancing, no matter what else I am doing, for there is music literally everywhere.
I am just here to tell you about the noise really - I was so excited that today was a National Holiday and that I was going to get to sleep in to all sorts of crazy hours (because that's so different from my normal life, but still, National Government sanctioned sleeping in just feels different) but those plans were abruptly and rudely exterminated by the Party of all Parties that is happening all across this half of the island, starting at 9am SHARP (Dominicans are nothing in life if not SERIOUS about the PARTY).
I mean, seriously people, this is a small island. There are just not that many people living here. How can it be possible for them to sustain this decible level?
I am going to a friend's house down by the Malecon to watch the parade from her roof. In the meantime, I am dancing, no matter what else I am doing, for there is music literally everywhere.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Hello folks. It's strange, I know, but I've actually been busy this past week. I know, shocking. :) It's quite lovely. I spent Sunday through Tuesday in a tiny little town - Las Galeras - located on the very tip of the Samana peninsula(http://www.hotelmoorea.com/en/description.html). It's whale season in the DR - every year between January and March hundreds of humpback whales make their way to the north coast to partake in the glorious Caribbean winter. Seriously people, you know how I was doing nothing but complaining about the heat a couple of months ago? Well, I just had an interview with an organization in DC and when the interviewer started the interview by saying that it must be nicer in the DR than it is in DC right now I had to restrain myself from spending the whole hour bragging about how much I love the climate where I live right now. It's nice. Really, really nice. Really, really, really nice. Ok, stopping now.
But whale season. So we went to the north coast, to this tiny little town with one main street and stayed in this wonderful little rustic bungalow with a loft for sleeping, and one of the most stunning beaches I've ever seen. And we went whale watching, which ended up being less like whale watching, and more like wave watching. We spent probably about 4 hours in a 15-foot dingy riding up and down monster waves with no whales in sight. Sigh. Guess I'll just have to make it back up there before the end of March. Life is really rough sometimes, I tell you.
And then since I've been back I've actually had WORK to do!!! I know!!! It's a ... Valentine's Day miracle! (somehow that just doesn't work as well as "Christmas Miracle"...hmmmm) So I'm prepping for interviews and starting to think about what I'm going to be doing with myself in the next year-ish, which is actually taking up a good amount of time, AND I'm actually moving forward on a project for the Department of Education. I KNOW!
I had a meeting about two and a half weeks ago with this woman I know who works for the Department of Education, and she assigned me to this large and nebulous, but quite exciting project. However! I finally had a follow-up meeting with her this week and got a much more clear and exact description of what the project was and a personal-sized, clear assignment! It's so exciting people! The project is a "Godfathering" program run by the Department of Education which connects schools and businesses to create supportive relationships. It has been allowed to lapse over the last 3 or 4 years, and so the woman I am working with is in charge of reviving it. Right now I am working on an analysis of schools that submitted applications to the program in 2004. SO EXCITING. :)
And in other news....pictures from last weekend!
In the boat, setting out.
There was a big collective of little kitchens all under one big communal roof on the beach. I loved these two signs - the one one the left says "Sweet Cafeteria" and the one on the right "God and Ana Maria are Here"
But whale season. So we went to the north coast, to this tiny little town with one main street and stayed in this wonderful little rustic bungalow with a loft for sleeping, and one of the most stunning beaches I've ever seen. And we went whale watching, which ended up being less like whale watching, and more like wave watching. We spent probably about 4 hours in a 15-foot dingy riding up and down monster waves with no whales in sight. Sigh. Guess I'll just have to make it back up there before the end of March. Life is really rough sometimes, I tell you.
And then since I've been back I've actually had WORK to do!!! I know!!! It's a ... Valentine's Day miracle! (somehow that just doesn't work as well as "Christmas Miracle"...hmmmm) So I'm prepping for interviews and starting to think about what I'm going to be doing with myself in the next year-ish, which is actually taking up a good amount of time, AND I'm actually moving forward on a project for the Department of Education. I KNOW!
I had a meeting about two and a half weeks ago with this woman I know who works for the Department of Education, and she assigned me to this large and nebulous, but quite exciting project. However! I finally had a follow-up meeting with her this week and got a much more clear and exact description of what the project was and a personal-sized, clear assignment! It's so exciting people! The project is a "Godfathering" program run by the Department of Education which connects schools and businesses to create supportive relationships. It has been allowed to lapse over the last 3 or 4 years, and so the woman I am working with is in charge of reviving it. Right now I am working on an analysis of schools that submitted applications to the program in 2004. SO EXCITING. :)
And in other news....pictures from last weekend!
In the boat, setting out.
Unsuccessful whale-searching
Awesome fisherman and his fish (dorado for those who are interested)
Playa Fronton
The Playa again
There was a big collective of little kitchens all under one big communal roof on the beach. I loved these two signs - the one one the left says "Sweet Cafeteria" and the one on the right "God and Ana Maria are Here"
Friday, February 8, 2008
It sneaks up on you in this city, its old, violent, mysterious, and not a little bit romantic origins. So much of the city feels new – not new in shiny, chrome, Big Apple, modern architecture way, but new in a more homespun, necessary way – the humidity and susceptibility to serious weather mean that heavy structures don’t last long without major and constant renovations.
Along the coasts here (or at least the coasts that do not boast big resorts) you see these small shacks – structures that are really just boxes made of wooden planks covered with sheets of plastic or metal. I always find myself, sitting on a bus watching them skip by through the window, thinking about how when a storm comes through, these flimsy houses, sitting right on the beach like that, must just get washed out to sea or scattered among the lines of palms standing against their back walls. Obviously economic factors are key here - these are cheap, perhaps free, building materials, and most anyone can put together a structure like that, with a minimum of effort and difficulty. But I also have come to wonder if there isn’t a part of it that is that yes, storms destroy the houses, but having a house that is easy to rebuild makes more sense than having one that is difficult to rebuild, given the fact of living so close to the edge of the sea, living so much more in direct contact with the basic precariousness of our situation on earth. A brick and mortar house, perched on sandy soil at the edge of ocean will be splintered and washed away by the storms that rage over this island, just as a wooden hut will, their “order” giving way to the infinitely more powerful and inevitable chaos of the sea.
And although Santo Domingo does not sit on the sand, it is most definitely perched right at the edge of the ocean. I live on the very edge of the ocean. Did you know that? I have to admit, that this city is so dense, so very intense and loud and consuming that I very often forget this fact, living all of two blocks away from lapping waves. I often find myself walking or driving down to the Malecon, and when I hit that street, and suddenly the buildings give way to palms and then suddenly, ocean as far as the eye can see, I am habitually surprised. Ocean! Did you know?!
So even without the precariousness of the sand, and even though so much of the city is not directly next to the water since it extends for many miles away from the Malecon in all directions, the weather does not allow much to stand for long. Which means that much is new here, belying the age and complexity of this city and its history. In the Zona Colonial however, driving in a taxi around a dark corner or strolling on a Sunday afternoon with frozen yogurt in hand, these centenarians appear, and instead of being consumed, as you were a minute earlier, with the thoughts of the date you are late for or the absolute deliciousness of the pineapple, raspberry, and blackberry combination you chose for your frozen yogurt mix, you suddenly see Columbus and priests and many Spaniards, here to terminate who knows how many years of indigenous order and fit the Old World arrangement into the New, like a little child, determined to make a square peg fit into a round hole.
The grand Basílica which takes up one side of the main park in the Zona, the Parque Colón, is perhaps chief of these buildings. It is the oldest such building in the New World, and was intended to be the religious center of the West Indies and the base for converting all of the indigenous people of the Americas. A pretty intense purpose for one stone and mortar building, no? This building somehow manages to live up to its history however, in a way that not that many buildings in my experience do. It is intense and brooding, and watches the square and the all the merriment happening within it with a forbidding eye.
I see one of its cupolas peeking up over the skyline from streets away and am suddenly reminded of its presence. I suddenly find myself strolling along one of lengthy sides and suddenly am located in a city where I hardly ever know where I am. It sneaks up on me, in places where I least expect to see it, and silently states its deep, dark, romantic purpose. Spaniards, streaming over the sides of ships, causing havoc which reverberates into the present day.
Along the coasts here (or at least the coasts that do not boast big resorts) you see these small shacks – structures that are really just boxes made of wooden planks covered with sheets of plastic or metal. I always find myself, sitting on a bus watching them skip by through the window, thinking about how when a storm comes through, these flimsy houses, sitting right on the beach like that, must just get washed out to sea or scattered among the lines of palms standing against their back walls. Obviously economic factors are key here - these are cheap, perhaps free, building materials, and most anyone can put together a structure like that, with a minimum of effort and difficulty. But I also have come to wonder if there isn’t a part of it that is that yes, storms destroy the houses, but having a house that is easy to rebuild makes more sense than having one that is difficult to rebuild, given the fact of living so close to the edge of the sea, living so much more in direct contact with the basic precariousness of our situation on earth. A brick and mortar house, perched on sandy soil at the edge of ocean will be splintered and washed away by the storms that rage over this island, just as a wooden hut will, their “order” giving way to the infinitely more powerful and inevitable chaos of the sea.
And although Santo Domingo does not sit on the sand, it is most definitely perched right at the edge of the ocean. I live on the very edge of the ocean. Did you know that? I have to admit, that this city is so dense, so very intense and loud and consuming that I very often forget this fact, living all of two blocks away from lapping waves. I often find myself walking or driving down to the Malecon, and when I hit that street, and suddenly the buildings give way to palms and then suddenly, ocean as far as the eye can see, I am habitually surprised. Ocean! Did you know?!
So even without the precariousness of the sand, and even though so much of the city is not directly next to the water since it extends for many miles away from the Malecon in all directions, the weather does not allow much to stand for long. Which means that much is new here, belying the age and complexity of this city and its history. In the Zona Colonial however, driving in a taxi around a dark corner or strolling on a Sunday afternoon with frozen yogurt in hand, these centenarians appear, and instead of being consumed, as you were a minute earlier, with the thoughts of the date you are late for or the absolute deliciousness of the pineapple, raspberry, and blackberry combination you chose for your frozen yogurt mix, you suddenly see Columbus and priests and many Spaniards, here to terminate who knows how many years of indigenous order and fit the Old World arrangement into the New, like a little child, determined to make a square peg fit into a round hole.
The grand Basílica which takes up one side of the main park in the Zona, the Parque Colón, is perhaps chief of these buildings. It is the oldest such building in the New World, and was intended to be the religious center of the West Indies and the base for converting all of the indigenous people of the Americas. A pretty intense purpose for one stone and mortar building, no? This building somehow manages to live up to its history however, in a way that not that many buildings in my experience do. It is intense and brooding, and watches the square and the all the merriment happening within it with a forbidding eye.
I see one of its cupolas peeking up over the skyline from streets away and am suddenly reminded of its presence. I suddenly find myself strolling along one of lengthy sides and suddenly am located in a city where I hardly ever know where I am. It sneaks up on me, in places where I least expect to see it, and silently states its deep, dark, romantic purpose. Spaniards, streaming over the sides of ships, causing havoc which reverberates into the present day.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
A couple of nights ago, I met a few friends for dinner at what may be my favorite restaurant in Santo Domingo – this little two-room place which is painted a startlingly orange-red and serves the best falafel I have ever eaten. I’m normally pretty take-it-or-leave-it when it comes to falafel, which is why the first time I ate there I almost ordered the shawarma, which I generally like a lot more. I’m so glad I didn’t. This falafel is the kind of entrée that makes you feel that calories spent eating anything else are for the most part wasted.
After dinner we walked a few blocks to Parque Duarte, to sit in the cool 85 degree night air on a classic Latin-American-park bench and drink rum and cokes out of styrofoam cups filled with ice at the closest colmado. I’m pretty much in love with Latin American park culture – it is something I feel innately attracted to, something that just feels completely right. I love the people watching and the intersection of all parts of life, I love the way that sitting languorously in the park is seen as almost purposeful. Parque Duarte is definitely not Santo Domingo’s prettiest or most popular or most atmospheric park, but it is quite special and unique nonetheless, because it is the haven for the “alternative” kids.
Santo Domingo, as an extension of Dominican culture and maybe Latin American culture generally, is not a place that fosters or even tolerates much in the way of deviation from the norm. As a result, if you are not a über-typical young adult, that is to say, if you are not fanatical about baseball and clearly demonstrative of your heterosexuality as a man, if you do not adhere to the ultra feminine, flashy, and tight fashions sported by all the young ladies, then you may find yourself in an extremely small minority, living in a city which will shun you if it does not loudly and widely condemn you. As a result, the “alternative” kids are a much smaller group than the analogous group in say, New York, or even Trenton for that matter (I would guess, from my very unscientific method of observation and computation), and they gather in little Parque Duarte, each different group staking out a bench or two a representation of a category; the gay kids, the rasta kids with their dreads and their weed, the artsy girls with short hair and baggy jeans.
Now, this being a recognized park with benches and trees in a Latin American city, the edges of all parts of society spill over, even when deterred by such difference. There is the handful of drunks who slowly become intoxicated enough to begin their proclamations, loudly prophesizing to no one in particular, and the overflow from two colmados which sit on the park, men in plastic chairs crowded into the small one-room centers of Dominican life. They drink beers whose labels have been obscured by paper napkins failing the fight to keep the condensation which occurs as the previously frozen beers meet the tropical air, off of hands which alternate between sips and fists pumps, depending on the larger-than-life hits or misses, home-runs or OUTS displayed on the tiny television screen shoved into an upper left-hand corner between cans of sweet corn and spray bottles of Raid.
After dinner we walked a few blocks to Parque Duarte, to sit in the cool 85 degree night air on a classic Latin-American-park bench and drink rum and cokes out of styrofoam cups filled with ice at the closest colmado. I’m pretty much in love with Latin American park culture – it is something I feel innately attracted to, something that just feels completely right. I love the people watching and the intersection of all parts of life, I love the way that sitting languorously in the park is seen as almost purposeful. Parque Duarte is definitely not Santo Domingo’s prettiest or most popular or most atmospheric park, but it is quite special and unique nonetheless, because it is the haven for the “alternative” kids.
Santo Domingo, as an extension of Dominican culture and maybe Latin American culture generally, is not a place that fosters or even tolerates much in the way of deviation from the norm. As a result, if you are not a über-typical young adult, that is to say, if you are not fanatical about baseball and clearly demonstrative of your heterosexuality as a man, if you do not adhere to the ultra feminine, flashy, and tight fashions sported by all the young ladies, then you may find yourself in an extremely small minority, living in a city which will shun you if it does not loudly and widely condemn you. As a result, the “alternative” kids are a much smaller group than the analogous group in say, New York, or even Trenton for that matter (I would guess, from my very unscientific method of observation and computation), and they gather in little Parque Duarte, each different group staking out a bench or two a representation of a category; the gay kids, the rasta kids with their dreads and their weed, the artsy girls with short hair and baggy jeans.
Now, this being a recognized park with benches and trees in a Latin American city, the edges of all parts of society spill over, even when deterred by such difference. There is the handful of drunks who slowly become intoxicated enough to begin their proclamations, loudly prophesizing to no one in particular, and the overflow from two colmados which sit on the park, men in plastic chairs crowded into the small one-room centers of Dominican life. They drink beers whose labels have been obscured by paper napkins failing the fight to keep the condensation which occurs as the previously frozen beers meet the tropical air, off of hands which alternate between sips and fists pumps, depending on the larger-than-life hits or misses, home-runs or OUTS displayed on the tiny television screen shoved into an upper left-hand corner between cans of sweet corn and spray bottles of Raid.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
If you really don't know where you're going....keep going I suppose :)
I meant for this blog to be more of a travel journal – I wanted to record and share my impressions of and discoveries in this new culture I was transplanting myself into, but it has not turned out that way. Instead, looking back over the entries, they are much more about my internal process. I think this expectations and hopes vs. reality is probably pretty representative of my experience here as well. I had high hopes for getting deeply immersed in work and learning about the culture and exulting in the adventure of it all and finding those thrilling places within the Other where you suddenly hit upon something that feels familiar at the core. It has not turned out that way, so far at least, and I think my writing here is representative of that. Instead, these have been five months where I have been much more withdrawn into myself than I would like. I have found myself over and over again set up against the culture rather than finding ways to search within it, and the places where I see similarities are not the comforting, joyful discovery of connection between man, but instead disheartening recognition of the wreckage produced by my country and culture, as well as the general, universal folly of man.
I have been back from my trip home for about two weeks now and I think I have not been able to bring myself to write here because there is so little actually happening in my life right now. I am in limbo – I am standing around waiting. I am still hopeful that the project I have been offered through the Department of Education will pan out, but I have not been able to arrange a meeting to get things rolling yet. I have less hope that work will surface for me at CIPROS, the development organization which has taken me on. Nevertheless, I like the people who work at that office, and if the Department of Education project works out, it will be a good place to base myself, so I continue to go in, to show up and make small talk with the various employees, to eat lunch with them and to hope on the off chance that if I show up enough, if I establish myself as there, that perhaps something will change.
In the meantime, I am playing a lot – there have been a number of guests visiting my friends down here, and so I’ve been going to the beach, and on self-led walking tours of the Zona Colonial, and on picnics to the Botanical Gardens. I’ve been reading a lot, and swimming, and waiting. Parts of it are wonderful – sometimes I stop and wonder what my friends are doing on a Wednesday afternoon, while I read a novel on a lounge chair at the pool in 80 degree, perfectly sunny weather, and in those moments I recognize that this is exceedingly temporary, this break from real life. Other parts of it are much harder, and I am struggling with not having even something small to be accomplishing.
I do have a game plan however, and it is to try and exploit the temporary nature of all this free time I have. It is to get my gym routine started again, and to use the yoga DVDs I brought back from the States. It is to work my way through the enormous stack of books I lugged from Philadelphia to Minnesota to New York to DC to Santo Domingo. It is to try to post here, even if I find myself with nothing to say, or at least, nothing new to say. On that account, I’ve been thinking maybe photo essays might save me – you all seem to like the photos, right? If not feel free to say so, but otherwise, expect to be seeing a lot of photos and maybe not as many words for awhile. Well, I’m off to the pool with Peter Singer under my arm. See you later :).
I have been back from my trip home for about two weeks now and I think I have not been able to bring myself to write here because there is so little actually happening in my life right now. I am in limbo – I am standing around waiting. I am still hopeful that the project I have been offered through the Department of Education will pan out, but I have not been able to arrange a meeting to get things rolling yet. I have less hope that work will surface for me at CIPROS, the development organization which has taken me on. Nevertheless, I like the people who work at that office, and if the Department of Education project works out, it will be a good place to base myself, so I continue to go in, to show up and make small talk with the various employees, to eat lunch with them and to hope on the off chance that if I show up enough, if I establish myself as there, that perhaps something will change.
In the meantime, I am playing a lot – there have been a number of guests visiting my friends down here, and so I’ve been going to the beach, and on self-led walking tours of the Zona Colonial, and on picnics to the Botanical Gardens. I’ve been reading a lot, and swimming, and waiting. Parts of it are wonderful – sometimes I stop and wonder what my friends are doing on a Wednesday afternoon, while I read a novel on a lounge chair at the pool in 80 degree, perfectly sunny weather, and in those moments I recognize that this is exceedingly temporary, this break from real life. Other parts of it are much harder, and I am struggling with not having even something small to be accomplishing.
I do have a game plan however, and it is to try and exploit the temporary nature of all this free time I have. It is to get my gym routine started again, and to use the yoga DVDs I brought back from the States. It is to work my way through the enormous stack of books I lugged from Philadelphia to Minnesota to New York to DC to Santo Domingo. It is to try to post here, even if I find myself with nothing to say, or at least, nothing new to say. On that account, I’ve been thinking maybe photo essays might save me – you all seem to like the photos, right? If not feel free to say so, but otherwise, expect to be seeing a lot of photos and maybe not as many words for awhile. Well, I’m off to the pool with Peter Singer under my arm. See you later :).
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