Friday, March 16, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The best of: Year Four
Nostalgia. That's what I get while looking through a years worth of travel photos. Profound nostalgia. My goal in looking at the photos wasn't really to will myself back to that place and time... although I can't say I didn't have those moments, but it was to find one photo per country to sum up my experience. Let me just state now, it was an impossible feat. Even choosing one photo per location (city, countryside, experience, etc) proved difficult. Very difficult. But I did it. (Despite my deep seeded desire to sneak in a few extra photos).
Bosnia
 |
| Sarajevo |
 |
| Srebrenica |
 |
| Mostar |
Israel
 |
| Jerusalem |
 |
| Jordan River |
 |
| Dead Sea |
 |
| Bethlehem |
 |
| Tel Aviv |
Jordan
 |
| Petra |
 |
| OK, so I added another Petra photo. I couldn't help myself. |
 |
| hiking Wadi Rum |
 |
| Jerash |
Sardinia
 |
| La Maddalena |
Corsica
 |
| Bonifacio |
Slovenia
 |
| Lake Bled |
 |
| Slovenian countryside |
 |
| Ljubljana |
Thailand
 |
| Bang Bao |
 |
| meditation monastery |
 |
| Koh Chang |
United States
 |
| San Francisco |
 |
| New York City |
Monday, March 5, 2012
March 5, 2008
Embarrassment: I walk out of baggage claim with five large, overweight, suitcases piled on top of a push cart. All eyes in the arrivals hall are on me. My cheeks take on a deep crimson hue.
Awe: Driving alongside the canals of Amsterdam, I look out the raindrop studded windows of my new manager's car to view the centuries old brick buildings. It takes my breath away.
Shock: Rain lightly falls on us as we stand outside a building which I should be calling home, only to discover I was scammed out of three months rent. I can not find my voice, which is fine since my mind blanks and I don't have the words to to express how I feel. How I don't feel. I am emotionless. Is it due to the beauty around me? Is it jet-lag?
Amazement: I step into one of the elevators of my new office building with my manager and a colleague. I crane my neck to speak to them. I can't get over how tall they are. We walk onto the floor and I meet the rest of my colleagues. One tells me I can stay with him until I find somewhere else to live. They are all so nice. Tall. And nice.
Exhaustion: I sit at a desk, dazed. I stare at a computer screen, lost. I want to curl up in my bed, but I don't have one. I email my dad. I am no longer emotionless. I want to cry. I don't.
Relief: My colleague's Alfa Romeo is small. Small like all sports cars were intended to be. I have five oversize suitcases. Five oversize suitcases that were not intended to be stuffed into an Alfa Romeo. But they fit. Miraculously.
Elation: We step inside ALDI to buy groceries. I spot a large wedge of Brie for only 79 Euro cents. "Is this correct?," I ask my colleague, pointing to the price. "Yes," comes his response. His look is one of shock. No... confusion? Or maybe it's a look that expresses a lack of understanding as to why I would be so surprised about something as normal as the cost of Brie? "No," I say, "you don't understand. This. Here," I hold up the cheese, "This is only 79 cents?!?" He laughs. "Yes, Claire, that," he states, pointing to the Brie in my hand, "is 79 cents." "Really? Wait.... Really? Wow. 79 cents? Man! I love this country!"
He laughs again.
Gratitude: I lie in the bed my colleague prepared for me while I made dinner. I reflect back on my day. How it could have gone wrong. How everything worked out. How everything would continue to work out. Because it always works out. Always. And I fall asleep.
The next day I wake up... four years later.
Awe: Driving alongside the canals of Amsterdam, I look out the raindrop studded windows of my new manager's car to view the centuries old brick buildings. It takes my breath away.
Shock: Rain lightly falls on us as we stand outside a building which I should be calling home, only to discover I was scammed out of three months rent. I can not find my voice, which is fine since my mind blanks and I don't have the words to to express how I feel. How I don't feel. I am emotionless. Is it due to the beauty around me? Is it jet-lag?
Amazement: I step into one of the elevators of my new office building with my manager and a colleague. I crane my neck to speak to them. I can't get over how tall they are. We walk onto the floor and I meet the rest of my colleagues. One tells me I can stay with him until I find somewhere else to live. They are all so nice. Tall. And nice.
Exhaustion: I sit at a desk, dazed. I stare at a computer screen, lost. I want to curl up in my bed, but I don't have one. I email my dad. I am no longer emotionless. I want to cry. I don't.
Relief: My colleague's Alfa Romeo is small. Small like all sports cars were intended to be. I have five oversize suitcases. Five oversize suitcases that were not intended to be stuffed into an Alfa Romeo. But they fit. Miraculously.
Elation: We step inside ALDI to buy groceries. I spot a large wedge of Brie for only 79 Euro cents. "Is this correct?," I ask my colleague, pointing to the price. "Yes," comes his response. His look is one of shock. No... confusion? Or maybe it's a look that expresses a lack of understanding as to why I would be so surprised about something as normal as the cost of Brie? "No," I say, "you don't understand. This. Here," I hold up the cheese, "This is only 79 cents?!?" He laughs. "Yes, Claire, that," he states, pointing to the Brie in my hand, "is 79 cents." "Really? Wait.... Really? Wow. 79 cents? Man! I love this country!"
He laughs again.
Gratitude: I lie in the bed my colleague prepared for me while I made dinner. I reflect back on my day. How it could have gone wrong. How everything worked out. How everything would continue to work out. Because it always works out. Always. And I fall asleep.
The next day I wake up... four years later.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Livin' on the Edge
While eating lunch with a few colleagues recently, one asked about my next travel destination. I replied that I wasn't sure, since I had been planning a combined trip to Nepal, Tibet and Bhutan, but it had fallen through. She responded, "Why, are those countries not dangerous enough for you?" I guess my recent trips to Mali, Bosnia, Israel and Jordan give just cause for that way of thinking. But even though I'd love owning a European passport to visit North Korea, I'm generally a type of person who savors living in a safe environment. That, however, is not always the case.
While walking out of a home in the town of Itapecerica da Serra, where I was living at the time, I glanced down at a newspaper lying on table just outside the front door. In my limited Portuguese, I had only been in Brazil for three months, I read the headline: 'Itapecerica da Serra, number one city for homicides in the state of Sao Paulo' and thought, "well, that's comforting." We, my missionary companion and I, lived around the corner from a road called Rua Guatemala. It was that road which gave the city its acclaim. One Sunday morning as we were seated at our desks, we heard the sound of fireworks. My Brazilian companion exclaimed "The drugs have arrived!" I, in my naivete, replied, "That's dumb of them. Why would they use fireworks? Now the police know too." To which she responded, "No, no. It's the police who distribute the drugs." Again, I thought "well, that's comforting."
Each time we visited church members living on Rua Guatemala, they would plead with us to not come again, even trying scare tactics such as: "8 people were killed on the street last night." But we were not deterred. Well, not until we left a teaching appointment on that road. For 30 minutes, as we sat on a bench in a kitchen, my companion spoke to a few 17-19 year old boys who stated were interested in knowing about our church. My Portuguese was still so minimal that I had difficulties following along. Instead I spent the time leaning against the wall and zoning out. Once we stepped out of the house my companion made Speedy Gonzales look slow. "We are never going back on that street," she stated as we turned onto a different road. Rushing to catch up I asked, "What? Why?" She said a bunch of words that were unintelligible to me. After she repeated herself a third time, I thought it best to pull out my dictionary. It was then that I understood her reasoning. Those boys wanted to kidnap me for ransom. I laughed and said, "They'd be sorely disappointed with the amount of money they'd receive."
Since then I've lived in more sheltered areas. And yes, despite its notorious reputation, Amsterdam is one of those places. Even after realizing it was only because I didn't understand Dutch that I deceptively believed Holland was the safest place in the world, I still felt secure on the streets. But every city has its creepers and, for some reason unknown to me, I tend to attract the best of them.
On my bike ride home yesterday, a man in sunglasses (the skies were cloudy and gray) pulled up in front of me. I only took notice of him as we reached an intersection and he slowed down considerably. The light was green. Annoyed, I passed him and continued on my way. He soon caught up and again biked in front of me, occasionally glancing in my direction. When he finally turned right, I internally rejoiced that I no longer had to deal with his horrible biking skills.
Ten minutes later he appeared in front of me. Alarms rang in my head. The last time someone had turned another direction, and later reappeared in front of me, ended in a scenario which included a knife, pointed inches from my face. I decided then that if he was indeed following me, I would stop at the police station in route to my house. At the next intersection I watched as he glanced to his left. He did a double take, looking a bit farther behind him to the left and then immediately turned his head and glanced to the right, in my direction, before looking ahead once more. When we resumed biking, I slowed my speed. He turned down a street (that I too would turn down) and I told myself I was just being paranoid. But I still kept my distance.
It wasn't until he stopped at the side of the road, waited for me to pass, and then continued on his way that I became unnerved. I've had guys pull up beside me and strike up a conversation before, but never had a guy act like this. So I played it cool.. as cool as I could while going weak in the knees. A scene ran through my mind: me standing in the lobby of a police station for a few minutes and, if asked by an officer, stammering something about possibly being followed. I hoped beyond hope that I wouldn't have to make a fool of myself like that.
He lagged behind another few minutes before biking past me once more. I took it as my opportunity. I stopped pedaling and coasted along. I watched as continued his occasional glance; our distance growing farther apart. Once he was a block ahead of me, I stopped at a red light. He glanced behind, hurriedly glanced again, and (I assume upon not seeing me) stopped and turned all the way around until he looked straight at me.
As the light turned green and a car drove through the intersection, blocking me from his view, I turned right and maneuvered my way through back streets and alleyways until I reached my house.
Now, it could have just been paranoia causing me to see more into the situation than what was actually there, but my instincts state otherwise. Either way, I'm glad to have been spared from discovering whether or not I was right.
While walking out of a home in the town of Itapecerica da Serra, where I was living at the time, I glanced down at a newspaper lying on table just outside the front door. In my limited Portuguese, I had only been in Brazil for three months, I read the headline: 'Itapecerica da Serra, number one city for homicides in the state of Sao Paulo' and thought, "well, that's comforting." We, my missionary companion and I, lived around the corner from a road called Rua Guatemala. It was that road which gave the city its acclaim. One Sunday morning as we were seated at our desks, we heard the sound of fireworks. My Brazilian companion exclaimed "The drugs have arrived!" I, in my naivete, replied, "That's dumb of them. Why would they use fireworks? Now the police know too." To which she responded, "No, no. It's the police who distribute the drugs." Again, I thought "well, that's comforting."
Each time we visited church members living on Rua Guatemala, they would plead with us to not come again, even trying scare tactics such as: "8 people were killed on the street last night." But we were not deterred. Well, not until we left a teaching appointment on that road. For 30 minutes, as we sat on a bench in a kitchen, my companion spoke to a few 17-19 year old boys who stated were interested in knowing about our church. My Portuguese was still so minimal that I had difficulties following along. Instead I spent the time leaning against the wall and zoning out. Once we stepped out of the house my companion made Speedy Gonzales look slow. "We are never going back on that street," she stated as we turned onto a different road. Rushing to catch up I asked, "What? Why?" She said a bunch of words that were unintelligible to me. After she repeated herself a third time, I thought it best to pull out my dictionary. It was then that I understood her reasoning. Those boys wanted to kidnap me for ransom. I laughed and said, "They'd be sorely disappointed with the amount of money they'd receive."
Since then I've lived in more sheltered areas. And yes, despite its notorious reputation, Amsterdam is one of those places. Even after realizing it was only because I didn't understand Dutch that I deceptively believed Holland was the safest place in the world, I still felt secure on the streets. But every city has its creepers and, for some reason unknown to me, I tend to attract the best of them.
On my bike ride home yesterday, a man in sunglasses (the skies were cloudy and gray) pulled up in front of me. I only took notice of him as we reached an intersection and he slowed down considerably. The light was green. Annoyed, I passed him and continued on my way. He soon caught up and again biked in front of me, occasionally glancing in my direction. When he finally turned right, I internally rejoiced that I no longer had to deal with his horrible biking skills.
Ten minutes later he appeared in front of me. Alarms rang in my head. The last time someone had turned another direction, and later reappeared in front of me, ended in a scenario which included a knife, pointed inches from my face. I decided then that if he was indeed following me, I would stop at the police station in route to my house. At the next intersection I watched as he glanced to his left. He did a double take, looking a bit farther behind him to the left and then immediately turned his head and glanced to the right, in my direction, before looking ahead once more. When we resumed biking, I slowed my speed. He turned down a street (that I too would turn down) and I told myself I was just being paranoid. But I still kept my distance.
It wasn't until he stopped at the side of the road, waited for me to pass, and then continued on his way that I became unnerved. I've had guys pull up beside me and strike up a conversation before, but never had a guy act like this. So I played it cool.. as cool as I could while going weak in the knees. A scene ran through my mind: me standing in the lobby of a police station for a few minutes and, if asked by an officer, stammering something about possibly being followed. I hoped beyond hope that I wouldn't have to make a fool of myself like that.
He lagged behind another few minutes before biking past me once more. I took it as my opportunity. I stopped pedaling and coasted along. I watched as continued his occasional glance; our distance growing farther apart. Once he was a block ahead of me, I stopped at a red light. He glanced behind, hurriedly glanced again, and (I assume upon not seeing me) stopped and turned all the way around until he looked straight at me.
As the light turned green and a car drove through the intersection, blocking me from his view, I turned right and maneuvered my way through back streets and alleyways until I reached my house.
Now, it could have just been paranoia causing me to see more into the situation than what was actually there, but my instincts state otherwise. Either way, I'm glad to have been spared from discovering whether or not I was right.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Home Sweet Home
One day could find me sitting in front of a fan while texting a friend to see who's home feels more like hell; the inside temperatures soaring to 107 degrees (41.5 C). Another season I could be wrapped up in all the blankets I own, trying to keep warm as the inside temperatures plummet to 60 degrees (16 C). There are months when my house invites visitors- the four legged variety, which, consequently, keep me up at nights as they tap dance on my ceiling. Other times give way to smells emanating from the bathroom drainpipes, which I can not, nor would I want to identify.
Then, just when I'd think I have all of its idiosyncrasies figured out, it surprises me with another. My home has found pleasure keeping me on my toes, or cowering under the covers worried that someone may have broken in, when the crash that woke me from my sleep actually came from a picture frame it no longer wanted on one of its walls. It has played games, such as prohibiting me from completely turning the key in the door just to see how much I am willing to pay to enter. (The amount, in case you were wondering, is 70 Euros). Then there are the times the entire building has joined in on the act. Take the most recent occurrence, for example. The wooden door to the building thought it would be fun to suck up every last remaining drop of moisture in the country and, as the outside temperatures dropped below freezing, it expanded. It laughed, even amid its near destruction, as my neighbor struggled with it for minutes just to let me in, and a few days later it relished in triumph when, despite my best efforts, it wouldn't let me out - keeping me imprisoned in my own home.
But I've grown to love my little house which, over the four years, I've turned into a home. Someday I'm sure I'll even miss its geriatric quirks ... even if that someday is when I'm as old as it is.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
outdoor speed skating
 |
| Keizersrace photo source |
Winter and I aren't friendly. We never were. It's a mutual destain. I hate it and it obviously hates me, which leads me to hate it all the more, as vicious a cycle as that is.
Funny thing though, when sub-freezing temperatures appear, the Dutch start smiling. Yes, smiling. During a time when I fear I will have to chop off my extremities due to frostbite, they're happy. While I'm cursing the heavens for cursing me with bitter cold air, they're acting like it's no big deal. As I suffer in a house that won't get any warmer than 63 degrees no matter what I do, teenage kids are biking to school in 9 degree temperatures without a hat on. Which, actually, makes me want to slap them upside the head. Who cares if I used to be one of them. (In Wisconsin, as a kid. I wanted earmuffs. Instead my parents got me a boy's navy blue knit hat which my grandma adorned with three small back-stitched flowers on the front to feminize it. But, flowers or no flowers, I was NOT going to suffer the humiliation that would ensue with that thing on my head. ...I've smartened up since then, OK?)
Sometimes I get so bundled up outside, with my Nepalese hat and convertible mittens, long coat and thick heavy-duty scarf, that I'm sure I look like a homeless person. Add a few re-usable bags full of groceries in my hands and people start smiling at me in pity. I bet if I'd pick a spot to sit down, those same people would give me money. But it's too cold to sit. So I'll never really know.
The kicker is when I complain about the cold, it invariably leads to this overly excited response: "but Claire, just think! We might actually have the elfstedentocht this year!"* I wish you could see the expression on their faces as they relate the possibility. It makes me want to plaster a cheesy grin on my face and in mock excitement exclaim: "what joy!" But I don't. Instead I respond in a gloomy, monotone voice that I have perfected in the 31 winters I've experienced in my life, "then why doesn't the freezing temperatures stay localized up north, while we have the decent, mild winter temperatures I deserve?"
If, like every year since 1997, the elfstedentocht is called off, my complaints of the cold will get a different response: agreement. But unlike years past, this year a new rumor went flying around once news of a no-go elfstedentocht was announced, the Keizersrace was on. Excitement started spreading. Everyone who was anyone was going to show up on Saturday night at the Keizersgracht to watch the race that hadn't occurred in 15 years.
I had every intention of going, especially since the speed skating race was on a canal close to home. But then I stepped outside during the day of the race to do some shopping and my toes froze. My nose got red. I began daydreaming about my 63 degree house. And when the time came for the races to begin, I couldn't bring myself to leave the confines of my home, no matter how great an experience it would have been to see it in person. Instead I watched the first ten minutes of it online... since that is as long as I would have watched it had I been there.
So go ahead, call me a wimp if you'd like. It's a title I'm willing to live with.
 |
| Keizersrace photo source |
*(The elfstedentocht, or eleven cities tour, is a 125 mile speed skating course held on a series of canals which connect between eleven cities in the northern provence of the Netherlands. It was last held in 1997, since the ice needs to be at least 6 inches thick throughout the entire course and it just hasn't been cold enough since then. This is the first year that the elfstedentocht committee had gotten together and discussed the possibility, and teams of ice measurement people were sent out to test the thickness of the canals. And no, I'm not discounting the awesomeness of the race. But please remember the mutual hatred winter and I have).
Monday, February 6, 2012
Freezing-point depression
This winter was shaping up to be quite a mild one, staying around 50 degrees (10 Celsius) for weeks on end. Even the daffodils started to appear. I began to fall in love with Amsterdam all over again.
And then the gods laughed.
And then the gods laughed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
