don't worry, be jewish!

is a slogan I saw on a t-shirt at the beach today- my second favorite next to a slight twist on the epic rock tee, "Guns & Moses." Tel Aviv so far has been kind to me: a bleached city full of sun and sand and friends. As always, I am endlessly amused by the tiny details of a foreign land:  babies naked on the beach, strange signs warning "danger of death!" whose Hebrew explanations I cannot understand, and impassioned elderly women arguing loudly on the sidewalk. On the promenade, I take a deep breathe and inhale the at-once familiar and exotic smell of sunscreen, sweat, and the blooms of the purple Sigalon trees. I'm a little in love with the novelty of it all. And tonight promises to be wonderful: meeting up with an old friend from China, hopefully to have some hummus and falafel (although I have been warned not to eat it, given that the American version will be forever ruined).

So, after two years of perpetual anxiety, so begins a month in which my only goal is to stop worrying...and be Jewish. I think am up for the challenge.

a new and splendid life, take 5

And so begins my new and splendid life, parts 4 and 5. Moved down to North Carolina this past week and, in typical haphazard fashion, am now in the airport awaiting my flight to Israel. Although I'm really bummed to leave all my friends in New Haven, honestly, I couldn't be happier about being in North Carolina. The last two years have been too cold for me, in every sense of the word. I need a little light in my life...which I got yesterday in the form of fireflies. Fireflies! I was so happy to see them. Those tiny little bugs always signaled the beginning of summer when I was a kid, but I haven't seen them since leaving Ohio. I couldn't help myself; I just started giggling spontaneously. I guess that's the good part about living alone; no one knows when you're acting like a weird. (Except Victor. Always watching, always judging).

Now, after 12 hours in the Atlanta airport, I'm about to catch a standby flight to Tel Aviv. My wise and ever-resourceful friend Max helped hook me up with a sweet standby gig, but it means that I arrived in Atlanta at 7am this morning. So far I've taken 2 naps, visited McDonald's twice (gotta keep a nutritional epidemiologist in business, y'all), and talked to a couple of army guys who are deploying to Afghanistan today. I feel gross and homeless, but talking to a couple of men my age who are about to leave for a year puts things in perspective awfully quickly. A timely reminder, given it's Memorial Day.

Quick note to anyone stuck in an airport for long periods of time: search out the chairs without armrests. They make nearly perfect beds! In the ATL airport: Gate E12. Glorious. And on that note...

Bon Voyage!

laos part three: the quarter-century mark

I want to write about the most perfect day while it is still fresh in my mind. This morning, Ana and I grabbed a quick Lao coffee-to-go and hopped in a van through the rolling countryside to elephant camp. We cut through the fog blanketing the river in a motorized canoe before and suddenly, there they were. A small herd of elephants, just chomping away. After lots of photo-taking, I scrambled up one of them and took her to the river to bathe. Submerged in the water with Hambi, my elephant, with trunks flying and water spraying everywhere, I felt such  unadulterated joy. Neither Ana nor I could stop laughing--we were like two little girls, chortling with delight. It's been a long time since I've been that happy.

The elephants are both mighty and strangely delicate. You can step and climb on them as you would a ladder or a (very large) stool; their hides are thick and each toenail the size of my foot. Their hair is course like wire and their trunks strong and curious. And yet their eyes are so soulful--expressive and fringed with long lashes--and their ears are soft and exquisite. Riding an bathing elephant with your legs enveloped by its ears is like having your entire lower body embraced by the softest, warmest blanket. 

After the bath, we went to elephant camp, where the animals hungrily tossed back literal tons of grass and bamboo before heading out on a trek through the Lao jungle. We took turns riding in the "chair" atop the elephant and on its neck, with our friendly mahout explaining to us how to tell Hamong to hao (stop), bai bai (go), and san de lai (very good elephant!). 

After our sojourn, we took another van ride to a series of waterfalls, which also strangely turned out to be home to a black bear rehabilitation center. After wolfing down a lunch of fried rice and veggies, we spent the remainder of th eafternoon swimming in a pool of crystalline water. There was a waterfall which I climbed halfway down and just sat in for a solid hour, shivering with pure joy. After about an hour of contemplation, I decided to jump off the falls...and by decided, I should say that two small Lao children tricked me into it because I was too frightened to go alone! Finally, as the sun sunk into its pre-twilight glow, we grabbed a hasty snack of fried coconut before heading off to a local Hmong village. Honestly, I wish we hadn't gone--I felt so touristy and awful traipsing through and snapping photos of napping babies, straw huts, and the public television set in the center of the village. It was so different than the Chinese villages we'd stayed where, although waigouren, we were able to converse and contribute in the local community--or at least to the income of the families we lived with, however briefly. 

Otherwise, it was the perfect start to what hopefully will turn out to be a great year. Here's to a quarter-century!

Ana & I & our Mahout

One of many gorgeous waterfalls

These kids look cute but they were tricky!

Black Bear Stare!

Most adorable Hmong baby

Hmong Village

Finishing off the day with some Lao BBQ!

laos part two

The countryside, from the admittedly limited yet spectacular window of the sleeper bus, is considerably poorer than China. Many houses sit on stilts, with roofs of straw, and in the dusty courtyards you can see very young mothers nursing babies or groups of older women, clad in black sarongs, clustered around a pump for bathing. Luang Prabang is very beautiful, but very touristy--in a "my parents would like this place" sort of way, which I haven't experienced much since arriving in China. It's disorienting to see so many waigouren  (foreigners) in one place; to not be yelled at, "hello! hello!" by young and old men, like little parrots, all the time. The Lao people, from what I can tell, are friendly and soft-spoken; none of the strident tones, spitting, or near-shouting which pepper the language in Kunming.

This morning we strolled into a wat, or Buddhist monastery, where a group of young monks and a European couple invited us to sit and practice English with them. We swapped words for trading cards for awhile, learning that several of the monks had come to the monastery at a very young age--fifteen for some. Although sending one child to the monastery is customary for Lao families, I was astonished at the journey these monks--kids, really--had taken. Several were from villages a few hours' bus ride away, which in the Western world is nothing more than a slightly lengthy trip to the local Ikea. But for these young men, life in Luang Prabang is a world away from these tiny mountain villages, from which most of their families will never leave and to where they return but a handful of times. Talking with them, it dawns on me how utterly relative distance is when traveling. I'm reminded of a line from a favorite poem, "The distance is deeper in my heart than miles can show" and just how far away even a blocks can be when something separates you from the people you love. 

Of course, technology can shrink distance...a lesson the monks apparently have learned as well, given they asked me for my name and email so they could "Facebook me." Guess I'd better be a bit more careful about which pictures to post... 

laos part one: a banner year, a splendid day

        Here I am in Luang Prabang, about the celebrate the quarter-century mark with Ana, a Costa Rican girl I’ve only known a few weeks. I think it’s telling, the difference between my 24^th and 25^th birthdays. Last year, I was sitting around a make-shift bonfire at Lake Erie with my two best friends and our long-term boyfriends. We drank wine and played the kind of games you can only play when you’ve known each other for years; when you love each other like family. This year, I’m alone in Southeast Asia, gallivanting around places I’ve never heard of, riding elephants and drinking laolao, the local whiskey, with near strangers.

                I may not be writing with glee at the moment, and quite frankly, knowing my perpetually (and hopelessly) romantic soul, may not until I make the inevitable mistake of falling in love again. But for the first time in a very long time, I am content. Perhaps my newfound sense of calm has a little—or a lot—to do with the fact that I am in Laos, a country of pristine mountains, gentle people, and Theravada Buddhism. This particular brand of Buddhism stresses three principle aspects of existence: dukkha (suffering, unsastifactoriness, disease), annica (impermanence, transience of all things), and annatta (non-substantiality or non-essentiality of reality; the idea that there is no permanent soul). Understanding annica reveals that no experience, no state of mind, no physical object lasts. Both joy and pain dissipate, and it is trying to hold onto these things—experiences, objects, people—that are constantly changing that creates dukkha. Anatta is the understanding that there is no apart of this ever-changing world that we can point to and declare, “This is me” or “This is God,” or “This is the soul.” The point of all of this is simple yet glorious: nibbana, or the extinction of all causes of pain and suffering.

                It seems to me that the majority of my suffering has been a result of my inability to embrace annica. The transient nature of my life has left me lost and reeling in confusion. It dawns on me that although I feel so far from everyone here, even when I am “at home” I am still apart from those whom I love most. The realization hits me like a sack of bricks: I have grown to love New Haven, my life, my friends there—and yet, a year from now I may be across the country, never to see most of these people or places I treasure again. “I’ve lost two cities, lovely ones,” Bishop once wrote—and it’s hard not to sink into a self-pitying cocoon once you start thinking that way, missing people, missing things. Loving and embracing each experience and person in that very moment—appreciating its beauty in the present, and then letting it go; this practice is my goal for my 25^th year. As one Buddhist monk pointed out profoundly, “Patience is a practice. The only way to cultivate it is to remind yourself constantly that the only place your life is occurring is every moment.”

                Even though I feel slightly treacherous for saying so, Luang Prabang is a refreshing change from China. While more expensive, the city’s calm nature, cleanliness, French-style architecture and Western-syle toilets are all a welcome change from the restless, vibrant, filthy Kunming. The people are friendly and sweet: brightly colored tuk tuk drivers line the streets, inquiring, “Where are you going, miss?” (The answer to which, of course, I do not know on so many levels.) Sandwich stands and pancake makers beckon from the sidewalks with their tantalizing smells and smiling faces. Monks, clad in simple orange robes, pace the dusty streets at dawn, moving silently and peacefully along each of the two rivers that ensconce the city. I think I’m going to like it here.

back in action

After wandering through Southeast Asia without internet access (or, in China, access to non-censored internet, including this blog), I'm back in the US. I'm still a bit woozy from the nearly 30 hours of travel; a sense of disorientation that will not wear off anytime soon considering I'm flying out to Seattle tomorrow to visit my newly engaged sis. Strange, to be traveling in the States (toilet paper? air conditioning? no smoking?) and with my parents nonetheless, although I'm looking forward to it. My trip's not all pleasure though--meeting with some professors at U of Washington to discuss PhD options, so I'm actually quite nervous. It's hard to believe that after all that work and anxiety just two years ago, that I'm about to plunge right back in again. That I have no idea where I'll be living or doing this time next year, although I have my dreams. I've caught a bit of a travel bug, that's for sure--both literally and figuratively. Literally, as I'm still sick, after nearly 3 months of chronic GI infections (I never knew there were so many ways to be ill. Forget nutrition as a public health concern in China... I think perhaps they should get soap and sinks outside toilets and consider washing hands before meal preparation before getting to the contents of those meals!) Figuratively as in I've fallen in love with the itinerant lifestyle, and am already daydreaming about my next venture (Argentina next summer, con suerte). In any case, I'm going to backdate all my travel writing and photos on this blog before school starts again, so here goes...

the hills are alive....

After finishing data collection last week, a bunch of us decided to get out of the city for a few days and head
to Jian Shui, a small city in southern Yunnan, followed by theYuanyang rice terraces.

Now, I’m no stranger to traveling on a budget. I’m a grad student, I’m poor—I’ve learned not to expect much from my accommodations. Or so I thought. On Sunday night, my roommate and I took a bumpy busride to Jian Shui to meet the rest of our friends. We showed up at the hotel, which compensated for its namelessness with holographic wallpaper and disco music. The first room we went to was filthy: skid-mark wall stains, cigarette-burned comforters, and more mosquitoes than I’ve ever seen in a natural environment. We decided to check out a second room. Room#2 was slightly cleaner, but the clouds of smoke hovering above the beds were less than appetizing. We entered Room #3 to find it was already occupied—by a cockroach. Shit. Choosing between which insect with whom I would sleep is not a dilemma I thought I’d ever face. But, it was late and we were tired, so we rationalized: a roach in one, a roach in all. So we climbed into bed, praying for no bedbugs, and turned off the lights. Two seconds later, Hila turned the lights back on. Bad move: roaches scattered across the floor like shy kids on the dance floor.

After a relatively sleepless night, we woke up and explored the town. Jian Shui’s a neat little city, composed mostly of alleyways, shops, and tiny restaurants. Most of these places have only a table or two; eating in one is like sitting in someone’s kitchen while they prepare the food a few feet away. The food is always fresh, usually from the market just a few hours prior, and usually quite tasty: rice with stir-fried eggs, tomatoes, or vegetables with plenty of la jiao, a searing spice I dump on everything. The specialty in Jian Shui is cho dofu, or literally, “stinky tofu.” The place reeks of the stuff; I never knew beans could smell so bad. ‘Course, most dishes apparently arrive with a side of bacteria, which now have taken up residence inside my GI tract. I’m pretty sure a small Chinese dragon has been chilling in my gut for a few weeks now. Everyone here’s some stage of sick though, so you learn to get over it and keep on movin’.

One bus, one van, and one taxi ride later, we made it to the rice terraces in Yuanyang. Truly, these mountains and villages and people are indescribable. The terraces are over 2000 years old, and in many ways it seems as though not much has changed. The villages that pepper the mountainside are home to several of Yunnan’s ethnic minorities. The women wear these brightly colored headdresses and carry woven baskets full of fruits and vegetables as they trek over the mountains to the market. Food is so central to life here: harvesting it, finding it, eating it. Pigs, cows, and roosters roam everywhere; they are slaughtered and cooked right on the cobblestone streets. The couple whose home we stayed in cooked for us each day—vegetarian, per request. Never have simple greens and rice tasted so delicious.

We encountered one couple on the top of the mountain on their way home to celebrate the Dragon Boat Festival. The man was carrying a live hen upside down in one hand; the woman had a giant basket full of leechy fruit and other goods strapped to her back. The irony of this situation is that we were all dressed to hike: backpacks, boots, snacks. The woman? She was carrying an oversized bedazzled handbag and was wearing heels. High heels on a mountain! Never again will I complain about uncomfortable footwear, that’s for sure. Later, we were treated to an impromptu concert on a cliff when a group of men, also returning home, stopped to play their recorders for us. There’s truly nothing like the sound of music with villagers and cows and roosters on a cliff overlooking ancient farmland.

We had great weather during the day, but the nights were chilly and rainy. Even so, I hiked alone to the overlook one evening to watch the fog reach its cold grey fingers down the mountains. Never have I seen something so haunting and beautiful. The next morning, we got up before the sun to watch it rise over the paddies. With the wind rippling through the rice and the clouds swirling around us, we watched in silence as the sun rose and crested over the peaks. Breathtaking.

So yes, I slept on dirty cots with Mickey Mouse comforters and cigarette burns. I shared a room with a small army of cockroaches. I got violently ill while standing inside a cloud. I took more than one shower literally standing on top of the toilet. But it was worth it. Incredibly worth it.

Kind of pretty, I suppose...

Might have had a lil' Sound of Music moment at the top....

The world's cutest kid....until you notice HE'S GOT A GUN! 

a shrine to buddhism...and also, consumerism

“Waiting with patience means actively accepting the current circumstances and giving up the illusion that you can control the world. Actually, patience is a practice. The best way to cultivate it is to remind yourself constantly that every moment is the only place your life is occurring. The point is to train yourself to live completely in the present, in peace, even if you’re sitting in the middle of a traffic jam.”

[Geoffrey Arnold, Buddhist monk]

This quotation, which has adorned my notebooks and walls and now my desk in China, is my omnipresent reminder to live in the present. Not easy for me, but I’m getting there. At the very least, I’ve got the “remind yourself constantly” part down cold—it’s just actual peacefulness part that still eludes me.

On that note, my roommate and I set off the other day to Yuantong Temple, a Buddhist temple in Kunming which is roughly 1,200 years old. We entered the temple through a path of cypress trees and a sign welcoming you, in Chinese, to the “yuantong wonderland.” An early morning fog hung over the gardens and ponds, as if you could inhale the palpable peacefulness or feel its coolness upon your skin. The temples themselves were ornate, overflowing with colorful cushions and banners and flowers. And the Buddha(s?): these enormous gold statues shining from within. Silently, and one by one, worshippers would come forward to kneel and say a brief prayer. I felt much like an intruder, with my fast-talking and photo-taking and inability to ascend stairs without falling. But I’ve been a proponent of Buddhism, however much a novice, for a little over a year now, and this was my first visit to a real place of practice.  The grounds truly emanated this sense of calm; I wanted to lie down in the shallow, sunny water with one of the hundreds of turtles and snooze for awhile, or maybe more.  

 But, being an avid practitioner of a different form of religion—namely, capitalism—my roommate and I eventually left and met some other friends at the Kunming second-hand market.  The second-hand market is, quite frankly, like Goodwill done Chinese style: mountains upon mountains of cheap clothes, heaps of used undergarments (uh, gross!), racks of furs and shoes and dresses, all of it radiating some sort of synthetic stench. Even so, we had fun combing through the various goods and haggling with the vendors….and by haggling, I mean making sad-puppy dog eyes and asking “Duō shǎo qián?” (how much?) over and over until they lowered the price. [Sidenote: my Chinese is so terrible that sometimes I find it amusing to speak with a different accent--usually some sort of British/Scottish/drunken-slur-sounding hybrid. Somehow this is less embarrassing? And why I find myself wiggling my eyebrows excessively when attempting to order food or drinks from kindly waitresses, I do not know. Apparently I’m well on my way to becoming some sort of faux alcoholic British/Chinese womanizer?…]  I ended up with four cardigans (I’m in grad school in New England, cut me a break!) and a funky 70-ish rainbow-stripe dress that I may never wear but was fun to buy. Exhausted from our day, we headed back to the flat, where we were confronted with more strenuous decision making: to watch Precious or The Blindside…or, ok, ok, I’ll admit it:  maybe just more bootleg copies of Ugly Betty. Tough life. 

sidenote: i can't post pictures on this blog b/c the internet is far too slow. if you want to see pics, check out my album on facebook called "china y'all"...and if we're not friends already, add me!

donde el crepusculo corre borrando estatuas

My favorite time of day here is twilight. The streets awash in a buttery light, the sidewalks and shops bustle with parents and children returning home. In my apartment complex, a calm missing from the rest of the day settles over the courtyard: grey-haired women line up to dance, waving red fans and gently swaying to the music floating from a nearby boom-box. The old men- most of them toothless, or soon-to-be- are finishing up their games of cards or dominoes, their voices often rising and pitching in angry outbursts over the din of children playing on the sidewalks.

Freshly showered, I move through the dusty streets silently, spinning stories in my head from the day just past or repeating some fragment of Chinese over and over like an impromptu mantra. (Hong shan nan lu, for example, is the name of my street, which I so badly mispronounced to a taxi driver the other day that I ended up in a strange suburb before “phoning-a-friend” for help). I can’t help but grinning nearly constantly. How is it possible that I am here, in a Chinese market, haggling over eggplant for tonight’s dinner, when a year ago I was in a cube counting down each agonizing minute until my 5 o’clock escape? Everything delights me: the men brushing their teeth in the streets, the sudden burst of sparks from a second story construction site, the smoky scent of sidewalk barbeque. I seem to evoke a similar effect; although the Chinese are fairly discrete, I catch both men and women secretly staring. Dressed in a summer top and flowy skirt, “yellow” hair falling around my shoulders, I’m not sure if they think I’m Pamela Anderson or a blonde Godzilla. “Nihao,” I say as I walk past, smiling brightly into their curious faces.

Ironically, the only thing tainting my twilight zen is the residual anxiety of life in New Haven. Walking along some dusty railroad tracks with my roommate the other evening, we were approached from behind by a menacing figure.

“There’s someone behind us,” my roommate warned, well aware of my Dwight-Street paranoia. I shrieked and spun around to confront our attacker: a four-foot-five Chinese woman, balancing on her hip a watermelon that may have outweighed her. I laugh sheepishly and let her pass.

Except for these minor aberrations, evening in Kunming is a laid-back affair. It’s refreshing for the sky ‘s darkening to signal the end of the day as opposed to the start of another endless night of studying, for a change. So I go back inside and stir-fry my vegetables, read a little, write a little, and finally, after a year of perpetual motion, relax.

slip and fall down slowly

I’m even clumsier in China than I am at home. Shocking, I know. Uneven surfaces, ancient sandals, and an inherent lack of grace have conspired to leave me stumbling or flat-out falling every few hundred yards or so. Luckily, China has removed any shred of dignity I had left: in a land where you’re a complete anomaly, you can get away with almost anything. I look so strange, so utterly foreign, that people expect me to be odd. So I am. I just smile and make a funny face, as if I toppled face-first into that statue on purpose, and keep walking. By my calculations, it’s a suitable trade-off for all the ogling I do myself: at the midnight barbeques, smoke filling the street corners with the scent of some unmentionable meat; at the families piled four deep on one precarious-looking bicycle; at the wizened elderly couples strolling arm-in-arm at twilight. I may fall down— perhaps not slowly, or carefully, as the Chinese say—but it’s a price I’m more than happy to pay.

China has also stripped me of my vices: chocolate, cheese, wine—and with it, the occasional drunken cigarette—hair straighteners, my beloved morning coffee….

And men. Perhaps the most challenging and suitable vice to give up after a year of having my heart batted around like a soccer ball in a muddy field. It’s not as though I was expecting to meet someone here—jokes about Chinese sugar daddies aside—but after last night’s excursion, it’s clear that the closest I’ll get to the opposite sex is probably with the toothless old man at the market who sells me leechee and mangos each morning.

Case in point: Last night, my roommates and I went to a concert at a hostel/bar called “The Hump” (another Chinese malapropism? Or just an ironic twist on my current predicament?). The band, endearingly named “The Sea-loving Mammals” (apparently “Dolphins” was taken), was mediocre at best, the beer warm, and I found myself physically propping my eyelids open with my fingers. The men-- the first Western guys I’ve seen since I’ve arrived—were all sporting some form of strange uniform: Wayne’s World-style hair-do/ponytail, sleeveless t-shirt, and (optional) sunglasses-at-night. What god of fashion decided this was a good idea? I wondered, before ironically adjusting on my own ridiculous skinny jeans and trendy little top.

Thankfully, my roommates wanted to leave rather early. On our way out, I was approached by a man whose hair resembles mine now that I am sans-straightener: an uneven mop of blonde frizz. He must have thought I liked him, given the way I was staring and giggling—but he misinterpreted my gaze for a not-unkindly snicker at his ridiculous rose-colored sunglasses and 90’s style hemp necklace.

“Why are you leaving?” He asked in some unknown accent, sidling up to me with an arrogant grin.

“I’m jetlagged, and she’s tired,” I replied, gesturing at my roommate, who was slowly creeping towards the door.

“This is why girls suck!” He complained, sucking noisily on his cigarette (at which I secretly stared with envy).

“Well,” I retorted, “Perhaps if men were capable of making more interesting conversation, we wouldn’t be so bored and tired!” Triumphant, I turned on my heels, delighted at the facile of English words and my ability to manipulate a language at my will. Chinese, I’ve found, is a slippery language. It lacks the rough weight of English, heavy like marbles, or the sweet melody of Spanish. Beautiful in its own right, at the moment Chinese words are like snakes to me: difficult to catch, and impossible to hold. It was nice, if even for a moment, to feel in control of words again.

In any case, I went home to my room and settled in for a night with a long-lost literary love, Dave Eggers. This looks like it may turn out to be a man-less summer, but I think that I am more than okay with that. I need to learn to be alone again—even in this country of a billion people—and to savor the luxury of silence for a change. To learn Chinese, and Buddhism, and yoga. To listen more, and talk less. And maybe to slip and fall a little more slowly :)

nihao, kunming

Well, I’ve only been in China a few hours and yet there’s so much to tell I don’t know where to start. Traveling was an absolute nightmare, starting with my trip in Cleveland, which was delayed b/c of fog at JFK. Imagine this scene: once I finally arrived in JFK, I sprinted-- huffing and puffing and sweating—across the airport, nose-diving once into the tile floor in front of an entire crowd, scraping up my hands and my face a little—to Air China, where I was informed I’d missed my flight by 15 minutes. In a storm of rage and tears that recalled my old corporate airline battleground days, I got American to put me on the next flight to San Fran—which, serendipitously, I only got on because it was also delayed. I had to sprint to that flight again, just barely making it before the doors closed (note to self: work out more!).

The guy sitting next to me on the HK flight blatantly ignored my no-eye-contact, no-talking rule on flights (created explicitly because it’s much easier to drool in anonymity than it is when you’ve actually held a conversation with someone). Anyway, this dude turned out to be a radio-frequency engineer from Singapore, staying in HK for a few days. Once we landed in HK, since I had six hours to kill, he helped me negotiate the final leg of my flight (note to self #2: learn Mandarin-stat!) and we headed into Hong Kong. It was really cool that I got to see the city, if only for a few hours. The only way to describe Hong Kong-and China- is that it is so utterly foreign to me. In comparison, Costa Rica seemed more like home than a field of corn on the Fourth of July. There is just so much I do not recognize: the language, the letters, the food, the way the cars and buses and bikes and pedestrians all seem to mix and merge into one giant river of commotion. I love it though—for the first time, it feels like a real adventure!

I finally got to Kunming, 2 full days after I left Cleveland, and of course my luggage is nowhere to be found. Met my Chinese interpreter, Hongmei- and my fears are confirmed. I cannot understand her. She cannot understand me. This could make for a loooooooooooong summer. We may have to resort to sign language…or the progressive face, I’m not sure which yet. Also, it’s incredibly ironic that I’m here to study obesity- I am by far the largest human I’ve seen here so far. I tower over all of the women and loom over most of the men as well—and I’m the only blonde in the entire city, I think. I definitely got racial profiled in line for immigration- these scary looking dudes in green uniforms with hedge-like haircuts pulled me out of line from everyone else just to inspect me. I actually think it will be interesting from an anthropological perspective to see what it feels like to live as such an extreme minority for the summer. Honestly, it might be the most important lesson I get out of this entire trip—we’ll see.

The good news: my roommates are awesome! I am going to learn a ton from them, both in terms of Chinese, Israeli culture, and general life in Kunming. Shelly’s going to be tons of fun- we hit it off upon meeting; Hila’s slightly more quiet, but I like her quite a bit as well. She yelled out “FUCK!” when we were in the supermarket (you’ll see why in just a minute), and after that she earned high marks in my book. It’s a little strange because sometimes they speak Hebrew or Chinese to each other, so I’m just in my own little world. Honestly, I’m very much like a blind person here- I don’t know how I’d get by without them already. Today we went to a Wal-mart type place and oh my god, I have never seen so many kinds of disgusting meats. I saw chicken feet prepared at least half a dozen different ways. I saw a five year old fingering fish heads. I saw what appeared to be bloody eel stew. Aaaand, I’m pretty sure I saw a dead baby cow. Disgusting. But we all came back and made dinner together, with Hila’s British boyfriend, Richard, who’s smart and quite hilarious in that droll British way. Both my apartment and my neighborhood are nicer than New Haven, ironically. So far, the only negative are the beds: apparently, Chinese people like to sleep on beds as hard as boards. My roommates even bought nicer, "softer" mattresses, but still--each morning I wake up feeling stiff and as though I am emerging from a few years inside a coffin. Ouch.

Otherwise, I’m feeling a bit anxious about my luggage, my project, and quite honestly, what to do with all this free time. I’m not sure how to live in a city where I am illiterate and essentially mute. Time for exploring, I think!

nothing ventured, nothing won

"And then supposing the Spirit has conquered and you have done this impossible thing, do you find afterwards that you possess yourself in a sense that you never had before? That there is more of you?…So it is throughout life…you know ‘nothing ventured nothing won’ is true in every hour, it is the fibre of every experience that signs itself into the memory.” 
- J.N. Figgis



       The first time I encountered this quote was as a fresh-faced fourteen year old, about to embark on my first trip alone: sailing on the Chesapeake Bay as part of an Outward Bound excursion. An introverted bookworm, just the act of leaving home was nothing less than a major voyage for me.  I remember feeling as though the anxiety radiating from my chest must have been palpable to the other tweens paddling away on our thirty-foot boat. But that trip-- rowing through the rain, the sweet freedom of finally sailing, the glow of hundreds of jellyfish hovering just below the waves--the first time I fell in love with a curly-haired boy with an impish grin (if one could call a week of nervous smiles love, of course)--opened up something new in me. I was still afraid--that hadn't changed. But suddenly, I felt less afraid to feel that way.


      I re-read this quotation again before another trip into the wilderness- a freshmen orientation excursion the week before I started at Northwestern. Again, nervous as hell, and without a clue about the whirlwind that was about to engulf my life. While my four years there can't be summarized so succinctly, again Figgis was right: there was somehow more of me than there had been before. And always, the fear. Fear that accompanied me long after that first week--fear that became my near constant companion for the better part of two years, in fact.  But, more intimately acquainted with it, the emotion became more of a compass, telling me I was doing something right--taking chances, making moves--rather than the warning sign I once thought it to be.



     In the years since, Figgis' quote has adorned my walls and journals in some form. This year, my first in grad school, he spoke to me from directly from a Post-it above my desk, where I'd read him during lonely four a.m nights or restless days studying. It's never easy to start a new life--or a new journey--and then, even as now, it's not easy to distill my experiences into life lessons as comforting or as true as his words. 


      But now, I turn to him again, a day before I leave for what may be my biggest--or at least, longest--journey yet: to China, for the summer. My first time abroad. My first real research project. My first time being illiterate! (Hello, Chinese characters). So, "A New and Splendid Life," it truly is--and this time, an entirely foreign one. I can't wait.

i was born a travelin' (wo)man

Writing this post from a hotel room in Arizona on what seems to be my last business trip! Not ever, of course, but after two years of near constant travel, it's sad to think it's all coming to an end.

I'm guessing I'll feel differently at 5:30 am tomorrow morning, when I head back to the airport for another 6 back-pain filled hours of sitting in a tiny plane seat...not to mention the airlines ditched their pillows and blankies in this ultra-sterile post-swine flu era we're living in. My hand does not make a comfy pillow, that's for sure.

Gotta love Southwest, though- at least I have plane snacks to look forward to! Plus, since I lose two hours heading back east, the work day is delightfully short.