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?

Let's file this one under: Rantacular

The funk persists.

And I'm not afraid to let it out in the form of a rant. A overly personal, probably awkward, rant. Ahem.

Why do people refuse to hold hands during the "Our Father" during church? Nothing makes me quite as sad. Furthermore, nothing is quite as awful as me fishing for your outstretched hand in the middle of a prayer. But perhaps the worst of all is when you open your eyes to glare at me and clench your palm into a fist. Later, when you smile widely and extend your hand in peace, I get scared you are going to rip off my arm. This is one of those things that makes me question all of Northeastern America.

Why aren't leggings considered 'Holy Attire'? I resent being told how to dress. I have resented it since I first acquired the ability to put on clothes. Sometime I wear heels in the rain, just to be contrary. But I always use my best judgment for a situation. Telling me what to do only challenges me to do the opposite lately.

(That sideways L apparently means not)

... Actually, that's about all the ranting. Loyal Jen and Nicole readers should know that I intend to hijack this blog in an effort to practice my writing. Since I've hit an imaginary wall in my internship, I have renewed vigor to practice and more angst than a Fall Out Boy concert.

Hermione is my homegirl

Dear everyone,

Lately, I've been in a funk.

You know it's bad when the person you identify most with is a cranky toddler on tricycle.(Watch it. It contextualizes e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g.) Also I am slowly killing my basil plant. And everyone knows, as my basil grows, so my life goes.

If you think killing a plant is no big deal, watch Disney's "Beauty and the Beast" m'kay?

By most accounts, my life is going well. But like the cranky toddler, I want so much more. I want everything to be in place. I want to be riding forwards, writing big-time posts and talking shop at my internship. And I don't know why I insist on kicking myself when that doesn't quite happen. If you've read any of my earlier posts, you are well aware that I am prone to hiding in the bathroom when I get uncomfortable. The fact that I walk in and exchange pleasantries is the equivalent of a moon landing for me.

So everyday after work when get back to campus, I throw myself into the news. If you want to talk shop, you have to know the shop. Recently, I read a book by David Mindich, "Tuned Out", that tried to explain why our generation doesn't read the news. Let me condense those 200 pages for you: news is not our point of reference. Until I felt like a dumbass for knowing nothing about the D.C. mayoral election, I didn't learn anything about it. When everyone else feels the same, news is going to be the crack cocaine of America. There is just so much that I want to learn now. Honestly, I wish I could drop out of school, just for the semester, and really truly throw myself into my internship.

Out of this, the funk is born. Trite as it is, I just do not have enough time to do what I want. Me and Hermione Granger have so much in common right now. Girl, I feel you. No one knows what it's like to be using your time so efficiently that you're actually using a time-turner. I get that.

Harry probably didn't even appreciate this. Jerk.

The only thing that I am certain of anymore is that I can do this. I can do this, and I can do a great job.

Jamaa Yangu

In the past two weeks I have consumed more cups of chai, held more small children, and listened to more of Whitney Houston’s greatest hits than ever before in my life.
I am living with an amazing Kenyan family in Ft. Jesus, a neighborhood in Western Nairobi. My host dad owns a restaurant & bar in Ft. Jesus called Kiboko. In my Kiswahili class last week I asked what Kiboko means and was told that like many Kiswahili words, it means several different things. Kiboko is Kiswahili for hippo, whip, and a word meaning boyfriend/girlfriend (a reference to he or she is whipped). It is next to an internet café, a butchery, and a club ironically named ‘Club Denver.’ My host family is of the Luo tribe and plays traditional Luo music in their bar. Candles illuminate the tables at night and the atmosphere is always festive.

My mom owns a small clothing store right by our house. She sells mitumba or second hand clothing, an extremely popular small business in Kenya. You can score designer labels for only 200 shillings (less than 3 USD) making it much more worth it for Kenyans to purchase clothing at markets versus expensive retail outlets. Her stall is right behind Toi Market. Kenyans from all over the region come to Toi Market to purchase fresh fruits and vegetables, beans, charcoal, hats, belts, watches, jewelry, clothing, DVD’s, and various other goods.

I have four host brothers ages 24, 21, 15, and 13 and one sister age 11. I love spending time with them and we often watch Tusker Project Fame together, the equivalent of American Idol. I have the most difficult time trying to explain the house I live in. The best I can do is to compare it loosely to a rectangular duplex with restrooms on the outside of the rectangle. Several other families live in the rectangle. Our living room is the hang out place for all of the kids. There can be as many as ten kids at one time huddled around the television playing Fifa World Cup Futbol. My favorite neighborhood kid is Gid, a two year old who enjoys ramming into walls while fighting invisible ninjas.

I’ve got to sign off now. Time for a Kiswahili smack down at school! Quaheri!

One Ring to Rule Them All...porteño edition

We're all eagerly awaiting Jennifer's next post in both the Northern and Southern hemispheres, and it should be forthcoming. She's been really busy and has intermittent access to the Internet, but from everything she sent us thus far, she already has lots of things to tell us and stories a-plenty, never you fear. But on this side of the pond...

My time with the Hat is almost over. Soon, it will be sent off to Washington, D.C., where Megan will have the power, the pleasure, and the responsibility of ownership. Until then, the Hat is still mine, and I am wearing it as I type about this particular adventure.

How do you imagine South American music? Peruvian flute bands?* Well, I don't think you imagined Tengwar**, who describe their sound as EPIC FOLK METAL. (Tengwar, for all our more 'mainstream' readers is the name of the elvish script based on Indian brahmic scripts and created by J.R.R. Tolkein for his Lord of the Rings trilogy). As a card-carrying member of the Mythopoeic Society, stumbling upon this hobbit-loving crowd seemed like fate rather than dumb luck.

It was a Friday night, I had been planning on staying in, but my host-brother was having some old grade-school friends over. I knew if I didn't leave soon one of two terribly socially awkward things would happen: 1) I would stay in my room, typing on my computer all night, while I heard the laughter and conversation outside, only emerging from my room to use bathroom, like some Gollum-like creature. 2) Be introduced to everyone, and then becoming the awkward extranjera who doesn't really understand what's going on in a get-together that was supposed to be only old friends.

Luckily, I have made friends in the program here who took pity on me, and we hastily made plans to meet at a restaurant relatively near all of our residences. It was a German/Irish place (the two are nearly synonmous on this side of the world) and the bottom floor was crowded with porteños so we decided to go upstairs. Where, lo and behold, we came upon a scene that could have at the Renaissance Faire; it was the band setting up for an acoustic show, and they were all dressed like barbarians, furs and boots, the whole shebang. Surprise and more awkwardness ensued as we went back downstairs, unsure of what it was we had just witnessed. Retreat is more or less a safe initial response, although in retrospect, we shouldn't have left.

A half hour later we began to hear the celtic melodies and rhythms coming from upstairs. People were stomping, clapping, and singing and a variety of metalheads were walking up and down the stairs. What was this music? It sounded awesome! We went back upstairs only to be turned away at the top by a waitress who said there was no more room.

What happened next? Torture. To be so close and yet so far from the fantasy geeks of Argentina was almost too much to bear. After the show, I went and talked to one of the roadies who told me that the band sang in English because it was more "celtic" and that they often had performances at this establishment. I could see them again.

I never thought to find celtic/metal/punk in ARGENTINA, a country that has not had as much British immigration as, say, Canada and the U.S. There is a bagpipe and celtic music tradition in Northern Spain, but the band here had a distinct fantasy flare, namely Tolkienian. I'm surprised to find a Tolkien fan base of non-English speakers here, even an Argentine Tolkien Association (ATA), mostly because Tolkien's medium and expertise was in the English language. He wrote the epic and his stories with the intent of using as many Anglo-Saxon derived words as he could. I am extremely curious about how well that attention to detail was translated into Spanish, and if the fan base grew up from around the LOTR films, the ex-pat community, fantasy fans, or the metalheads.

The existence of Tengwar reassures me. I have been having difficulty finding sci-fi and fantasy books here, in Spanish or English, and the stuff that is here, like Asimov collections and Dragonlance, is not exactly representative of the state of the art. I will definitely be exploring this subject more and at least buying their new album as soon as it comes out, if only because I missed out on the Ren Faire this year!

--Nicole
*Click here for South Park clip about Peruvian flute bands.
**Tengwar's Myspace site

Cookies of my life

I’ve only been in D.C. for a week and it feels like so much has happened already. Naturally, when I was looking for a common thread so I could encapsulate it all into one blog post, I settled on food as a theme. As a girl who may love food a tad bit too much, it was the only element present in all of this week’s adventures. Specifically, cookies keep popping up in the most glorious moments of the week. Thus, here are the cookies of my week.

Monday, I moved into my apartment. More accurately, my family moved me into an efficiency that I share. Although I questioned the merits of having both my mom and dad out in D.C., it was actually very nice. As a junior/senior, I’m pretty sure I was the only one dragging around a set of parents. But maybe I’ve grown up enough not to care my “image”. I can only hope that as a middle aged woman I will wander the streets in a muumuu. We spent the day running around getting furniture without running into a single cookie until we went to dinner. Then we went to McDonald’s to get a cookies-n-cream mcflurrie and a brawl almost broke out. (My dad actually blogged about it here.)

Tuesday, I realized I am a complete sap. As I sent my parents down the metro to go back home, I shed more than a few tears. To the caring readers of the world wide web, I can admit that I wept. For some reason, leaving home is always sad to me. Walking back, shoving cookies into my mouth and crying, I ran into one of my old roommates. I hope she believed that old “my-contacts-are-acting-up” lie. (Maybe I do still care a little about image.) Later, I topped myself by crying in class during “The Fog of War”. Why? Movies about the Cold War just make me cry ok?!?

Typical charming me

Wednesday, I completely restructured my life. Classes were changed, majors and minors declared, advisors were spoken too, and emails were sent. Basically, I'm officially an International Economics major with a minor in journalism now. The best part is that I’ll be getting credit for my internship. This means I only have to be in four classes, which makes things a whole lot smoother. I didn’t get a cookie for that, but I know I deserved one. I even remember thinking, “By God, get this woman a cookie.”

Thursday and Friday were also devoid of cookies, but to be fair, they were devoid of almost any other food too. Life is so busy now that I’m back. I actually have to carve out time to eat. But I started my D.C. Reads job and so far I love it. The other leaders are exceptionally nice students and somehow knew I was the co-president of the Scrabble club. It was probably the only time I’ll ever hear the phrase, “I’m sorry, but are you the Co-president of the Scrabble club? I heard about you!” Usually it’s more along the lines of: “I’m sorry, but are you going to move out of the way?” or something else not special.

And Saturday, after a very long shift at work, my new roommate let me have some of the pizza she made. (Pizza is round, like a cookie. Sometimes called pie.) It was the only thing I had to eat that day, so by default, I just thought of it as a cookie.

Many more shenanigans are brewing; I can feel it in my bones, so keep looking for updates. Right now, I’m trying to edit the audio for my radio show and our “Love Advice from Engineers” segment. If you want to hear that, you can stream at this link or just become a fan of the show. Phew. Sorry this was a little like a diary entry and less like a post. Until next time!

The Slaughterhouse Fair, an indirect translation

The Feria de Mataderos happens weekly every Sunday in the Mataderos barrio in BA. The district was once called Nueva Chicago and used to be the place where cattle met their deaths, and were subsequently salted or made into wallets and shipped all around the world.

Things have changed.
Mataderos is no longer the center of mass bovine death and is now, more or less, a quiet suburb of BA and home to the Feria where people sell choripan (sausage sandwiches) out of their windows and folklorico dancers
and musicians take the stage.
A little hokey, but it was fun. Above, in the Hat, next to a stall of foam puppets, absorbing the native culture by process of passive diffusion.

Here I am messing with an alpaca, in the infamous and illustrious Hat. I told it a dirty joke about llamas, but alpacas apparently can't take a joke as well as their other camelid brethren. (The "La llama que llama" commercials are hilarious.)

I bought my first maté cup here, but I took forever choosing one at the stand. The man engraving the cups just laughed at my indecisiveness as I picked up, put down, and picked up, again, every single maté on the table. Porteños are really big on Ferias (fairs), and there are quite a few every weekend. It's a place for the artisan market to show its wares and take money from tourists, and a destination for live music while sipping maté with friends on the grass in the park.

What made Mataderos different was the presence of horses and a more folksy vibe. There were a couple good fusion folklorico/rock bands as well as traditional music and dances with panuelos (scarves) celebrating what is becoming a more and more tenuous link with the rural guacho past.

I had thought it was going to be like a county-fair, with things like barrel racing and breed shows. I was very wrong. For the horse riding competitions, the horses definitely raced on an asphalt street. It was a Carrera of skill, and a rider would gallop toward a very tiny ring hung from a bar several hundred yards away and attempt to snatch the ring at full speed. Hopefully the video I shot of it below works!



---Nicole
P.S. A thank you to my friends who took pictures of me in the Hat!

The Hot Streak

For whatever reason, I've been putting off writing this post that I've had in my head for a little while now. Mostly, I have been waiting for something terrible to happen to me, actually. Partly because I'm more used to writing self-deprecating posts but also because I'm a little superstitious about broadcasting good fortune. The truth is, I am on a hot streak. And having good luck makes me sure that bad luck is going to follow, especially if the world knows.

Perceived path of my life

The past two weeks has been a string of utterly shocking pleasant surprises. So many things that I have wanted, and a few I didn't even know I wanted, have gently fallen into my lap after 2 years of struggling. And while this success is a product of all the sweat and tears I put into everything, it's still strange to me. Like a dog catching its tail after chasing it for years.

Seriously, look at my life in list format:

1. I got an internship at NPR.

2. I was chosen for this fantastic D.C. Reads Team leader position.

• It pays me enough money to in turn, pay my rent.
• I genuinely love this program and want it to succeed.

3. Paula Poundstone randomly started following my twitter.

• I only have 4 followers total.
  
• All of my tweets are completely inane.
• How did anyone, let alone someone whose work I enjoy, find it?

4. Classy Yet Dangerous (my radio show) got a prime-time spot on Thursday nights.

5. I won 4 dollars in the lottery.

• That is a 1 dollar return on my investment.

So naturally, I was pretty relieved when I got acute food poisoning from the airport this morning on a 90 minute flight from North Caroline to D.C. Let's just say that that Egg McMuffin got a lot more air than God intended and I still have the dry heaves 5 hours later. Now it feels like the hot streak is over and whatever positive things happen aren't assisted by luck. Guess I was ready for a fresh start anyway.

How do we know you're really in BA?

PICTURE TIME!

Here is my propaganda for the People's Farm Collective of the Estancia. ¡Viva la Revolución!

I'm not turning into a communist here in the homeland of Che Guevara, but it is weird to be in a place where "socialist" is not a dirty word. People here aren't as sure as Americans that democracy is a close buddy of capitalism, and there is a firm belief that anyone in power is corrupt. If they have gotten power, they did it through an underhanded way and they, as a representative of the government, are trying to screw you as an individual. It's a very livable kind of mistrust, and by livable, I mean it's a basic assumption about the world that subtly colors everything. It is, of course, is not true for everyone, but it's strong enough to make me pause to remind myself of it when I hear someone comment on politics.

Here I am at La Bombonera, the stadium for the Boca Juniors futbol team, which in BA is one of the two big teams, the other being River Plate.

Yeah, I don't know anything about futbol. Futbol is kind of fun to watch, but I take my dad's view on it: You can watch for 2 hours and have nothing happen and have it all decided by 1 penalty kick. Luckily, I really don't have to be into futbol because it's more of a guy thing, so no one really expects me to know anything. All I have to know is who Maradona is and what he's doing (or not, since he's no longer coaching the Argentina team).

We went on a day trip/pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Lujan, a town outside of the capital where the Virgin, miraculously, wanted to stay. At first, it was kind of boring because a church is a church, and since we didn't feel like taking back gallon jugs of the miraculous Lujan holy water, there wasn't much for us to do. In the late afternoon, however, a cultural festival that was part of the year-long activities sponsored by the government for the bicentennial celebration began in the plaza. They really like drums in BA, and high schools had crazy sequined costumes, giant flags, and drum lines. The guys would play the drums, and the girls would dance behind. The whole procession moved very slowly through the plaza, and it was led by this large man in the picture. All he had was a yellow sign that said "Cultura." We had NO idea what was going on, and it was bizarre, frustrating, fun, bewildering, and a textbook case of culture shock.

(A sequin Goku makes an unexpected appearance in Lujan. The drum groups had a penchant for putting sequined cartoons onto their fringed polyester costumes.)

--Nicole

P.S. > Congratulations, Megan!

The Wackiest Phone Interview Ever

Thursday has always been my favorite day of the week, but last Thursday was an emotional kidney punch. My cherished younger brother Jake was moving into CU on the same day that I had the biggest interview of my life so far. I was torn between shameless weeping and excitedly preparing for a phone call with National Public Radio, which was completely surreal. Craziest of all, CU move-in and my interview were scheduled at the same time. It was a little like every sitcom plot ever where the main character has to chose between supporting her family and chasing her dreams. Luckily for me, this was a phone interview, so I could have my cake and eat it too. I crammed myself into the car, carving out a small niche to tape up my papers and assemble my makeshift office.

Every successful phone interview requires a basil plant shoved between your knees

The interview went okay, although I did muddle my way through one or two responses. When I found out that they were only taking one intern, I resigned myself to be happy I made it to the second stage. I should explain that this is not the first, second, or even third time that I've applied to intern at NPR. Furthermore, I have a big academic crush on the entire institution; I've been avidly listening to NPR ever since I can remember. In high school, I know I wrote at least one speech and one college entrance essay about how important NPR is to me. Dorky, but true. At least talking to someone who actually works at HQ was an accomplishment to me.

So on Friday, I went into work normally. Except I decided to leave my cell phone in the car for once. (Normally I take it in with me and it detracts from my productivity). At about 10:30, I received a frantic string of emails from my mom, telling me to pick up my phone.

It said: "NPR called-- you got the job". My first thought was that this was a cruel joke to encourage me to carry my phone. But even my mom wouldn't get my hopes up like that. I ran out of the office and skipped to the car. I still can't believe it, but I have the official documents to prove it. I'll be working at the Social Media desk this fall and hopefully contributing to "Intern Edition" as well. (Intern edition is this collaborative multimedia project that sounds like the Disney channel original movie Camp Rock but for radio interns.)

I'm so excited, so nervous and ultimately, so relieved I will have valid stuff to blog about in the fall. Wish me luck! :S

--Megan

THUNDA THUNDA THUNDA THUNDERCATS!

(Above: This statue of 3 women in a plaza in downtown BA reminded me of the Holy Trinity {a.k.a. your humble authors})

I'm in the middle of week 3 here in BA, and I'm getting to the point where things are less of an adventure and more of a draining culture difference, like: "Why do the oreos taste different?" and "Why is there ham on every sandwich?" and "No, I don't want mayonnaise ON EVERYTHING." The everyday stuff can be the most difficult and frustrating.

My Spanish is coming along, though. I'm functional. I can make sentences in order to ask for things, moving beyond pointing and saying "That. I want that. Please." to "Pardon me, ma'am/sir, but I would like to try that flavor of ice cream." The initial deluge of incomprehensible conversation is turning into more of a small stream, but it is still deceptively deep.

I speak like a child and to certain extent, most people treat me like one. They try to help me on the bus and speak very slowly, using gestures. It makes sense, because I'm something of a liability. I don't understand the way the world works here, and so I do need to be babysat a little. It's very humbling to have to learn the meanings of words all over again, imitating what the adults are doing and making lots of mistakes. One time, I turned on the hot water to wash the dishes, and my host mother said "No te quema!" I then I burned myself because the water gets hotter here than in the States. Now I know what quemar means.
Lessons here are earned.

At the same time, the familiar is never more than a step away; globalization keeps popping up when I least expect it. There was a big thunderstorm last night, and while talking about the weather, my host brother asked me what the English word for "trueno" was, and I said "Thunder."

"Como Thundercats*?" he asked. It took me a moment to register he was referencing the cartoon, because I never expected to find people who knew 1980s Japanese show about felinoid aliens in BA. Being wrong is becoming a habit of mine. He had grown up with same cartoon I had, and watched shows like Thundercats and The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers on TV. I've heard little girls referencing Scooby Doo in the street. What I had thought was American pop culture was actually global pop culture. What does it mean? You figure it out. I'm trying to make maté by heating the water in batches in the microwave because they won't let me use the gas stove. Gas stove + handheld lighter + me = What could possibly go wrong?

--Nicole
*Please click here for the awesome theme song!

The freak out

My goal is to freak out as much as humanly possible right now so I can be totally Zen when I arrive in Kenya. My motto has always been that pure exhaustion does wonders to calm the nerves. Right now I’ve started the daunting task of packing more than a week in advance of my departure. My greatest challenge is figuring out how to mix Nairobi chic or what Kenyans call “looking smart” with clothing more suited towards developing a new appreciation for the great outdoors.

I’m not ashamed to say that I initially based my packing on what I’ve seen other people wearing in their Facebook pictures during their study abroad programs. It doesn’t matter what corner of the world you’re in right now. I have Facebook creeped your travel photos. It doesn’t even matter if you were my roommate freshman year or if we’re complete strangers. If you have photos online I have probably seen them.

If it’s Armageddon my suggestion would be to head over to your local Walgreens as I did. They have everything you could possibly need to survive nuclear fallout and much, much more. My purchases there included individual bug spray towelttes (deceptively difficult to find in other stores), safety pins (another hot commodity), and my personal favorite, Dr. Scholl’s Foldable Flats with Stylish Wristlet (a must have for any traveler).

Back home, I unpacked my purchases. Listening to Shakira’s “She Wolf” I ended up trying on every article of clothing I own. Unnecessary? A tad bit overzealous? Nay friends. Despite the differences in climate, I’d identified the basic articles of clothing that are must haves. The only problem was that, for example, I had difficulty justifying not bringing one of my six black sweaters.

I feel like Nicole told me this secret, but I’m going to lay everything I’m planning on packing out the night before and leave behind at least 40% of it, hopefully more. Packing can be a cathartic and constructive way of addressing travel jitters. Maybe you really can transfer your nerves to inanimate objects, packing them away for the journey that lies ahead.

I just hope that I don’t transfer all of my nerves to inanimate objects or else I definitely won’t make the one bag per passenger rule.

-Jennifer

*Please note that the lack of appropriate transitions between thoughts in this post may be related to the author’s consumption of copious cups of Yerba mate.**

Internship Phase 2: Nutting up

Day 12 was a new low in my internship; I drove 50 minutes to Boulder to do 15 minutes of work. So there I was, sitting in the parking lot again; dejected, confused and on the phone with my mother. As far as I could tell, I was doing everything right, but no one would give me any tasks to complete. After listening to my frustrated rant, mom gently explained in her delicate "mother-knows-best" tone of voice,

"Sweetie... you kinda just need to nut up." Her words, not mine. It's true though: I was so shy and panicked that I was holding myself back. Yeah, I know, everyone gets nerves. But until you've sat in the Women's restroom for 5 minutes giving yourself a pep talk, trust me, you're not that nervous. I'm pretty sure I walked into the office like I was a drug mule going through customs for at least the first three weeks on the job. What was so terrifying to me? Only everything!



See, part of me is still convinced that I was hired on a complete lark because I really have no job description beyond "intern". So for me, that meant that talking to people in my office was sure to lead to disaster; maybe they would unceremoniously throw me out when they found out I didn't contribute anything. I recently discovered, however, that every person at my office is exceptionally nice.

There is even a woman who looks genuinely sorry when she can't find anything for me to do. And putting my nerves behind me has actually lead to... real work. I can now say I wrote a press release and sound vaguely professional. I am further pleased to report that the other (useful) interns are not 12 years old, like I suspected. They are actually at least 2 years older than me, which helps explain their superior skills.

I'm still mildly terrified of my office, to be honest. But at this point, I have about 2 weeks before it's back to DC and on to the next one. So I am going to do my best to chat up a storm, at least in lieu of actual work.

--Megan

[Update: Also I have become the master of fax/copy/print machines. It's especially satisfying since I know now that other people are incredibly confused by the machine that used to taunt me.]

Thank God for the Internet

I leave for Kenya in 18 days! I’m currently trying to make up for the 20 years I have spent living in Colorado not doing the activities most people associate with natives. The last time I was in a tent was about ten years ago and I just recently bought my first pair of hiking boots. A little known fact is that the people who are most vocal about living the Colorado lifestyle are actually not natives. Speaking in generalities, they’re the kind of people who became lifetime members of REI long before they decided to relocate out West to conquer the Rockies.

I am thrilled to have the opportunity to experience the culture, community, and traditions of Kenya. I am excited to expand my horizons and develop the wilderness skills I don’t currently possess, but I feel woefully unprepared. I went to look at water purifiers and backpacks last week and felt like I was on another planet which is definitely a feeling you want to avoid before you get on a plane to live for three and half months in another country.

A highly educated and experienced backpacker going on my program shared that one of her biggest concerns is getting parasites. “Parasites?” I remember saying to her. “Yeah, there are some that crawl up your legs so you have to have really solid shoes.” Right. Proper footwear to keep the parasites from crawling up your legs and invading your internal organs. Why hadn’t I thought of this?

I shared my mild anxiety with my mom. I explained that it’s not like I’m Malibu Barbie. I genuinely want to go to Kenya to meet the people and learn about their lives. I just have to acknowledge that I may be utterly useless when it comes to gutting a fish or rescuing someone from the grips of hypothermia (ok so probably not a concern I should have for Kenya but still). My mom just looked at me and said, “Oh, so you’re planning on playing a social game instead of a physical one?” I tried explaining how this wasn’t like an episode of Survivor but to no avail.

All I can say for myself is thank god for the internet which is providing the only shot I have at compensating for my lack of legitimate outdoor knowledge. Maybe getting to Kenya will be half the battle for me. We shall see.