Open Seas.

Ocean puns ahoy… I am adrift (ha) in a sea (haha!) of self-doubt (...boo). Yet, for some reason, although I pretty much hate it, the TV show "Deadliest Catch" is resonating with me.

Partly because I realized another parallel between my life and "Deadliest Catch". Recall, if you will, the stupid shaving-your-beard analogy from yesterday's post.

Sea captains only go out to those dangerous waters when the season is ending and they're looking for a big win. [Anyone reading, feel free to call me out on my bogus sea knowledge as garnered through television.] I'm trying to up the stakes because I feel the clock creeping up behind me and I'm afraid to go home without 2,000 pounds of crab meat! I mean... legit experience.

I'm running out of time and there's still so much fishing to do!

And while this is abstract, I'm pretty sure Nicole and Jennifer feel the same way. Since they are freakishly busy too, I will say it for them:

We aren't ready to be done yet!!

Into the sunset

I can't think of a good way to begin the end, but it has to be done. My fellow amigas del hat share the mixed emotions I do. Called by a mix of biology and circumstance, Nicole and Jennifer have already flown back, but I'm still clutching at my last hours here.

[Warning: complete navel gazing ahead. Sorry. Funny stuff next time,
I SWEAR.]

Although, as Jen pointed out, I get to come back. That's a really good point. Like, a very good, very compelling point that has eluded me all semester. It's why it felt so important that I do a post now, while I'm still actually in D.C. I've been acting my life ends when the semester does.

It's a good and terrible way to live. For me, it's meant being so nervous that I started getting hives and so tired that I fall asleep at 6:30 on a Friday night and don't wake up until Saturday morning. And it's not like it got me any heroic results either. Next semester, I will try to be less crazy maybe. But I'm leaving with all my cards thrown down on the table and that feels good. Maybe quixotic even-- which reminds me of one of my favorite quotes:


Whether I win or lose, it does not matter. Only that I follow the quest.

(Oh yes. I went there. Pulling out all the stops.)

So in that vein, when I left for my last day of work, turned in my last papers, studied for my last finals, I did it with this hat. I will also be wearing it tomorrow, along with all the other clothes I use as talismans for luck. It's the only reasonable way to end: riding off into the sunset with a cheesy hat.

Big News!

I have a confession for our remaining readers. You’ve earned honesty because you kept reading as I committed all the cardinal sins of blogging. So here is one more: the hat has spent the last 4 months Nicole in Argentina. Although the original plan was to ship it between the 3 of us, shipping it proved to be expensive and unreliable.

I did consider buying one of my own so that I could celebrate my birthday in a truly mythic way a few weeks ago. Although there was only one in stock when we got it, I could easily buy one online. But between the three of us, I’ve always been the most romantic about the powers of that particular hat.

And I'm glad I waited for Nicole to come back to the homeland! Aside from uniting 2/3 of our Holy Trinity in wacky revelries, the hat has been passed.

Hipster cowgirl. It's going to be huge.

And now I appreciate why Nicole wore it only rarely. Taking this bad boy through a TSA full body scan is pretty much asking for the cozy body pat-down to go with it. I'm not even going to attempt to bring back taco bell hot sauce packets or the other various items that I like to pack but probably look like bomb materials.

Still, it comes just in time for a busy Friday that includes an interview for my new internship at Washington City Paper and other more fun things.

So to my DC pals, anyone needing a little extra luck, come find the girl in the straw Cowboy hat.

-Megan

Fisherman's Gamble

I just spent 20 minutes straightening my hair for no good reason.

Objectively speaking, I have much better things to do. For instance, I have a test that may count for 60% of my grade on Thursday. Or I could be working on my applications for new internships. Or I could be cooking for my meals tomorrow. Or I could just actually work on school for a change!

But I straightened my hair instead, something I generally object to on principal.

Why?

Because on the Deadliest Catch, when crab boat captains venture into uncharted and dangerous water, they shave their beards. It's humility and hubris all in one; shedding a symbol of manhood in the vain expectation that it will change the course of nature itself. In the face of sobering odds, they choose to believe that Mother Earth cares whether they have stubble. Basically, they choose to believe they are the bomb.

Not possessing a fantastic beard (yet), I straightened my hair instead. Once again, I find myself sailing into new waters. I'm not afraid to admit that makes me scared as hell. So, let's see how this goes-- I'll get back to you after Thursday.

Confidence is key- Or why I really need a McRib right now.

Alright, I drew the masterful Microsoft Paint illustrations I needed at work yesterday. Therefore this post must happen.

Yes, I've already shared this story with a couple of my friends already. However, it is what educators call "a teachable moment" and what I call "an unmitigated disaster", so I'll continue.

This starts with my irrational addiction to praise. It is my manna from heaven whilst being my crack-cocaine all at once. Unfortunately for me, my employers are a judicious with their compliments, which throws me into withdrawal. And all of the sudden, my inner monologue becomes this crazy person that questions everything I do. Everything.

So when one of the guys at work saunters over and asks another guy to go get a sandwich, I crack a stupid joke about whether they're getting a McRib. (Truthfully- I have already decided I desperately want a McRib today. It's been a sadly praise-free day and I need a pick me up in the form of a pork-like jelly patty.) He laughs, and jokes back,

"Man, do I look poor to you?"

Clearly a joke. BUT the crazy person in me says, "He's on to you!! He knows you're broke as shit! He probably knows you make faces when you type too!" And that's when my confidence really takes a hit and things start to get weird.

Shortly after that, I excused myself for lunch [McDonald's] and raced over for my McRib. When I got there, someone was polite enough to hold the door open. Like a normal person, I smiled and thanked him. And then, like a crazy person, he raced over to the bathrooms and started gesturing frantically.

I was confused. In the best of times, I have trouble understanding what is going on, but today, I wasn't even wearing my glasses. He continued to wave and I continued to smile politely until he jumped in front of me and started asking me what was up. Since I didn't know how to answer that, I didn't. Then he started asking me for my number, which I also refused to answer. THEN he started asking me with loud concern if I was deaf. Since I do know a little bit of sign language, I started signing "hungry" and "sorry".

Then my dumb self realized that I still needed to order and that I couldn't do that in sign language. So I mumbled out an apology and ducked to the counter.

Honestly, I was so close to the counter. Unfair.

At the counter, I had some immediate karmic retribution because the perky cashier could not understand what I was saying.

"McFlurry? You want a McFlurry?" he asked me brightly. NO. McRib! But because I wasn't wearing my contacts, couldn't see anything, and wanted to get the heck out, I compromised and got a chicken club. (Incidentally, that little masterpiece is actually more calories than the infamous KFC Double-down. Good work self.)

Maybe, I reasoned, there were no McRibs here. After all, it just came out. But while I waited for the sandwich that was NOT a McRib, I squinted up at the board, and sure enough, there was a mother-flippin McRib. I nearly fell to my soon-to-be-diabetic knees with frustration.

I left McDonald's calorically rich, but spiritually poor. Barely 5 feet out the door, a man leers up behind me and goes,

"Oooh McDonald's! What did you get me?"

No longer willing to play games, I ducked out of the way. But he followed me for about a block, singing an inspired ballad about how he needs a woman to buy him McDonald's.

Literally creeping up behind me. Google street view proves it.

After that, it felt like all the males were checking me/my McDonald's out. Not willing to share either of those things, I decided to unwrap my sandwich and eat it while walking. Under normal circumstances, I would have just walked back to the building and ate it there.

But what if everyone saw me eating poor people food?!? So that was not an option. I would have to eat this sandwich on the street.

At this point, I realize I look crazier than normal. Most people at least stop moving while they're eating, at least if they're not part shark. (I'm not.) So I start looking for a place to settle down, well aware of the fact I have basically 15 minutes left in my lunch break.

And that, dear readers, is how I ended up eating over a grate in an alleyway next to the Red Lion hotel. Like the complete and utter vagrant I am. It was warm and I was cold and hungry.

Moral of the story? This all could have been avoided if I acted with some decisive, kick-ass confidence. Kids, you go EAT that McRib. Don't let my stupid chicken club have been in vain. Don't anyone tell you McRibs are for poor people or that you need to pretend to be deaf to get one or that it doesn't exist. Eat it with style.

In the Thick of It

I wanted to write about living in a big city, where something is going on all the time and when news happens, it's not only nearby but it affects your life. Megan, perhaps, has experienced this in Washington, D.C., it being, like, the capital of the country, or something like that. Big cities are where stuff happens!

What kind of stuff? Well, let me explain: I live very close to the business and political center of the city, and the bus I take to school everyday passes through the major arteries, none being more important than 9 de Julio, the widest avenue in the world. My bus also goes through Avenida de Mayo, which ends in the Casa Rosada (Argentine equivalent of the White House) and the Plaza de Mayo. The White House is set back from the street, buffered with manicured lawns, lined by fence, aloof, distant. The Casa Rosada, on the other hand, is right there on the street, there is no distance, figurative or actual, from the outside world. I think that's what makes it a very unique and symbolic place in the national imagination.

When Evita made her famous speeches, she did so from the balcony of the Casa Rosada. When there is a big protest, it always ends in the Plaza de Mayo. When Kirchner died, that's where they held his wake. Essentially, if something important is going on in the country, that's where people go.

So here I am, American girl in the Big South American City, the center of it all. How do I know when something big is going down?
I can't find my bus.

Yes, on par with other tried-and-true measuring devices like the ruler or the litmus test, the importance of a protest or demonstration can be gauged by how far away I have to walk to find a bus stop at which a bus actually stops. For example:

• Death of Nestor Kirchner, former president and husband to current Argentine president Cristina Kirchner. I walked 10 blocks in the rain before realizing I should have just taken the Subte.

• Malivinas (Falklands) War Veterans protest happens about once a month, and the bus route doesn't even change.

• Union/Communist militant/Student march on Plaza de Mayo is an interesting case, because it just created enough stand-still traffic that it behooved me to get off the bus and walk home.

Living in Colorado or even the bubble that is Santa Clara, CA, it's easy to forget that news can actually affect your life. Most of the time, it seems that news is something that happens "somewhere else" in the U.S. Here, there is no buffer zone, and if something's happening, I can measure it in footsteps.
--Nicole

The Red Dragon in Patagonia

Why haven't there been any recent posts? Well, life just happens, and my personal excuses include midterms and a 10 day tour of Patagonia. Will the rest of the holy trinity accept such excuses? Of course not! So here's a long overdue post. :p

Touristy places are nice, full of overpriced knickknacks and once-in-a-lifetime destinations, but they are not always what capture the interest of a traveler like myself (Yes, I am now a TRAVELER, which means I am not technically where I should be.).

Oh, I make pilgrimages to all the usual touristed places, like Península Valdés north of Puerto Madryn and the imitation Swiss alpine town of Bariloche in the Andes. But sometimes I come upon those odd corners of the world that shake up my previous notions of a place and its people. Argentine folk metal was one, and now I can add Trevelin, Chubut, to the list of "What the hell is THAT doing there?"

Trevelin is a small town outside of the only marginally larger town of Esquel in the western part of the Chubut province. It was founded by Welsh settlers in the late 19th century that came from the dry, sandy port town of Trelew, to cultivate the more arable land out west. Odd bits and pieces of Welsh culture appear unexpectedly throughout the town, which is really no wider than 3 or 4 blocks. A few tea houses open after siesta to serve high tea to tourists and locals that wander in for a taste of Wales (?!) and the regional variation on fruit cake, "la torta negra galesa" or Patagonian Black Welsh Cake. The red Welsh Dragon decorates many doors and signs, and the local museum has translations in English and Welsh. I thought Spanish was confusing, but Welsh is crazy incomprehensible.




There were a few moments as we meandered throughout the town, under the flowering crab-apples in the bright Patagonian sunshine where the bizarreness of the situation would hit me. What were the Welsh doing here, in the middle-of-nowhere South America, anyway? The Welsh colonization of Chubut in the 1860s was the brain-child of the Welsh nationalist Michael D. Jones, who was looking for a place to defend and retain Welsh identity away from English influence. Jones chose the area based on Argentina's welcoming European immigration policies and the promise of 100 acres of land per immigrant in Patagonia. Despite many rough years of crop failure and innumerable difficulties, the colonists established themselves in the region and their descendants still live in the area. Truth is stranger than fiction.

Often, in my journeying, I find myself scrounging for some kind of meaning, a significance to all that I have seen. Likely, it doesn't mean anything at all, other than that world is a bigger and stranger place than I or anyone could imagine, and towns like Trevelin are living proof of it. Sometimes the things that you remember aren't in the guidebook, because as cool as the whales, the elephant seals, and the penguins were, that's not what I wanted to write about, is it?