The first thing that happened to me this morning was Jesus asking me to do the dishes.
It's been a long while since you last heard from me, but rest assured I've been writing. This last year has been a very pivotal year for me because not only have I figured out my life path, but I've actually been working towards it as well. The form this path has chosen is a book, and since I don't have a clue how to write one, it's been a very interesting year of challenges. The book will undoubtedly be called something like "100 Ways How Not To Write A Book" but I'm damn well going to try. I've also been working on video editing and a website, which my amazing friend Riccardo has been helping me with.
I have two free months before I'm heading back to Austin to be in my best friend's wedding, so I decided on a little journey back to Guatemala. Guatemala has always been special to me, it's one of my favorite countries and I constantly think of returning. When my good friend Styx told me he was down here with his girlfriend Lo-Arna, I didn't need to think twice. So here I sit on my balcony, staring out at the calm blue water of Lake Atitlan and breathe a deep sigh of happiness and joy.
We have rented a house here in San Pedro, and I couldn't have asked for a better one. We live above the Coffee Baron of the town, so below us they roast coffee all day long. Above us is a panaderia, and the smell of fresh baked bread fills our patio like sunshine. Basically we live in Heaven, which is probably why we pay rent to Jesus. Sounds like a country song. All of this, plus the most stunning view of the lake for 1,600 Quetzales a month, roughly $200 for the three of us.
Jesus is our landlady, the mother of the Coffee Baron. She's a sweet little Mayan lady who putters around her side of the house, weaves on a loom at least ten feet long, and rules the roost with an iron fist. Everyday she wears traditional Mayan clothing: a bright, lacy top with puffy sleeves, a thick embroidered skirt of the local fabric, and a long, hand-made belt she wraps many times around her waist. All are different colors, all are beautiful, and she consistently reminds me of a walking flower.
Styx you might have heard of before. We met teaching English in Vietnam four years ago. He stayed with me in Christchurch, New Zealand right before the earthquake, came for a visit on my boat in Puerto Rico, and we meet up again here is sunny, tranquil Guatemala. Another traveling kindred spirit, this time he has bought what can only be referred to as a tank and has decided to drive it from California to Argentina. Styx's truck, "El Nino" is a retired Discovery Channel storm chaser. With this beast, they have set out on a journey mixing business and pleasure known as "El Vagabundo Mundial" which is Spanish for The Worldwide Vagabond. I have teamed up with them for the time being and it has been a whirlwind of fun. They sell jewelry, clothes and coffee, teach yoga, do massage, reiki and many other odd assortments. You can keep up with us online, follow along with the journey, see pictures and maybe even meet up later in the world at http://www.facebook.com/groups/elvagabundomundial/.
For the time being though, I'll satisfy Jesus and get started on those dishes.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Shamans Don't Laugh: A Tale of Machu Picchu
Staring up at the mountain in front of me, so high that it strains my neck to see the top. Hundreds of years filled with the Andean culture of the Incas. Four days of hiking the Incan Trail is ahead, the ultimate goal of Machu Picchu. Sweat pouring, legs aching, and the hike has not even begun, only the promise of one of the most famous, sacred, spiritual and protected sites in the world. I watched the hikers, mentally and physically preparing for some of the hardest days of their lives, from my climate-controlled train car, sitting in a nice chair while the stewardess served me coffee and fresh fruit for my hour and a half train ride to Machu Picchu. Suckers!
For the last few days I've sat down to write about Machu Picchu, but I am still having trouble finding the words. "Stunning" and "amazing" are useless and empty in comparrison to that feeling of standing on top of the world in that sacred space and time, feeling the energy coming out of the mountains and witnessing with my own eyes one of the last intact sites of the ancient Andean people. It is truly a spectacular sight. Instead of trying to force out words I can't say but only feel, I'll just assume you're all jumping out of your chairs, quitting your jobs and getting a babysitter so you can go see Machu Picchu for yourselves. Here is some advice for when you get there:
1. Get there on the first bus, ay 5:30 a.m.
2. Bring food, water, and your passport, because you're going to need all three.
3. Go for two days, because it's worth it.
4. Rent a Shaman.
Our Rent-a-Shaman, Juan de Dios Garcia Garcia, appeared through the mist near the bus stop early in the morning. We saw him from across the road walking slowly and, by the look of him, was either a drunk man trying to get home, or our Shaman. Drunkards don't usually carry condor feathers and incense home from the pub, so we waved and he ambled over, high as a kite and smiling, leaving a trail of coca leaves in his wake. He met the group and walked to the front, where one of our number, Rand, was chatting up three pretty, blonde Scandinavians and feeling pretty good about himself. Now, I have seen many things in my time, many odd experiences have knocked on my door, but I have never, never seen anyone get cock-blocked by a four and a half foot tall Incan Shaman at five a.m. It was so incredible, I had to name it "The Shamaning." Rand glared down at the little man as he stepped between him and the ladies, shooed them onto the bus and put us on the next bus. Too shocked by what had just occured, we all burst into laughter and the thoughts of killing our Rent-a-Shaman slowed faded from Rand's face. Juan de Dios Garcia Garcia didn't laugh. Shamans don't laugh, they shaman.
Once on top of the mountain, looking through the clouds to the ancient ruins and waiting for the sun to rise, our J.d.D.G.G. took us to a special spot, a giant rock once used as an alter and holy place. The ancient Inca and pre-Inca civilizations then and now believe and worship the natural world around us. They built temples to the sun and moon, stars, thunder, and the rainbow. They celebrate the Pacha Mama, or Mother Earth, as well as Taita Inti, Father Sun. Their life energy flows from the mountains, from the springs, from the wind, and they praise the equality in all things. We sat with our Shaman to talk of these things, to have a ceremony for the strength, beauty and balance of Nature. He spoke to us of his ancestors, about stating intention for ourselves there on the mountain, and pushing that intention out into the world. We made an offering to the Pacha Mama, adding quinoa and corn from the earth, coca leaves for medicine, our intentions, different colored carnation petals for power, energy and knowledge. He put in llama fat for the animals, fabrics for people and industry, and little bits of candy because, as our Shaman says with a secretive smile, "Pacha Mama, she likes candy." After the ceremony was over, hardly and eye was dry in the group, and we finished by being told we had to hug each person in the group individually, which I think made some of the men nervous and some of the women cry harder.
Unfortunately you can't light fires at Machu Picchu, it being sacred and all, so we folded up our offering for the Shaman to take home on the mountain and finish his Shamaning by offering it to the Sacred Fire. Sceptics will scoff and say he went back to his city apartment and threw it in the trash, but not our Shaman. Our Shaman is Incan and pre-Incan, he is past, present and future, and he is with me now as I write. He is the Pacha Mama, the Taita Inti, the stars and the rainbow, the corn and the coca leaves. But then so are you. So am I.
For the last few days I've sat down to write about Machu Picchu, but I am still having trouble finding the words. "Stunning" and "amazing" are useless and empty in comparrison to that feeling of standing on top of the world in that sacred space and time, feeling the energy coming out of the mountains and witnessing with my own eyes one of the last intact sites of the ancient Andean people. It is truly a spectacular sight. Instead of trying to force out words I can't say but only feel, I'll just assume you're all jumping out of your chairs, quitting your jobs and getting a babysitter so you can go see Machu Picchu for yourselves. Here is some advice for when you get there:
1. Get there on the first bus, ay 5:30 a.m.
2. Bring food, water, and your passport, because you're going to need all three.
3. Go for two days, because it's worth it.
4. Rent a Shaman.
Our Rent-a-Shaman, Juan de Dios Garcia Garcia, appeared through the mist near the bus stop early in the morning. We saw him from across the road walking slowly and, by the look of him, was either a drunk man trying to get home, or our Shaman. Drunkards don't usually carry condor feathers and incense home from the pub, so we waved and he ambled over, high as a kite and smiling, leaving a trail of coca leaves in his wake. He met the group and walked to the front, where one of our number, Rand, was chatting up three pretty, blonde Scandinavians and feeling pretty good about himself. Now, I have seen many things in my time, many odd experiences have knocked on my door, but I have never, never seen anyone get cock-blocked by a four and a half foot tall Incan Shaman at five a.m. It was so incredible, I had to name it "The Shamaning." Rand glared down at the little man as he stepped between him and the ladies, shooed them onto the bus and put us on the next bus. Too shocked by what had just occured, we all burst into laughter and the thoughts of killing our Rent-a-Shaman slowed faded from Rand's face. Juan de Dios Garcia Garcia didn't laugh. Shamans don't laugh, they shaman.
Once on top of the mountain, looking through the clouds to the ancient ruins and waiting for the sun to rise, our J.d.D.G.G. took us to a special spot, a giant rock once used as an alter and holy place. The ancient Inca and pre-Inca civilizations then and now believe and worship the natural world around us. They built temples to the sun and moon, stars, thunder, and the rainbow. They celebrate the Pacha Mama, or Mother Earth, as well as Taita Inti, Father Sun. Their life energy flows from the mountains, from the springs, from the wind, and they praise the equality in all things. We sat with our Shaman to talk of these things, to have a ceremony for the strength, beauty and balance of Nature. He spoke to us of his ancestors, about stating intention for ourselves there on the mountain, and pushing that intention out into the world. We made an offering to the Pacha Mama, adding quinoa and corn from the earth, coca leaves for medicine, our intentions, different colored carnation petals for power, energy and knowledge. He put in llama fat for the animals, fabrics for people and industry, and little bits of candy because, as our Shaman says with a secretive smile, "Pacha Mama, she likes candy." After the ceremony was over, hardly and eye was dry in the group, and we finished by being told we had to hug each person in the group individually, which I think made some of the men nervous and some of the women cry harder.
Unfortunately you can't light fires at Machu Picchu, it being sacred and all, so we folded up our offering for the Shaman to take home on the mountain and finish his Shamaning by offering it to the Sacred Fire. Sceptics will scoff and say he went back to his city apartment and threw it in the trash, but not our Shaman. Our Shaman is Incan and pre-Incan, he is past, present and future, and he is with me now as I write. He is the Pacha Mama, the Taita Inti, the stars and the rainbow, the corn and the coca leaves. But then so are you. So am I.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Pisco Sour Llama Hunt
How to make a Pisco Sour:
Ingredients:
-Pisco, a Peruvian grape liquor
-sugar
-fresh lime juice
-a raw egg white
Put everything into a blender and press the button.
In any other country in the world, adding raw egg whites to your cocktails would get you closed down, but here in Peru, it just seems to make sense. Especially when you're 11,200 feet above sea level and your head has been spinning for the last few days and you're contemplating buying a baby llama.
The last month has been a bit of a wild blur. Pete had been in a cast the month before with a fractured toe, put on him by the free, public hospital staff in Quito, but was having severe ankle pains. Finally it got so bad we just cut the cast off ourselves to find his ankle severly deformed and swollen. We hobbled over to the closest, most expensive, private hospital we could find where they took some more X-rays and found two other fractures in the ankle that the first hospital had missed. They called a Traumatologist from a specialist clinic to come take a look, and he declared that Pete needed surgery. It would cost five thousand dollars. I almost passed out.
Needless to say, we did not have five thousand dollars. Luckily Pete is from England, where the surgery would be free, so after a long talk we called his parents and told them he was coming home for an extended visit. He flew home a week later. Once again flying solo, I had decided to get back on the road. Although we have plans to make Quito our next home, it felt big and empty without him. I finished up work and headed to the beach for an overdose of sun I had been missing whilst living in the mountains. I spent a week in Canoa and Montanita, both on the Ecuador coastline, and then hopped over the border into Peru and down to Huanchaco to meet up with my good friend Riccardo. By "hopped" I mean it was a twenty-three hour journey on four buses, where I was bombarded with people selling everything from chocolates to Jesus to a ginseng extract that apparently cures AIDS, cancer, and malaria. So to all you suffering people in the world, there is a small Ecuatoriano man selling the cure on a bus between Guayaquil and Huaquillo.
After I arrived half dead on Riccardo's doorstep, wishing I had bought that ginseng, like any self-respecting Italian he took me down to the market for some fresh breakfast pizza. Apparently Little Italy has moved to Huanchaco, because in my few days there I met way more Italians than Peruanos. Yet my experience would have never been as wonderful without Luca and his home-made vegetarian breakfast pizzas. I would have stayed longer in that sweet, little surfer heaven but I had to book it down to Lima in time to meet my family.
Months ago I convinced my Dad and stepmom Jas to come climb Machu Picchu with me, and they showed up a few days ago with a big group of their friends on some whirlwind tour of Peru for two weeks. Travelling with parents is always fun because the quality of my food and the softness of my bed have increased dramatically, and the minute-by-minute itinerary is continuously amusing. While the rest of the group is out and about, my Dad and I have been enjoying some quality time running around Cuzco out of breath, chewing coca leaves for "altitude sickness", trying to find a baby llama for me and a roasted guinea pig for him. I do not intend on eating my llama as my father intends to eat his gerbil. In a few days we'll head down to the Sacred Valley and then up to the top of the mountain.
I'll keep you posted on the Pisco Sour Llama Hunt 2012.
Ingredients:
-Pisco, a Peruvian grape liquor
-sugar
-fresh lime juice
-a raw egg white
Put everything into a blender and press the button.
In any other country in the world, adding raw egg whites to your cocktails would get you closed down, but here in Peru, it just seems to make sense. Especially when you're 11,200 feet above sea level and your head has been spinning for the last few days and you're contemplating buying a baby llama.
The last month has been a bit of a wild blur. Pete had been in a cast the month before with a fractured toe, put on him by the free, public hospital staff in Quito, but was having severe ankle pains. Finally it got so bad we just cut the cast off ourselves to find his ankle severly deformed and swollen. We hobbled over to the closest, most expensive, private hospital we could find where they took some more X-rays and found two other fractures in the ankle that the first hospital had missed. They called a Traumatologist from a specialist clinic to come take a look, and he declared that Pete needed surgery. It would cost five thousand dollars. I almost passed out.
Needless to say, we did not have five thousand dollars. Luckily Pete is from England, where the surgery would be free, so after a long talk we called his parents and told them he was coming home for an extended visit. He flew home a week later. Once again flying solo, I had decided to get back on the road. Although we have plans to make Quito our next home, it felt big and empty without him. I finished up work and headed to the beach for an overdose of sun I had been missing whilst living in the mountains. I spent a week in Canoa and Montanita, both on the Ecuador coastline, and then hopped over the border into Peru and down to Huanchaco to meet up with my good friend Riccardo. By "hopped" I mean it was a twenty-three hour journey on four buses, where I was bombarded with people selling everything from chocolates to Jesus to a ginseng extract that apparently cures AIDS, cancer, and malaria. So to all you suffering people in the world, there is a small Ecuatoriano man selling the cure on a bus between Guayaquil and Huaquillo.
After I arrived half dead on Riccardo's doorstep, wishing I had bought that ginseng, like any self-respecting Italian he took me down to the market for some fresh breakfast pizza. Apparently Little Italy has moved to Huanchaco, because in my few days there I met way more Italians than Peruanos. Yet my experience would have never been as wonderful without Luca and his home-made vegetarian breakfast pizzas. I would have stayed longer in that sweet, little surfer heaven but I had to book it down to Lima in time to meet my family.
Months ago I convinced my Dad and stepmom Jas to come climb Machu Picchu with me, and they showed up a few days ago with a big group of their friends on some whirlwind tour of Peru for two weeks. Travelling with parents is always fun because the quality of my food and the softness of my bed have increased dramatically, and the minute-by-minute itinerary is continuously amusing. While the rest of the group is out and about, my Dad and I have been enjoying some quality time running around Cuzco out of breath, chewing coca leaves for "altitude sickness", trying to find a baby llama for me and a roasted guinea pig for him. I do not intend on eating my llama as my father intends to eat his gerbil. In a few days we'll head down to the Sacred Valley and then up to the top of the mountain.
I'll keep you posted on the Pisco Sour Llama Hunt 2012.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
How Many Ecuadorians Does It Take To Turn On A Light?
Yesterday we checked into a grotty little hostel in Quito, Ecuador. A few hours before sunset I look up and realize that I have no light switch. I have the plate that guards all the wires and screws, but no physical switch. Just a hole. I walk down stairs and talk to the two managers, Jose and Carlos. Jose is in his sixties, about four feet tall, constantly smiling, and once told me that he was the King of the Americas: North, Central and South. Carlos is much younger, much taller, and everyday he wears a suit jacket, slacks, and rainbow flip flops.
How To Change A Light In Ecuador
Step 1: Put your finger in the open hole to make sure there's no running electric current, and to see if there's a way to get it to work without having to fix it.
Step 2: Swear colorfully as you chip off the paint from the screws that have been there twenty-odd years.
Step 3: Once the plate comes off put some electric tape around the loose wires.
Step 4: Once you realize that you need those wires for the new plate, take off the tape and shock yourself. Then push the wires into their respective holes.
Step 5: At this point you will realize that you have bought the wrong plate, and that there is no way to connect it to the wall. Take a screw, hold it with a pair of scissors, and burn the end using a lighter. Once hot, try to burn a hole through the thick plastic plate. Try again. And again.
Step 6: Once you have failed, pick up your electric tape, tape the switch to the wall, and walk away. Done! You have successfully changed a lightswitch in Ecuador!
I'd be lying if I said Ecuador wasn't a weird country, but maybe that's why we like it so much here. It's way more tranquillo than Colombia, much cheaper, and clean. For those of you who have never been to Latin America before, you might not understand how amazing CLEAN can be. The large majority of Cetral and South America is covered with trash, every road littered to the extent that it makes you sick. Common practice is to throw your trash out the window of the bus when you are finished with it. Mostly this is due to education, or lack thereof, on the subject. Sadly, most people just don't know that throwing your trash on the ground is bad for the environment, pollutes the city, and makes it a worse place to live. I'm not saying that burying it under the ground is a viable solution, but at least we're not walking around in our own filth. Ecuador, by comparisson to its neighbors, is spotless.
Quito, which has a bad reputation outside of Ecuador, is a beautiful capital city of 2.2 million people. There are massive, clean, well-kept public parks all over the city, a great transportation system, a stunning Centro Historico with sprawling plazas and elegant cathedrals. In 2011, Quito was voted Cultural Capital of the Americas. The city center also boasts twenty-seven churches, monasteries and convents, twenty-three plazas and monuments, thirty-four museums, ten cultural centers, and seven theaters. Surrounded by mountains, it's about 9,000 feet above sea level, and for the first few days you will feel constantly out of breath. Sweet little indiginous ladies walk around in delicately embroidered skirts, white blouses, a colorful shall, and for some reason, a fedora. Children laugh and run after pidgeons.
Oh, and when you ask for a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) you'll get a steaming hot cup of milk and a perfume vial of espresso for you to pour in at your leisure.
How To Change A Light In Ecuador
Step 1: Put your finger in the open hole to make sure there's no running electric current, and to see if there's a way to get it to work without having to fix it.
Step 2: Swear colorfully as you chip off the paint from the screws that have been there twenty-odd years.
Step 3: Once the plate comes off put some electric tape around the loose wires.
Step 4: Once you realize that you need those wires for the new plate, take off the tape and shock yourself. Then push the wires into their respective holes.
Step 5: At this point you will realize that you have bought the wrong plate, and that there is no way to connect it to the wall. Take a screw, hold it with a pair of scissors, and burn the end using a lighter. Once hot, try to burn a hole through the thick plastic plate. Try again. And again.
Step 6: Once you have failed, pick up your electric tape, tape the switch to the wall, and walk away. Done! You have successfully changed a lightswitch in Ecuador!
I'd be lying if I said Ecuador wasn't a weird country, but maybe that's why we like it so much here. It's way more tranquillo than Colombia, much cheaper, and clean. For those of you who have never been to Latin America before, you might not understand how amazing CLEAN can be. The large majority of Cetral and South America is covered with trash, every road littered to the extent that it makes you sick. Common practice is to throw your trash out the window of the bus when you are finished with it. Mostly this is due to education, or lack thereof, on the subject. Sadly, most people just don't know that throwing your trash on the ground is bad for the environment, pollutes the city, and makes it a worse place to live. I'm not saying that burying it under the ground is a viable solution, but at least we're not walking around in our own filth. Ecuador, by comparisson to its neighbors, is spotless.
Quito, which has a bad reputation outside of Ecuador, is a beautiful capital city of 2.2 million people. There are massive, clean, well-kept public parks all over the city, a great transportation system, a stunning Centro Historico with sprawling plazas and elegant cathedrals. In 2011, Quito was voted Cultural Capital of the Americas. The city center also boasts twenty-seven churches, monasteries and convents, twenty-three plazas and monuments, thirty-four museums, ten cultural centers, and seven theaters. Surrounded by mountains, it's about 9,000 feet above sea level, and for the first few days you will feel constantly out of breath. Sweet little indiginous ladies walk around in delicately embroidered skirts, white blouses, a colorful shall, and for some reason, a fedora. Children laugh and run after pidgeons.
Oh, and when you ask for a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) you'll get a steaming hot cup of milk and a perfume vial of espresso for you to pour in at your leisure.
Monday, February 13, 2012
I Have A Dream
I'm currently reading a book entitled "Pronoia is the Antidote for Paranoia: How the Whole World is Conspiring to Shower You with Blessings." The author, Rob Brezsny, calls for me to read Martin Luthor King's "I have a Dream" speech and then write my own. Although nowhere near as eloquent, I will try to harness Dr. King's passion and fervor to state my own dreams for this world. Also, I fully encourage you to write your own and send it back to me.
If you would like to first read the original, click here: http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkihaveadream.htm
I'll also include an excerpt from "Pronoia":
"I have a dream that we will take everything we need and give everything we have. We'll be both selfish altruists and generous braggarts, libertarian socialists and capitalist humanitarians. That'll be the law in the New Earth-different from the Old Earth, where you can blindly serve your own interests or devote yourself to the needs of others, but not both."
I Have A Dream
We all have dreams for our world. Some I see in the bright, optimistic future and others are so close I can smell them. Some dreams can even be a reality today, in this great year of Two-thousand and twelve, if we are willing to fight for them.
I have a dream that all children of all countries will be able to read and write, with an opportunity for further education and a degree from a University, if they so choose.
I have a dream that World Leaders will rise up past the bureaucracy and start living up to their promises and their people's expectations. That they will find the poorest person in their country and walk a day in their shoes. They will no longer be able to accept money from large corporations with greedy agendas. They will no longer stand by while their government takes money from its people, while their banks print money illegally and separate families from their homes. They will know the difference between capitalism and totalitarianism, socialism and communism, democracy and tyranny.
I have a dream that all borders will disappear and people will be able to see the world, provide for their families and not feel the chains of an invisible line in the sand. I dream that the United States will make all illegal aliens rightful citizens who have been living there over three years, which enables them to pay taxes, contribute to their community and send their children to school. Free language schools will enable our new, hard-working, tax-paying citizens to integrate into society and better themselves.
I have a dream that siesta time will spread to all countries, and from 12:00-2:00pm the world shall know peace by the sound of silence (in their different time zones, of course.) In the future it will be illegal to work over five days a week and mandatory vacation time will be instated for employees by their employers.
I have a dream that coffee planters, sweatshop workers and rice paddy farmers will someday be paid fairly for their hard, back-breaking labor. This can be done today if we stand up as one and refuse to buy cheap, ill-gotten/stolen food, garments, diamonds, etc. Look into Fair Trade and find out which companies are playing by the rules and decide for yourself who you would support. (www.fairtrade.net)
I have a dream that people will realize that all religions are basically the same and stop killing their neighbors over a disagreement of interpretation. The Pope will no longer be asked for political advice that he knows nothing of, and will also receive a tax audit. If he complains, he will be held accountable for thousands of deaths. I also dream that people will stop worshiping materialism and return to the natural splendor Mother Nature graces us with every day.
I have a dream that Burning Man will become a year-long festival that all people can afford and enjoy. I dream that someday the word "hippie" will be synonymous with positive strength, blissful magnetism and energetic integrity. Men in suits will no longer be afraid to frolic in fields of posies without being judged, and individuals will be cherished for exactly what they are: Individual.
I have a dream to introduce teaching morality in schools. Children receive no direction in this if they are not taught at home, which is all too often the case. I dream that parents will start taking an interest in their children's education, because they are the future and the future starts now. Art, poetry, music and singing will be taught equally with math, science, grammar and history, not just as an elective. Sex education will be re-instated in the South, instead of teaching abstinence, which they currently do in Texas. All those in favor of teaching abstinence in public schools will receive a chastity belt for their "services" to humanity.
I have a dream that it will be illegal for the government to continue to control the media; what we call the "Free Press." The First Amendment seems to have disappeared in this Land of the Free, and I would call that the journalists recently jailed for publishing the truth be released. Fox News will have to close its doors with these new laws, and the watered-down tripe the American public receives will be rejuvenated with Actual World Events. In addition, good news will be reported in equal measure with the bad.
I have a dream in zero tolerance of racism, sexism, rape, bigotry, police brutality, and accordions. People are people, we are all made of the same atoms, blood cells and water, no matter our sex, skin color, or who we love. Same sex marriages will be legal, and all opposed will also wear chastity belts for their stupidity and close-mindedness. Police brutality and those charged with assault will be punished by forced encampment at a Rainbow Gathering until they've calmed down. Same goes for accordion players.
I have a dream that all McDonalds will have to close on the grounds that they are directly responsible for world obesity, ruining hundreds of thousands of small businesses, and the selling of chemicals labeled "food." I dream that people will start paying attention to what they put inside their bodies, instead of chemicals that look like food, taste like food and smell like food but in fact, are not food. While I'm on the subject, cigarettes will also be illegal once the companies are no longer allowed to pay off the government and the FDA, on the basis of willingly addicting and killing millions without flinching. Marijuana will of course be legalized as a medical substitute to overpriced drugs that only the rich can now afford.
I have a dream that people will take themselves less seriously, live their lives to the fullest, and love openly. I wait for a future filled with silliness and adventure, remembering that we have but one life to live and that this is no dress rehearsal. I invite you to laugh at yourself before anyone else can, wear funny hats, kiss your children and hug your neighbors. This is my dream for a better tomorrow.
"Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back." - Dr. Martin Luthor King
If you would like to first read the original, click here: http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkihaveadream.htm
I'll also include an excerpt from "Pronoia":
"I have a dream that we will take everything we need and give everything we have. We'll be both selfish altruists and generous braggarts, libertarian socialists and capitalist humanitarians. That'll be the law in the New Earth-different from the Old Earth, where you can blindly serve your own interests or devote yourself to the needs of others, but not both."
I Have A Dream
We all have dreams for our world. Some I see in the bright, optimistic future and others are so close I can smell them. Some dreams can even be a reality today, in this great year of Two-thousand and twelve, if we are willing to fight for them.
I have a dream that all children of all countries will be able to read and write, with an opportunity for further education and a degree from a University, if they so choose.
I have a dream that World Leaders will rise up past the bureaucracy and start living up to their promises and their people's expectations. That they will find the poorest person in their country and walk a day in their shoes. They will no longer be able to accept money from large corporations with greedy agendas. They will no longer stand by while their government takes money from its people, while their banks print money illegally and separate families from their homes. They will know the difference between capitalism and totalitarianism, socialism and communism, democracy and tyranny.
I have a dream that all borders will disappear and people will be able to see the world, provide for their families and not feel the chains of an invisible line in the sand. I dream that the United States will make all illegal aliens rightful citizens who have been living there over three years, which enables them to pay taxes, contribute to their community and send their children to school. Free language schools will enable our new, hard-working, tax-paying citizens to integrate into society and better themselves.
I have a dream that siesta time will spread to all countries, and from 12:00-2:00pm the world shall know peace by the sound of silence (in their different time zones, of course.) In the future it will be illegal to work over five days a week and mandatory vacation time will be instated for employees by their employers.
I have a dream that coffee planters, sweatshop workers and rice paddy farmers will someday be paid fairly for their hard, back-breaking labor. This can be done today if we stand up as one and refuse to buy cheap, ill-gotten/stolen food, garments, diamonds, etc. Look into Fair Trade and find out which companies are playing by the rules and decide for yourself who you would support. (www.fairtrade.net)
I have a dream that people will realize that all religions are basically the same and stop killing their neighbors over a disagreement of interpretation. The Pope will no longer be asked for political advice that he knows nothing of, and will also receive a tax audit. If he complains, he will be held accountable for thousands of deaths. I also dream that people will stop worshiping materialism and return to the natural splendor Mother Nature graces us with every day.
I have a dream that Burning Man will become a year-long festival that all people can afford and enjoy. I dream that someday the word "hippie" will be synonymous with positive strength, blissful magnetism and energetic integrity. Men in suits will no longer be afraid to frolic in fields of posies without being judged, and individuals will be cherished for exactly what they are: Individual.
I have a dream to introduce teaching morality in schools. Children receive no direction in this if they are not taught at home, which is all too often the case. I dream that parents will start taking an interest in their children's education, because they are the future and the future starts now. Art, poetry, music and singing will be taught equally with math, science, grammar and history, not just as an elective. Sex education will be re-instated in the South, instead of teaching abstinence, which they currently do in Texas. All those in favor of teaching abstinence in public schools will receive a chastity belt for their "services" to humanity.
I have a dream that it will be illegal for the government to continue to control the media; what we call the "Free Press." The First Amendment seems to have disappeared in this Land of the Free, and I would call that the journalists recently jailed for publishing the truth be released. Fox News will have to close its doors with these new laws, and the watered-down tripe the American public receives will be rejuvenated with Actual World Events. In addition, good news will be reported in equal measure with the bad.
I have a dream in zero tolerance of racism, sexism, rape, bigotry, police brutality, and accordions. People are people, we are all made of the same atoms, blood cells and water, no matter our sex, skin color, or who we love. Same sex marriages will be legal, and all opposed will also wear chastity belts for their stupidity and close-mindedness. Police brutality and those charged with assault will be punished by forced encampment at a Rainbow Gathering until they've calmed down. Same goes for accordion players.
I have a dream that all McDonalds will have to close on the grounds that they are directly responsible for world obesity, ruining hundreds of thousands of small businesses, and the selling of chemicals labeled "food." I dream that people will start paying attention to what they put inside their bodies, instead of chemicals that look like food, taste like food and smell like food but in fact, are not food. While I'm on the subject, cigarettes will also be illegal once the companies are no longer allowed to pay off the government and the FDA, on the basis of willingly addicting and killing millions without flinching. Marijuana will of course be legalized as a medical substitute to overpriced drugs that only the rich can now afford.
I have a dream that people will take themselves less seriously, live their lives to the fullest, and love openly. I wait for a future filled with silliness and adventure, remembering that we have but one life to live and that this is no dress rehearsal. I invite you to laugh at yourself before anyone else can, wear funny hats, kiss your children and hug your neighbors. This is my dream for a better tomorrow.
"Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back." - Dr. Martin Luthor King
Monday, February 6, 2012
Soup For Breakfast
The man stared at me like I was insane.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, smiling.
"Really??" he asked again, shocked.
"It's true," I said. "In America we don't eat soup for breakfast."
The rest of the conversation consisted of me explaining what Americans might eat for breakfast. As I listed off different options like eggs, toast, assorted meat products, cereal, fruit, coffee, he stood there listening and shaking his head. At the end of my little speech he decidedly told me that what I wanted to order wasn't good and that he would bring out a better breakfast. My multiple attempts to explain that I was a vegetarian fell on deaf ears as he had never heard of one before. Pete's addition to all of this was to laugh quietly and drink his cup of warm cinnamon tea. What came after was a simple Colombian breakfast of two bowls of soup, one potato and one an unidentifiable meat soup, a giant platter of rice, beans, avocado, plantains, yuca, bread, and the biggest slab of meat I have seen in a long time. So we sat at a cafe in Yopal, Colombia and had soup for breakfast.
Colombia has been a wonderful surprise in so many ways, even though we're back in that world I know so well with undrinkable tap water, cold showers and no flushing the toilet paper. Yet everywhere we go I feel safe and secure. The people are some of the friendliest in the world, if not some of the strangest. I feel that about 95% of what I knew about Colombia before getting here was completely wrong so here are some things you might not know about this great country:
1. Colombia is the fastest growing economy in South America. The reason it is still a bit untapped is mainly due to the old Pablo Escobar stigma, but if you're looking for a great trip at a reasonable price, hurry and get here before they build a Disney World.
2. Everything is sold in bags. Water, Coca Cola, milk, coconut milk, ketchup, mayonnaise, pasta sauce, and of course soup. I have been searching for beer in a bag, but so far my efforts are in vain. Aguardiente, the local hard liquor, is sold in juice boxes. Coffee is served in shot glasses. Obviously.
3. I am convinced that you must be beyond medical help in order to drive buses in Colombia. I have taken a fair few scary rides around this world, but Colombia might take the cake as they all seem to be in a hurry. There's nothing quite like overtaking a giant truck labeled PELIGRO in big, red letters with a skull under it whilst on a blind corner of a narrow mountain path in a thick fog when it's raining that gives your heart a chance to remind you that it's still there.
4. Although the climate is perfect for growing chili peppers, the food is quite mellow and filling instead of spicy. Tamal, similar to the Mexican tamales, is a staple food wrapped in a banana leaf and usually consists of meat, corn, potato or yuca. As per usual, I carry a small bottle of hot sauce in my purse to bring up the temperature whenever we eat out.
5. Only drug dealers speak English. Now I have only found this in Cartagena, the tourism capital of Colombia, and it's really annoying. Unfortunately, it's true. In three weeks I have only met a handful of Colombians that spoke English, but as soon as we arrived in Cartagena we were followed constantly by young boys who could probably be putting their education to a better use, especially at 9 a.m.
6. I'll never go back to box juice ever again. Ever. It's not juice. It's fresh squeezed or nothing from now on. You can buy a massive cup of juice squeezed right in front of you for about a dollar. Pete and I try to get a big glass every day.
7. The police are awesome. Even ten hours off the tourist track in tiny little towns there are two police officers on every corner. It's comfortable, it's helpful and it's bringing Colombia up and up. It's a nice, friendly presence not designed as a fear tactic but as a safety net. Never would I walk up to a police officer in America willingly. Or England. Or Europe for that matter. That guilty feeling comes up, like you're doing something wrong even though you're not. Here I walk up to them all the time, ask directions and even have conversations about life. They are really welcoming and I think this is what has really turned Colombia around in the last fifteen years. May I also state that there is a clear difference between fear and respect, and I feel that those lines have become blurry in the western world, and help no one.
Currently we're in Medellin, the second biggest city in Colombia, and the home of the most expensive metro line ever built. This is probably due to siesta time. Today Pete is at the skate park with his BMX that we travel with and practicing his Spanish. I'm sitting in the shade listening to a girl sing and play her guitar, but soon I'll be off the see the history museum. We'll hold the fort down until you can get here, wherever here may be.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, smiling.
"Really??" he asked again, shocked.
"It's true," I said. "In America we don't eat soup for breakfast."
The rest of the conversation consisted of me explaining what Americans might eat for breakfast. As I listed off different options like eggs, toast, assorted meat products, cereal, fruit, coffee, he stood there listening and shaking his head. At the end of my little speech he decidedly told me that what I wanted to order wasn't good and that he would bring out a better breakfast. My multiple attempts to explain that I was a vegetarian fell on deaf ears as he had never heard of one before. Pete's addition to all of this was to laugh quietly and drink his cup of warm cinnamon tea. What came after was a simple Colombian breakfast of two bowls of soup, one potato and one an unidentifiable meat soup, a giant platter of rice, beans, avocado, plantains, yuca, bread, and the biggest slab of meat I have seen in a long time. So we sat at a cafe in Yopal, Colombia and had soup for breakfast.
Colombia has been a wonderful surprise in so many ways, even though we're back in that world I know so well with undrinkable tap water, cold showers and no flushing the toilet paper. Yet everywhere we go I feel safe and secure. The people are some of the friendliest in the world, if not some of the strangest. I feel that about 95% of what I knew about Colombia before getting here was completely wrong so here are some things you might not know about this great country:
1. Colombia is the fastest growing economy in South America. The reason it is still a bit untapped is mainly due to the old Pablo Escobar stigma, but if you're looking for a great trip at a reasonable price, hurry and get here before they build a Disney World.
2. Everything is sold in bags. Water, Coca Cola, milk, coconut milk, ketchup, mayonnaise, pasta sauce, and of course soup. I have been searching for beer in a bag, but so far my efforts are in vain. Aguardiente, the local hard liquor, is sold in juice boxes. Coffee is served in shot glasses. Obviously.
3. I am convinced that you must be beyond medical help in order to drive buses in Colombia. I have taken a fair few scary rides around this world, but Colombia might take the cake as they all seem to be in a hurry. There's nothing quite like overtaking a giant truck labeled PELIGRO in big, red letters with a skull under it whilst on a blind corner of a narrow mountain path in a thick fog when it's raining that gives your heart a chance to remind you that it's still there.
4. Although the climate is perfect for growing chili peppers, the food is quite mellow and filling instead of spicy. Tamal, similar to the Mexican tamales, is a staple food wrapped in a banana leaf and usually consists of meat, corn, potato or yuca. As per usual, I carry a small bottle of hot sauce in my purse to bring up the temperature whenever we eat out.
5. Only drug dealers speak English. Now I have only found this in Cartagena, the tourism capital of Colombia, and it's really annoying. Unfortunately, it's true. In three weeks I have only met a handful of Colombians that spoke English, but as soon as we arrived in Cartagena we were followed constantly by young boys who could probably be putting their education to a better use, especially at 9 a.m.
6. I'll never go back to box juice ever again. Ever. It's not juice. It's fresh squeezed or nothing from now on. You can buy a massive cup of juice squeezed right in front of you for about a dollar. Pete and I try to get a big glass every day.
7. The police are awesome. Even ten hours off the tourist track in tiny little towns there are two police officers on every corner. It's comfortable, it's helpful and it's bringing Colombia up and up. It's a nice, friendly presence not designed as a fear tactic but as a safety net. Never would I walk up to a police officer in America willingly. Or England. Or Europe for that matter. That guilty feeling comes up, like you're doing something wrong even though you're not. Here I walk up to them all the time, ask directions and even have conversations about life. They are really welcoming and I think this is what has really turned Colombia around in the last fifteen years. May I also state that there is a clear difference between fear and respect, and I feel that those lines have become blurry in the western world, and help no one.
Currently we're in Medellin, the second biggest city in Colombia, and the home of the most expensive metro line ever built. This is probably due to siesta time. Today Pete is at the skate park with his BMX that we travel with and practicing his Spanish. I'm sitting in the shade listening to a girl sing and play her guitar, but soon I'll be off the see the history museum. We'll hold the fort down until you can get here, wherever here may be.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Sun is Shining
It's been a long time, yet here we are again. I wish I could have been writing to you over these last few months, but the truth of the matter is that some stories are better left unwritten on the World Wide Web. I'll just leave it at that.
The last month Pete and I spent our holidays in a small town called Clevedon, outside of Bristol, with his family. Although it was cold out, his family was warm and welcoming and we had ourselves a wonderful traditional English Christmas. I had a great time meeting all of his friends and I learned the lesson of all lessons: Stay away from rough cider or it will destroy you. The last few days I went to London to spend time with my lovely friend Amy from New Zealand, Shaun of my "Toy Story" days and I went to see Everton lose with Alex. Again.
As most of you know, I'm not one to stay still or stay cold, so after a few plane rides we found ourselves in Bogota, Colombia! For all of those who have never been to Colombia, yet instantly have a negative opinion of it, I can assure you that you are very, very mistaken. I myself was very, very mistaken. Thoughts of kidnapping, theft and cocaine dealers on every corner floated in my mind, but my biggest mistake was listening to people who didn't know say, "Oh don't go there, it's dangerous." Nonsense. I've never felt better.
Bogota is a great city. Yes it's a little rough around the edges but that's just part of the charm. People are friendly and the food is delicious. In the last few years Bogota has really stepped up it's game to make the city safe again, for residents and tourists. There are, quite literally, two police officers on every single corner of the city center. The streets are clean, the city is prosperous, half of the walls are covered in art, people smile at strangers as they walk and there is a sense of tradition, respect and culture. . We took the gondola up Monserratte, Bogota's holy mountain, and had a good look at the city. With a population over eight million, no wonder it's enormous.
Three days into our tour and the warm sun of South America is already shining in my heart. Since Pete and I have no desire to plan anything I'm excited to see where life takes us. In a day or two we'll head north towards Santa Marta, but as it's a twenty-four hour bus ride we've decided to break it up into a few days and stop where we feel like it. Until then, safe travels wherever you are. I'll keep you posted.
The last month Pete and I spent our holidays in a small town called Clevedon, outside of Bristol, with his family. Although it was cold out, his family was warm and welcoming and we had ourselves a wonderful traditional English Christmas. I had a great time meeting all of his friends and I learned the lesson of all lessons: Stay away from rough cider or it will destroy you. The last few days I went to London to spend time with my lovely friend Amy from New Zealand, Shaun of my "Toy Story" days and I went to see Everton lose with Alex. Again.
As most of you know, I'm not one to stay still or stay cold, so after a few plane rides we found ourselves in Bogota, Colombia! For all of those who have never been to Colombia, yet instantly have a negative opinion of it, I can assure you that you are very, very mistaken. I myself was very, very mistaken. Thoughts of kidnapping, theft and cocaine dealers on every corner floated in my mind, but my biggest mistake was listening to people who didn't know say, "Oh don't go there, it's dangerous." Nonsense. I've never felt better.
Bogota is a great city. Yes it's a little rough around the edges but that's just part of the charm. People are friendly and the food is delicious. In the last few years Bogota has really stepped up it's game to make the city safe again, for residents and tourists. There are, quite literally, two police officers on every single corner of the city center. The streets are clean, the city is prosperous, half of the walls are covered in art, people smile at strangers as they walk and there is a sense of tradition, respect and culture. . We took the gondola up Monserratte, Bogota's holy mountain, and had a good look at the city. With a population over eight million, no wonder it's enormous.
Three days into our tour and the warm sun of South America is already shining in my heart. Since Pete and I have no desire to plan anything I'm excited to see where life takes us. In a day or two we'll head north towards Santa Marta, but as it's a twenty-four hour bus ride we've decided to break it up into a few days and stop where we feel like it. Until then, safe travels wherever you are. I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Woman vs. Nature
"Rachel, you are not allowed to go anywhere with a volcano, or it will undoubtedly erupt."
-My father, on my luck with natural disasters.
I severely dislike hurricanes. This has got to stop. For a person who is never prepared for anything, natural disasters really screw with me. As always, I'm just thankful I have good friends who know what their doing.
Hurricane Irene wasn't nearly as bad as the earthquake in Christchurch but it was still miserable. We had our first hurricane scare a few weeks ago that turned out to be a light drizzle, but I was fully ready for it. Early on, Irene was only classed as a tropical storm so we were only half ready. By half ready I mean I bought a gallon of water, a pink Cinderella flashlight, bottle of champagne and foodstuffs necessary to make nachos. My new television show, Woman vs. Nature, will be coming out soon.
My friend/boss Val offered me and a few other friends a place to crash for a day or two, and seeing as how I had to get off the boat I went to her place in Luquillo. By the time the storm was over us it has turned into a full-blown, Class-3 hurricane. It poured nonstop for 2 solid days with winds blowing up to 75 miles per hour. I now understand why every house in Puerto Rico is made out of concrete. I also understand why all the water, canned food, candles and batteries were gone from the store. Really the hardest bit was waiting in an airless, concrete house with no running water or electricity and getting soaked when trying to open a door or window for some air for two days.
When we able to venture outside we found a 30 square foot piece of roof that wasn't ours in the backyard and what looked like a palm tree explosion in the front. From my other boss Juan we heard that he woke up to someone's TV satellite on top of his mini van, and our friend Aminda's windshield was smashed in by a tree. My car Maverick: The Beast was miraculously untouched and even started, although drenched with water. The boat, when were able to and check on her, is another story.
I have to say in all honesty that it has never really occured to me that there might be things in this world I couldn't do. If I learned and I tried hard I could achieve anything, and I've never questioned that until yesterday. Yet taking care of a sailboat during hurricane season in the Caribbean might be too much for me. I understand the fundamentals of sailing a boat, but the mechanics and electrics are way over my head. Not to mention the physical strength needed to tie lines and move the boat. For someone who is not used to asking for help, it's been really hard. When the boat to my port side snapped it's lines and rammed my boat repeatedly during the storm, I wasn't there. There was not much I could have done anyway but it's left me feeling helpless. Helpless like when my van Crazy Carl kept dying in New Zealand and there was nothing I could do. So I guess I'll take a deep breath and leave this to the professionals and insurance companies and take it day by day.
What the hurricane and earthquake ultimately taught me was that life doesn't care about your plans. You can be as prepared as possible, plan every detail down to the last minute, and an earthquake will still fuck up your day. Plan your day, plan your career, plan your future and life will go and do what it pleases anyway. Maybe it teaches us that life can end at any moment, and that is natural, so enjoy the sunshine. Maybe it teaches us that change is a positive force. For me, it reaffirms what I already know: Live one day at a time, love with a full heart and smile at what life throws my way.
-My father, on my luck with natural disasters.
I severely dislike hurricanes. This has got to stop. For a person who is never prepared for anything, natural disasters really screw with me. As always, I'm just thankful I have good friends who know what their doing.
Hurricane Irene wasn't nearly as bad as the earthquake in Christchurch but it was still miserable. We had our first hurricane scare a few weeks ago that turned out to be a light drizzle, but I was fully ready for it. Early on, Irene was only classed as a tropical storm so we were only half ready. By half ready I mean I bought a gallon of water, a pink Cinderella flashlight, bottle of champagne and foodstuffs necessary to make nachos. My new television show, Woman vs. Nature, will be coming out soon.
My friend/boss Val offered me and a few other friends a place to crash for a day or two, and seeing as how I had to get off the boat I went to her place in Luquillo. By the time the storm was over us it has turned into a full-blown, Class-3 hurricane. It poured nonstop for 2 solid days with winds blowing up to 75 miles per hour. I now understand why every house in Puerto Rico is made out of concrete. I also understand why all the water, canned food, candles and batteries were gone from the store. Really the hardest bit was waiting in an airless, concrete house with no running water or electricity and getting soaked when trying to open a door or window for some air for two days.
When we able to venture outside we found a 30 square foot piece of roof that wasn't ours in the backyard and what looked like a palm tree explosion in the front. From my other boss Juan we heard that he woke up to someone's TV satellite on top of his mini van, and our friend Aminda's windshield was smashed in by a tree. My car Maverick: The Beast was miraculously untouched and even started, although drenched with water. The boat, when were able to and check on her, is another story.
I have to say in all honesty that it has never really occured to me that there might be things in this world I couldn't do. If I learned and I tried hard I could achieve anything, and I've never questioned that until yesterday. Yet taking care of a sailboat during hurricane season in the Caribbean might be too much for me. I understand the fundamentals of sailing a boat, but the mechanics and electrics are way over my head. Not to mention the physical strength needed to tie lines and move the boat. For someone who is not used to asking for help, it's been really hard. When the boat to my port side snapped it's lines and rammed my boat repeatedly during the storm, I wasn't there. There was not much I could have done anyway but it's left me feeling helpless. Helpless like when my van Crazy Carl kept dying in New Zealand and there was nothing I could do. So I guess I'll take a deep breath and leave this to the professionals and insurance companies and take it day by day.
What the hurricane and earthquake ultimately taught me was that life doesn't care about your plans. You can be as prepared as possible, plan every detail down to the last minute, and an earthquake will still fuck up your day. Plan your day, plan your career, plan your future and life will go and do what it pleases anyway. Maybe it teaches us that life can end at any moment, and that is natural, so enjoy the sunshine. Maybe it teaches us that change is a positive force. For me, it reaffirms what I already know: Live one day at a time, love with a full heart and smile at what life throws my way.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
It's a Fine Day
Thursday, August 11th was my 26th birthday. Thank you to everyone for the birthday wishes, it was really a great day spent with great friends. Every year my stepmom Jaz asks me what I had learned that year and I've been putting some real thought into what exactly I have been learning lately. Now lets face it, I'm just a spring chicken barely hatched and wandering around a bit lost, but I guess wandering is just my way. As long as I keep my eyes open, there's no telling what'll happen. So here it is:
Presenting:
"What Rachel Holan Has Learned From The World,"
or
"What Would Willie Do?"
or
"It's A Fine Day To Make A Mess Of Things."
1. Smile at whatever life throws you. Smile when you wake up, when the sun is out, when you feel a bit down, and when you meet old ladies. Smile at rude people, it will really piss them off. Anything is obtainable in this world with a smile. Smiling is contagious, spreads joy, has no race, color or religion and costs nothing.
2. Put down the clicker and read a book. Or listen to some good music that really touches your heart. I am convinced that it would greatly benefit humanity if everyone threw their television out the window and went outside to enjoy the day. If you would like a book suggestion, I just finished a great one. My brother gave me "The Tao of Willie," a little book by Willie Nelson talking about life and relating to the Tao Te Ching. We all have a lot to learn from the original Cowboy-Hippie who can jumpstart your heart with his smile and his song. If you don't know who Willie Nelson is, please, for the love of everything sacred, do yourself a favor and go look up "Nightlife" or "Still is Still Moving" or "Whatever Happened to Peace on Earth." And if anyone needs any other book suggestions, I can send you a list of a hundred or so to choose from that'll change your life in a very positive way.
3. I severely dislike earthquakes. It definitely feels like I've filled my quota on natural disasters this year, but seeing as how we're mistreating our planet, I can see how Mother Nature is a bit pissed off. At the same time, the Earth has been around for millions of years, whereas our small industrial revolution has only been going about 200 years. To quote the late, great George Carlin, "It's not the planet that's in trouble. It's the people who are fucked!" There has got to be a balance where humanity can responsibly co-exist with the rest of the planet before we get wiped out for our insolence. I intend to spend my remaining years figuring out that balance and living with what this planet has graciously given.
4. Speaking of humanity, we really need to pull ourselves together people. It's just all getting a bit ridiculous and sad. A few days ago I saw two kittens sitting in the sun next to the biggest iguana I have ever seen. I cannot think of two species more different, but if kittens and iguanas can get along then dammit!-we should be able to as well. It's high time to set aside petty differences like religion, color and sexuality or we are just not going to make it. To quote Willie Nelson, "I learned: If you forgive your enemies, it messes up their heads."
5. Love is definitely worth fighting for. This year on New Years Day I took a flight back to New Zealand to be with a man I truly love. I went back with almost nothing and risked a lot but it was worth every minute to be with him again and now we're planing our adventures all over the world. It took me 25 years to realize that dating a nice man who cares about me was a good idea. They should be teaching this in schools instead of abstinence.
6. Give back to your community, even if you're only there a short while. The day before my birthday a group of friends got together to clean up the beach in Luquillo. It amazed me what people we dumping on this stunning beach, and how much disrespect they had for their own neighborhood. We picked up everything you could imagine in a trashcan from beer bottles, plastic forks, styrafoam cups, and glass shards to a couch, a toilet seat and a heroin needle. The worst was the cigarette butts. Five cigarette butts to every other piece of trash on the beach. I truly believe that there is a special circle in Hell designated for flickers-of-cigarette-butts. Listen up butt-flickers! If you are truly ignorant of the harm you are causing, or if you simply do not care, maybe it is time to wake up. Please stop flicking your cigarette butts on the ground, we all share this world together.
7. Follow your bliss. Traveling is the only thing in life that ever made sense to me. It keeps me calm and grounded, wild and saucy, and makes me happy every day. I could not ask for a greater gift than the knowledge of how I'm supposed to live my life. There are people in my life who do not understand, who feel I should come off my cloud and back down to the "reality" they live in. To them I say thanks for your concern, but no thanks. I'm just fine where I am.
8. No worries, mon. "If a situation occurs in your life that worries or concerns you, stop and think! Is there anything I can do about it? If yes, then there's no need to worry. If no, then there's still no need to worry." -Dalai Lama. Enough said.
9. There is always a balance, a middle-ground. Exercise vs. Laziness. Vegetables vs. Ice Cream. Work vs. Play. Beer vs. Liquor, etc. Trying to find the balance in all aspects of life isn't easy but I'm doing what I can. I still haven't figured out that last one though.
10. Shake it up! Make a mess of things. Call your boss or an immigration official "Bro." Throw away all your shoes. Dance and sing in the street. Hug strangers. Smile at homeless people and ask them how their day is. Get your phD in Anthropology if you are so inclined. Whatever makes you happy. Happiness is, to me, the most important thing there is. Once you have it, share it with the world.
In my own way, that's what I'm trying to do here. With you.
Presenting:
"What Rachel Holan Has Learned From The World,"
or
"What Would Willie Do?"
or
"It's A Fine Day To Make A Mess Of Things."
1. Smile at whatever life throws you. Smile when you wake up, when the sun is out, when you feel a bit down, and when you meet old ladies. Smile at rude people, it will really piss them off. Anything is obtainable in this world with a smile. Smiling is contagious, spreads joy, has no race, color or religion and costs nothing.
2. Put down the clicker and read a book. Or listen to some good music that really touches your heart. I am convinced that it would greatly benefit humanity if everyone threw their television out the window and went outside to enjoy the day. If you would like a book suggestion, I just finished a great one. My brother gave me "The Tao of Willie," a little book by Willie Nelson talking about life and relating to the Tao Te Ching. We all have a lot to learn from the original Cowboy-Hippie who can jumpstart your heart with his smile and his song. If you don't know who Willie Nelson is, please, for the love of everything sacred, do yourself a favor and go look up "Nightlife" or "Still is Still Moving" or "Whatever Happened to Peace on Earth." And if anyone needs any other book suggestions, I can send you a list of a hundred or so to choose from that'll change your life in a very positive way.
3. I severely dislike earthquakes. It definitely feels like I've filled my quota on natural disasters this year, but seeing as how we're mistreating our planet, I can see how Mother Nature is a bit pissed off. At the same time, the Earth has been around for millions of years, whereas our small industrial revolution has only been going about 200 years. To quote the late, great George Carlin, "It's not the planet that's in trouble. It's the people who are fucked!" There has got to be a balance where humanity can responsibly co-exist with the rest of the planet before we get wiped out for our insolence. I intend to spend my remaining years figuring out that balance and living with what this planet has graciously given.
4. Speaking of humanity, we really need to pull ourselves together people. It's just all getting a bit ridiculous and sad. A few days ago I saw two kittens sitting in the sun next to the biggest iguana I have ever seen. I cannot think of two species more different, but if kittens and iguanas can get along then dammit!-we should be able to as well. It's high time to set aside petty differences like religion, color and sexuality or we are just not going to make it. To quote Willie Nelson, "I learned: If you forgive your enemies, it messes up their heads."
5. Love is definitely worth fighting for. This year on New Years Day I took a flight back to New Zealand to be with a man I truly love. I went back with almost nothing and risked a lot but it was worth every minute to be with him again and now we're planing our adventures all over the world. It took me 25 years to realize that dating a nice man who cares about me was a good idea. They should be teaching this in schools instead of abstinence.
6. Give back to your community, even if you're only there a short while. The day before my birthday a group of friends got together to clean up the beach in Luquillo. It amazed me what people we dumping on this stunning beach, and how much disrespect they had for their own neighborhood. We picked up everything you could imagine in a trashcan from beer bottles, plastic forks, styrafoam cups, and glass shards to a couch, a toilet seat and a heroin needle. The worst was the cigarette butts. Five cigarette butts to every other piece of trash on the beach. I truly believe that there is a special circle in Hell designated for flickers-of-cigarette-butts. Listen up butt-flickers! If you are truly ignorant of the harm you are causing, or if you simply do not care, maybe it is time to wake up. Please stop flicking your cigarette butts on the ground, we all share this world together.
7. Follow your bliss. Traveling is the only thing in life that ever made sense to me. It keeps me calm and grounded, wild and saucy, and makes me happy every day. I could not ask for a greater gift than the knowledge of how I'm supposed to live my life. There are people in my life who do not understand, who feel I should come off my cloud and back down to the "reality" they live in. To them I say thanks for your concern, but no thanks. I'm just fine where I am.
8. No worries, mon. "If a situation occurs in your life that worries or concerns you, stop and think! Is there anything I can do about it? If yes, then there's no need to worry. If no, then there's still no need to worry." -Dalai Lama. Enough said.
9. There is always a balance, a middle-ground. Exercise vs. Laziness. Vegetables vs. Ice Cream. Work vs. Play. Beer vs. Liquor, etc. Trying to find the balance in all aspects of life isn't easy but I'm doing what I can. I still haven't figured out that last one though.
10. Shake it up! Make a mess of things. Call your boss or an immigration official "Bro." Throw away all your shoes. Dance and sing in the street. Hug strangers. Smile at homeless people and ask them how their day is. Get your phD in Anthropology if you are so inclined. Whatever makes you happy. Happiness is, to me, the most important thing there is. Once you have it, share it with the world.
In my own way, that's what I'm trying to do here. With you.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wayward
When speaking of his children, my father refers to us as Samuelito and the Wayward Spawn. I am the Wayward Spawn.
Wayward have been my movements of late. After the earthquake rocked Christchurch Pete and I started re-evaluating our life's priorities, such as living in a town with a low death toll. My dad offered us his boat in Puerto Rico and we jumped at the chance, and for the last four months I have been floating happily in the Caribbean. Maybe I'm just lazy or maybe it's the heat, but I've been having a hard time trying to write and describe Puerto Rico in words. Perhaps it's because this country is just so Damn Loco.
"Oh Puerto Rico, land of the MayoKetchup," as my friend Chris likes to say, is a weird mix between Latino culture and American. Although they are technically a teritory of the United States, when put to a vote to be
A. A State
B. An independent nation
C. Neither/ I don't know
the resounding majority vote was for C. They love Burger King, Walmart and enormous shopping malls. It is very difficult to be a vegetarian here considering that their four food groups are meat, cheese, fried meat and fried cheese, all dipped in butter, fried, and then dipped in more butter. Many seem unaware that throwing trash on the street has a negative impact on their island and recycling is unheard of. The Spanish spoken here is a mutated Spanglish spoken so quickly that they often don't understand one another. "Puerto Rico," my friend Shella says, "where the women eat more than the men, and the men gossip more than the women."
All of that, though, is just a tiny piece of the greater puzzle. I love Puerto Rico. I have met some of the friendliest people here, always willing to help you out without hesitation. Puerto Ricans say hi equally to their neighbors and strangers, stuff you until you're way beyond full, smile, dance, laugh and love their families. They have immense pride in their island and rightfully so because it's just beautiful here. I have a great job working at a surfer bar called Board Riders, right across the street from a beautiful beach in Luquillo and at some point will probably try to learn how to surf.
"Puerto Ricans drive like they've run out of cigarettes," says my friend Dave. I absolutely adore Puertorican people until they get in their car, then it's like going into battle. Like most people who have at one time lived in Mexico, I consider people who stop at red lights to be good drivers. It's not as bad here but it's pretty horrible. Driving here should be considered an extreme sport as every lane is a turn lane, there's no speed limits and there are potholes the size of bathtubs at every turn. On top of all this, there is no required inspection for cars. If the entire front of your car is smashed in, none of your lights or indicators work, black clouds of smoke issue from underneath and it still runs, well then you can drive it. Scary and true, and I haven't even told you about my car yet.
I can say with absolute certainty that my car could only be street-legal in Puerto Rico, and maybe India. He is a 1992 Chevrolet Lumina/Tank named Maverick and I got him off my friend Angel for $300. Angel ran him into a lightpost and the whole left side is scraped up, there are metal shards sticking out of the drivers side door and I have no drivers side mirror. To open the hood there is a rope under the floor mats that, if pulled quite forcefully, will open it. One window won't roll down unless you take the stick out of the wedge and I don't think any of my blinkers work. Don't even mention AC or stereo. The real problem is that the car won't die. He just roars to life every morning and I can't scrap him and get my $300 back.
The good thing about Maverick is I found out he can run without oil, water or gas.
Wayward indeed.
Wayward have been my movements of late. After the earthquake rocked Christchurch Pete and I started re-evaluating our life's priorities, such as living in a town with a low death toll. My dad offered us his boat in Puerto Rico and we jumped at the chance, and for the last four months I have been floating happily in the Caribbean. Maybe I'm just lazy or maybe it's the heat, but I've been having a hard time trying to write and describe Puerto Rico in words. Perhaps it's because this country is just so Damn Loco.
"Oh Puerto Rico, land of the MayoKetchup," as my friend Chris likes to say, is a weird mix between Latino culture and American. Although they are technically a teritory of the United States, when put to a vote to be
A. A State
B. An independent nation
C. Neither/ I don't know
the resounding majority vote was for C. They love Burger King, Walmart and enormous shopping malls. It is very difficult to be a vegetarian here considering that their four food groups are meat, cheese, fried meat and fried cheese, all dipped in butter, fried, and then dipped in more butter. Many seem unaware that throwing trash on the street has a negative impact on their island and recycling is unheard of. The Spanish spoken here is a mutated Spanglish spoken so quickly that they often don't understand one another. "Puerto Rico," my friend Shella says, "where the women eat more than the men, and the men gossip more than the women."
All of that, though, is just a tiny piece of the greater puzzle. I love Puerto Rico. I have met some of the friendliest people here, always willing to help you out without hesitation. Puerto Ricans say hi equally to their neighbors and strangers, stuff you until you're way beyond full, smile, dance, laugh and love their families. They have immense pride in their island and rightfully so because it's just beautiful here. I have a great job working at a surfer bar called Board Riders, right across the street from a beautiful beach in Luquillo and at some point will probably try to learn how to surf.
"Puerto Ricans drive like they've run out of cigarettes," says my friend Dave. I absolutely adore Puertorican people until they get in their car, then it's like going into battle. Like most people who have at one time lived in Mexico, I consider people who stop at red lights to be good drivers. It's not as bad here but it's pretty horrible. Driving here should be considered an extreme sport as every lane is a turn lane, there's no speed limits and there are potholes the size of bathtubs at every turn. On top of all this, there is no required inspection for cars. If the entire front of your car is smashed in, none of your lights or indicators work, black clouds of smoke issue from underneath and it still runs, well then you can drive it. Scary and true, and I haven't even told you about my car yet.
I can say with absolute certainty that my car could only be street-legal in Puerto Rico, and maybe India. He is a 1992 Chevrolet Lumina/Tank named Maverick and I got him off my friend Angel for $300. Angel ran him into a lightpost and the whole left side is scraped up, there are metal shards sticking out of the drivers side door and I have no drivers side mirror. To open the hood there is a rope under the floor mats that, if pulled quite forcefully, will open it. One window won't roll down unless you take the stick out of the wedge and I don't think any of my blinkers work. Don't even mention AC or stereo. The real problem is that the car won't die. He just roars to life every morning and I can't scrap him and get my $300 back.
The good thing about Maverick is I found out he can run without oil, water or gas.
Wayward indeed.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Christchurch Earthquake 22.2.11
This is dedicated to the people of Christchurch who lost their lives, and to their families. Currently the death count is 148 and rising, with hundreds still missing. My heart and prayers go out to them.
When the earth shook Christchurch seven days ago I was sitting next to my boxing coach Adam, chatting away, stretching, getting ready for class. Without warning, the city went from calm to chaos in seconds. The ceiling tiles started falling, the long, fluorescent light bulbs exploded over our heads. Adam grabbed my arm roughly and we dashed for the doorway, arms over our heads, legs unable to balance on the rolling floor, as if it were made of ice. The receptionist at the desk screamed as a giant bookshelf fell over, nearly crushing her. I tripped and tumbled my way into the small space between the two doors, now holding about twelve of us and prayed for the shaking to end.
I heard later that it had lasted 40-50 seconds and I can say with certainty that it was the scariest minute of my life. Once the rumbling stopped and we all started breathing again, it took time to stand up and get over the shock of the experience. Small bursts of hysteric laughter filled the room and we knew we were lucky to be alive. Quickly we left the building, everyone grabbing their phones to try to make contact with their loved ones. I tried frantically to get in touch with Pete, knowing he could have been high up on scaffolding, but all lines were dead. All electricity down. All water off.
Within minutes the streets were jammed with cars trying to get home to see if their house was still up and their families safe. Luckily I was on my bike and it was easier to navigate through the traffic, large cracks and holes, piles of rubble and liquefaction: giant mounds of mud and sand that came out of the earth through the pavement. I remember being amazed at the damage but also at the efficiency of the police, fire department and many others who were instantly on scene, commanding order from insanity.
Once at home I joined my neighbors in the confusion. A man walked by with a radio to tell us that the 6.3 earthquake had taken down the cathedral, the symbol and soul of the city. A woman near me started to cry. Another car pulled up with news that the city centre had crumbled and that many people had died, the first deaths since the wave of earthquakes hitting Christchurch began in September. More news, more rumors, more stories circled us, but I didn't start breathing again until I saw Pete turning the corner and biking towards me in one piece. Only then did I allow myself to cry.
As the days have dragged on, all we can do is wait. We got electricity back late Tuesday night, and when the lights popped on cheers and applause erupted from up and down the street. Phones and internet started working again Wednesday afternoon, and every day I've been busy boiling what water we can get hold of. Every night we watch the news, watch the death toll rising, watch the city suffering and we know how good we truly have it.
The good news and hope lay with the people of Christchurch. Hours after the quake thousands streamed to streets asking what they could do to help. Everyone was hugging, helping, giving all that they had, bonding together in this great tragedy. News of disaster response teams coming in from Australia, The UK, The States, Singapore, Taiwan and Japan. Stories of ordinary citizens going extraordinary lengths to help out their neighbors. A man with a well in the suburbs has been pumping 90,000 litres of water a day for thousands. A facebook group formed and received 12,000 volunteers to help clean the streets, shovel liquefaction off the roads and go door-to-door in some areas offering whatever assistance was needed.
All of these stories have been a real inspiration and a real tribute to the people of Christchurch, and of New Zealand. The strength and heart of this small island nation in the face of devastation and pain shows what they are really made of, and what is possible when humanity comes together and gives for the greater good of all. This alone gives me hope for the future.
People of Christchurch: I thank you. My thoughts are continually with you.
When the earth shook Christchurch seven days ago I was sitting next to my boxing coach Adam, chatting away, stretching, getting ready for class. Without warning, the city went from calm to chaos in seconds. The ceiling tiles started falling, the long, fluorescent light bulbs exploded over our heads. Adam grabbed my arm roughly and we dashed for the doorway, arms over our heads, legs unable to balance on the rolling floor, as if it were made of ice. The receptionist at the desk screamed as a giant bookshelf fell over, nearly crushing her. I tripped and tumbled my way into the small space between the two doors, now holding about twelve of us and prayed for the shaking to end.
I heard later that it had lasted 40-50 seconds and I can say with certainty that it was the scariest minute of my life. Once the rumbling stopped and we all started breathing again, it took time to stand up and get over the shock of the experience. Small bursts of hysteric laughter filled the room and we knew we were lucky to be alive. Quickly we left the building, everyone grabbing their phones to try to make contact with their loved ones. I tried frantically to get in touch with Pete, knowing he could have been high up on scaffolding, but all lines were dead. All electricity down. All water off.
Within minutes the streets were jammed with cars trying to get home to see if their house was still up and their families safe. Luckily I was on my bike and it was easier to navigate through the traffic, large cracks and holes, piles of rubble and liquefaction: giant mounds of mud and sand that came out of the earth through the pavement. I remember being amazed at the damage but also at the efficiency of the police, fire department and many others who were instantly on scene, commanding order from insanity.
Once at home I joined my neighbors in the confusion. A man walked by with a radio to tell us that the 6.3 earthquake had taken down the cathedral, the symbol and soul of the city. A woman near me started to cry. Another car pulled up with news that the city centre had crumbled and that many people had died, the first deaths since the wave of earthquakes hitting Christchurch began in September. More news, more rumors, more stories circled us, but I didn't start breathing again until I saw Pete turning the corner and biking towards me in one piece. Only then did I allow myself to cry.
As the days have dragged on, all we can do is wait. We got electricity back late Tuesday night, and when the lights popped on cheers and applause erupted from up and down the street. Phones and internet started working again Wednesday afternoon, and every day I've been busy boiling what water we can get hold of. Every night we watch the news, watch the death toll rising, watch the city suffering and we know how good we truly have it.
The good news and hope lay with the people of Christchurch. Hours after the quake thousands streamed to streets asking what they could do to help. Everyone was hugging, helping, giving all that they had, bonding together in this great tragedy. News of disaster response teams coming in from Australia, The UK, The States, Singapore, Taiwan and Japan. Stories of ordinary citizens going extraordinary lengths to help out their neighbors. A man with a well in the suburbs has been pumping 90,000 litres of water a day for thousands. A facebook group formed and received 12,000 volunteers to help clean the streets, shovel liquefaction off the roads and go door-to-door in some areas offering whatever assistance was needed.
All of these stories have been a real inspiration and a real tribute to the people of Christchurch, and of New Zealand. The strength and heart of this small island nation in the face of devastation and pain shows what they are really made of, and what is possible when humanity comes together and gives for the greater good of all. This alone gives me hope for the future.
People of Christchurch: I thank you. My thoughts are continually with you.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
In Piam Memoriam
I'd like to start by saying "Thank you" to everyone that came here today. It's been a really difficult week for Pete and I, and your loving support is much appreciated. The death of a close friend is never easy, and in these trying times I feel it's best to be surrounded by my loved ones. So once again, thank you for being here. I will try my best not to cry.
We are here today to honor the life of Captain Archibald Jack Cooper. He was a most loyal van, and yet I like to think of him more as a friend and family member. Although I didn't know him for very long he was always there for me. There to pick me up at the airport when I came back to New Zealand, there to drive us to our new life in Christchurch, there when I needed a hug or someone to talk to. He was always a good listener.
I wish I could tell you more about his past which I'm sure was as rowdy and adventurous as his last days, but all I know is that we adopted him from Mr. John Cooper, Pete's brother, who is to be commended for all the hard work, time, effort and love he put in with The Captain. John is a mechanic and although it seemed the end for Old Arch he refused to pull the plug on his dear friend. Archie's engine was rebuilt, along with multiple other surgeries, to give the Ole Fella another chance to feel the wind on his face as he trundled, gasped and wheezed his way through the mountains once again.
To me, Capt. Arch was not only a friend but a symbol of freedom. We drove up and down the length of the South Island together. He went with us up to the beaches of Kaiteriteri and Nelson, down through the mountains in the Southern Alps, along the eastern coastlines, and navigated us through the city of Christchurch, knowing that we would be lost without him. And now we are.
I look to the Universe for some answers and some peace. It tells me that everyone has their destined time on this Earth, and well, Archie was no spring chicken. He passed away driving back from Queenstown, and I bettcha he couldn't have been happier. Full tank of gas, new oil and a wide-open road, long as the eye can see. Before we knew there was something wrong he just lost power and came to a stop on the side of the highway with a nice, loud thud: his last hoorah before passing into the Land of the Unknown.
As a parting joke, Archie left us about 20 km. north of a town called Twizel, just past Lake Pukaki. For all who don't know, Twizel is more of a village in the middle of nowhere. Population: 1,200 occupants. Pete and I hitched a ride into town and walked over to the one pub in town, banking on Small Town Kiwi Hospitality to get us out of this mess before the sun set. Not much luck there, but we did find some friendly and helpful people at Shawty's, the one restaurant in town. After hearing our story, Troy the owner left his full restaurant to drive us to his house, switch cars and get a tow rope, drive out to get The Captain and tow him back into town, dropping us off in front of the mechanic's shop. All without taking any money or beer offered.
Saint Troy of Twizel, you are an Angel of Compassion for Poor Travelers. Thank you.
The next morning we got up and found Russel the Mechanic. He takes a look at poor Arch, shows Pete the blown head gasket and where water got into the cylinders, and signs the Death Certificate for 9:15 am, Tuesday, February 8th, 2011. Unless we have $1,300 to fix him. We do not. Russel offers us $50 to take him off our hands, committing his soul to the High Heavens and his parts as an Organ Donor to other sick and dying vehicles.
The next part in this tragedy involves me sweet-talking a bus driver into driving out of the way with a bus filled with people over to our van, loading up half of our life, and taking us to Christchurch. In this includes Pete's BMX bike, my snowboard, a single mattress, our bags from the weekend, an assortment of tools, snow chains, cooking pots, helmets, shoes, a tea kettle, a skateboard, and a box of beer. After seeing out tired and stressed expressions the driver, in true Kiwi Hospitality, doesn't even charge us for all the extra space we're using. Once in Christchurch we re-load into a taxi and head for home, too exhausted to even comprehend our loss.
What now? It hasn't been easy to cope with our grief, and learning to live with our loss has been a challenge this week. Archie's death teaches us to cherish the time we have with our loved ones now. Right now. "In Piam Memoriam" means "In Loving Memory," and that is why we are here today: to remember Captain Archibald Jack Cooper in our heads and in our hearts.
To end this, I'd like to quote Kahlil Gibran in his poem "Death":
"For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."
Dance, Archie, dance. And know that you will be missed.
We are here today to honor the life of Captain Archibald Jack Cooper. He was a most loyal van, and yet I like to think of him more as a friend and family member. Although I didn't know him for very long he was always there for me. There to pick me up at the airport when I came back to New Zealand, there to drive us to our new life in Christchurch, there when I needed a hug or someone to talk to. He was always a good listener.
I wish I could tell you more about his past which I'm sure was as rowdy and adventurous as his last days, but all I know is that we adopted him from Mr. John Cooper, Pete's brother, who is to be commended for all the hard work, time, effort and love he put in with The Captain. John is a mechanic and although it seemed the end for Old Arch he refused to pull the plug on his dear friend. Archie's engine was rebuilt, along with multiple other surgeries, to give the Ole Fella another chance to feel the wind on his face as he trundled, gasped and wheezed his way through the mountains once again.
To me, Capt. Arch was not only a friend but a symbol of freedom. We drove up and down the length of the South Island together. He went with us up to the beaches of Kaiteriteri and Nelson, down through the mountains in the Southern Alps, along the eastern coastlines, and navigated us through the city of Christchurch, knowing that we would be lost without him. And now we are.
I look to the Universe for some answers and some peace. It tells me that everyone has their destined time on this Earth, and well, Archie was no spring chicken. He passed away driving back from Queenstown, and I bettcha he couldn't have been happier. Full tank of gas, new oil and a wide-open road, long as the eye can see. Before we knew there was something wrong he just lost power and came to a stop on the side of the highway with a nice, loud thud: his last hoorah before passing into the Land of the Unknown.
As a parting joke, Archie left us about 20 km. north of a town called Twizel, just past Lake Pukaki. For all who don't know, Twizel is more of a village in the middle of nowhere. Population: 1,200 occupants. Pete and I hitched a ride into town and walked over to the one pub in town, banking on Small Town Kiwi Hospitality to get us out of this mess before the sun set. Not much luck there, but we did find some friendly and helpful people at Shawty's, the one restaurant in town. After hearing our story, Troy the owner left his full restaurant to drive us to his house, switch cars and get a tow rope, drive out to get The Captain and tow him back into town, dropping us off in front of the mechanic's shop. All without taking any money or beer offered.
Saint Troy of Twizel, you are an Angel of Compassion for Poor Travelers. Thank you.
The next morning we got up and found Russel the Mechanic. He takes a look at poor Arch, shows Pete the blown head gasket and where water got into the cylinders, and signs the Death Certificate for 9:15 am, Tuesday, February 8th, 2011. Unless we have $1,300 to fix him. We do not. Russel offers us $50 to take him off our hands, committing his soul to the High Heavens and his parts as an Organ Donor to other sick and dying vehicles.
The next part in this tragedy involves me sweet-talking a bus driver into driving out of the way with a bus filled with people over to our van, loading up half of our life, and taking us to Christchurch. In this includes Pete's BMX bike, my snowboard, a single mattress, our bags from the weekend, an assortment of tools, snow chains, cooking pots, helmets, shoes, a tea kettle, a skateboard, and a box of beer. After seeing out tired and stressed expressions the driver, in true Kiwi Hospitality, doesn't even charge us for all the extra space we're using. Once in Christchurch we re-load into a taxi and head for home, too exhausted to even comprehend our loss.
What now? It hasn't been easy to cope with our grief, and learning to live with our loss has been a challenge this week. Archie's death teaches us to cherish the time we have with our loved ones now. Right now. "In Piam Memoriam" means "In Loving Memory," and that is why we are here today: to remember Captain Archibald Jack Cooper in our heads and in our hearts.
To end this, I'd like to quote Kahlil Gibran in his poem "Death":
"For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance."
Dance, Archie, dance. And know that you will be missed.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Bring on the Love
Yesterday I found out that the government housing projects across the street from our apartment are specifically allocated for people who just got out of prison and are being integrated back into society. At least living in the ghetto keeps life interesting.
Oh New Zealand, Land of the Open Front Door: I missed you. How could I not miss a country where it's fashionable for men to wear short shorts and rubber boots (stubbies and gum boots)? How could I not miss the mountains and lakes, the sheep shearing contests and the traditional family meal of an energy drink and a greasy meat pie? Whilst flying into Auckland International Airport a huge weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders and before I could stop myself a river of tears gushed forth and I was sobbing. No person has ever been that happy to be in Auckland, the only part of New Zealand forsaken by the Gods. In typical fashion, the large man sitting next to me did what any self-respecting, staunch, stiff-upper-lip Kiwi male would do when faced with emotion: He pretended it wasn't happening. One more flight to Queenstown and I was back in the arms of my boyfriend Pete after a very, very long five months away. After celebrating the New Year and spending a week with our friends, we packed up Pete's van and headed up to Christchurch for work.
(*Note on the van: Pete's brother John gave it to us when he went back to England and there has been a wee disagreement as to the name of the van. Pete named him Archie, and I named him Captain Jack. I'll keep you posted on any compromise made.)
Coming to Christchurch has been an interesting challenge in getting to know the "Big City" of 400,000 people, none of whom we know. We took the first furnished apartment we found near the city center (centre), looked around and then wondered why we had taken it in the first place. To top off all the magic ChCh has to offer, we experienced our first earthquake last week. Well, three of them.
(*Note on earthquakes: To answer some of your recent questions, yes, earthquakes are very scary. The earth and everything attached to it moves and vibrates and you know that the time has come for you to die. Instantly you wish that you had been to Paris just one more time. And then it stops. You laugh manically because you have just cheated death somehow and you look up nervously, hoping the building in stable. Earthquakes: Not fun.)
Besides that whole cheating-death feeling, Christchurch continues to grow on me. Pete goes to work everyday, scaffolding on building sites from the Big Poppa Earthquake back in August, which are everywhere; the entire city is under construction. I have been looking about for some cash work but I don't have a work visa so I'm finding it a bit tricky. I'm having fun filling the time though.
Today I...
-talked to a lady about volunteering with refugees and helping them adjust to their new surroundings, so I hope that goes through.
-broke my jandal (flip flop) and walked home barefoot. I'm down to one pair of shoes (crocs). Again.
-bought a bike. He's blue and gold, blue from the paint, gold from the rust. When the sun hits it the rusty metal sparkles. It's a total piece of crap, I love it. Name: unknown.
-enrolled in Muay Thai Boxing classes again now that my wrist has healed.
Bring on the love.
Oh New Zealand, Land of the Open Front Door: I missed you. How could I not miss a country where it's fashionable for men to wear short shorts and rubber boots (stubbies and gum boots)? How could I not miss the mountains and lakes, the sheep shearing contests and the traditional family meal of an energy drink and a greasy meat pie? Whilst flying into Auckland International Airport a huge weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders and before I could stop myself a river of tears gushed forth and I was sobbing. No person has ever been that happy to be in Auckland, the only part of New Zealand forsaken by the Gods. In typical fashion, the large man sitting next to me did what any self-respecting, staunch, stiff-upper-lip Kiwi male would do when faced with emotion: He pretended it wasn't happening. One more flight to Queenstown and I was back in the arms of my boyfriend Pete after a very, very long five months away. After celebrating the New Year and spending a week with our friends, we packed up Pete's van and headed up to Christchurch for work.
(*Note on the van: Pete's brother John gave it to us when he went back to England and there has been a wee disagreement as to the name of the van. Pete named him Archie, and I named him Captain Jack. I'll keep you posted on any compromise made.)
Coming to Christchurch has been an interesting challenge in getting to know the "Big City" of 400,000 people, none of whom we know. We took the first furnished apartment we found near the city center (centre), looked around and then wondered why we had taken it in the first place. To top off all the magic ChCh has to offer, we experienced our first earthquake last week. Well, three of them.
(*Note on earthquakes: To answer some of your recent questions, yes, earthquakes are very scary. The earth and everything attached to it moves and vibrates and you know that the time has come for you to die. Instantly you wish that you had been to Paris just one more time. And then it stops. You laugh manically because you have just cheated death somehow and you look up nervously, hoping the building in stable. Earthquakes: Not fun.)
Besides that whole cheating-death feeling, Christchurch continues to grow on me. Pete goes to work everyday, scaffolding on building sites from the Big Poppa Earthquake back in August, which are everywhere; the entire city is under construction. I have been looking about for some cash work but I don't have a work visa so I'm finding it a bit tricky. I'm having fun filling the time though.
Today I...
-talked to a lady about volunteering with refugees and helping them adjust to their new surroundings, so I hope that goes through.
-broke my jandal (flip flop) and walked home barefoot. I'm down to one pair of shoes (crocs). Again.
-bought a bike. He's blue and gold, blue from the paint, gold from the rust. When the sun hits it the rusty metal sparkles. It's a total piece of crap, I love it. Name: unknown.
-enrolled in Muay Thai Boxing classes again now that my wrist has healed.
Bring on the love.
Monday, November 8, 2010
American, Bro
Lately I've been doing a little experiment. Not for money or any actual scientific data, just curiosity. After my year in New Zealand I've contracted a nameless rare disease which renders me incapable of calling people anything else except "Bro." Pushing myself past the borders of the small island nation at the bottom of the world, I have to ask myself: How will different authority figures around the world respond when called, or referred to as "Bro"?
Note: United States of America Border Security Guards do not like being called "Bro."
Altercation: Small heated debate in the Chicago O'Hare Airport about the safety of the country Laos. I staunchly defended the Lao-wegians and questioned the validity and factual statements of the Important Man Behind The Desk. Turns out he had never even left America and I might have stated that he had no basis whatsoever to be spouting such ridiculous twaddle, and that the people Laos are wonderful and I feel safer there than in America, Bro.
Hypothesis: He could have jailed me for days, yet I regret nothing and would do it again.
I'm always amazed when they let me back into America. Not that I should be, seeing as how I hold and shiny, blue passport and was born here. It's just that I know I'm going to screw with their system and I'm always mildly amused by the thought. So a few weeks ago I sneakily waltzed back into Austin, Texas with my Bro's blazing, to surprise my family and friends. It had been over two years since I was last home so I figured I might as well make a good entrance. My secret-keeper was my stepsister Laura, who picked me up at the airport and took me home. My mother answered the door, burst into tears and tackled me on the front lawn. My stepdad Evan laughed. My brother Sam stood stunned in the middle of a restaurant but thankfully did not tackle me as he's quite a bit taller. My best friends Anja, Ruth and Brittney all screamed, and my stepmom Jasmine screamed louder. To get my dad home she told him that a tree fell on the roof and he was home quickly to find me standing in his backyard. Initially stunned like Sam, he proceeded to not let go of me for a few hours and cried tears of joy, I'm assuming for having his roof intact.
Adjusting to American life has been the real challenge here. People keep asking me what part of Canada I'm from. All my poor, unemployed friends have these shiny, flat, touch screen phones I've never seen before and there are sixteen brand new monstrosities of condos in my beloved downtown area, which I do not recall being asked permission to build. Alas, it seems Austin is growing at a rapid pace without me.
Don't worry though, the Great Spirit of Austin remains. How could it not be? The official city slogan is "Keep Austin Weird." The Omeletry still cranks out a wicked breakfast, Polvos margaritas still kick my ass and I still know every employee at the Posse East, who welcome me back with open arms and a free pitcher of the best beer in Austin. Somehow in between my reunion with Austin I've also managed to get two jobs, which is amusing at best because we all know how I dislike working. So throughout the week you can either find me waiting tables at Cuatros on 24th and San Gabriel or behind the desk at the South Austin Gym on S. Lamar. Cuatros is great because its really chilled out, I can call my boss "Bro" and waiting tables is the easiest job in the world for someone who has the conversation skills of a late-night talk show host. The gym is fun and painful because it's owned by my good friend Randy Palmer and I have started my Thai boxing training again. Which hurts.
And yes, bowing to the technological era taking the U.S. by storm, I have purchased the biggest, cheapest phone I could find. Give me a call at 512-696-2998 if you're in the Austin area. Keep in mind that I'm still getting used to the way of life here, yet refusing to adjust to it on account that it would be bad for my soul. No, I cannot access Facebook from the dinner table, I don't have a car or TV, and I have no idea who that supposedly famous guy walking by is. Although I did accidentally flip off Kanye West yesterday. As I've stated before: I regret nothing.
I'm such a crap American, Bro.
Note: United States of America Border Security Guards do not like being called "Bro."
Altercation: Small heated debate in the Chicago O'Hare Airport about the safety of the country Laos. I staunchly defended the Lao-wegians and questioned the validity and factual statements of the Important Man Behind The Desk. Turns out he had never even left America and I might have stated that he had no basis whatsoever to be spouting such ridiculous twaddle, and that the people Laos are wonderful and I feel safer there than in America, Bro.
Hypothesis: He could have jailed me for days, yet I regret nothing and would do it again.
I'm always amazed when they let me back into America. Not that I should be, seeing as how I hold and shiny, blue passport and was born here. It's just that I know I'm going to screw with their system and I'm always mildly amused by the thought. So a few weeks ago I sneakily waltzed back into Austin, Texas with my Bro's blazing, to surprise my family and friends. It had been over two years since I was last home so I figured I might as well make a good entrance. My secret-keeper was my stepsister Laura, who picked me up at the airport and took me home. My mother answered the door, burst into tears and tackled me on the front lawn. My stepdad Evan laughed. My brother Sam stood stunned in the middle of a restaurant but thankfully did not tackle me as he's quite a bit taller. My best friends Anja, Ruth and Brittney all screamed, and my stepmom Jasmine screamed louder. To get my dad home she told him that a tree fell on the roof and he was home quickly to find me standing in his backyard. Initially stunned like Sam, he proceeded to not let go of me for a few hours and cried tears of joy, I'm assuming for having his roof intact.
Adjusting to American life has been the real challenge here. People keep asking me what part of Canada I'm from. All my poor, unemployed friends have these shiny, flat, touch screen phones I've never seen before and there are sixteen brand new monstrosities of condos in my beloved downtown area, which I do not recall being asked permission to build. Alas, it seems Austin is growing at a rapid pace without me.
Don't worry though, the Great Spirit of Austin remains. How could it not be? The official city slogan is "Keep Austin Weird." The Omeletry still cranks out a wicked breakfast, Polvos margaritas still kick my ass and I still know every employee at the Posse East, who welcome me back with open arms and a free pitcher of the best beer in Austin. Somehow in between my reunion with Austin I've also managed to get two jobs, which is amusing at best because we all know how I dislike working. So throughout the week you can either find me waiting tables at Cuatros on 24th and San Gabriel or behind the desk at the South Austin Gym on S. Lamar. Cuatros is great because its really chilled out, I can call my boss "Bro" and waiting tables is the easiest job in the world for someone who has the conversation skills of a late-night talk show host. The gym is fun and painful because it's owned by my good friend Randy Palmer and I have started my Thai boxing training again. Which hurts.
And yes, bowing to the technological era taking the U.S. by storm, I have purchased the biggest, cheapest phone I could find. Give me a call at 512-696-2998 if you're in the Austin area. Keep in mind that I'm still getting used to the way of life here, yet refusing to adjust to it on account that it would be bad for my soul. No, I cannot access Facebook from the dinner table, I don't have a car or TV, and I have no idea who that supposedly famous guy walking by is. Although I did accidentally flip off Kanye West yesterday. As I've stated before: I regret nothing.
I'm such a crap American, Bro.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Oktoberfest!
I watched as the small girl's eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out standing up. The tent was too crowded for her to fall left, right, or face-forward, so gravity did its job and she fell backward, knocking over ten people at the closest four tables. It was in this moment that I realized I had to get out of Munich or the Oktoberfest would kill me.
Oktoberfest, stated plainly, is this most incredible thing I have ever witnessed; incredible not always being a positive thing. Imagine six million people trying to cram themselves into twelve tents that can hold a few thousand. Imagine the drunkest you've ever been, next to thousands who have had more to drink than you have. Imagine the fattest man you have ever seen, wearing the shortest shorts you have ever seen, waving a thick, heavy glass beer stein near you head whilst belting out one of Germany's oldest drinking songs. Imagine chaos.
If you look closely, you might even see a girl in the middle wearing a blue checkered dirndl (the traditional German dress). She is standing on a bench that seats six with fifteen people, toasting and singing and dancing with the rest. Her dreadlocks reach halfway down her back now and she is smacking a few people in the face with them as she dances. They don't seem to notice, the energy in the tent is all they can feel. The rhythm, the heartbeat, the central pulse pushes forward, faster and higher, beating the beat of life into every core, until nothing makes sense any longer. Then suddenly, without warning the music stops. The girl's eyes snap back into focus, she raises her glass, holding a litre of the best beer in the world, bellows "PROST!!!" and smashes it into her neighbors glass. The madness continues from there.
All together I did five days at Oktoberfest. At the end I thought I was dying because my liver was trying to kick its way out from the inside. The memories however, I would not trade for anything. I loved standing at a table with other Americans, Canadians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, and Spanish people. I love that I met half of Italy in one afternoon. I love the different cultures, languages, people from all walks of life brought together with the common goal of drinking beer and having a good time. I love that at one point I was concerned about contracting lederhosen poisoning, a highly dangerous malady concerning short leather shorts and suspenders. I love all the best friends I made and forgot in the span of minutes, and the old friends I was fortunate to meet up with. Thank you Martin who let me stay at his place, thank you Jordan and Mara for the dirndls and the beginning, thank you to Crazy Irish John, Mark and Krasna for the end, thank you Vicky and her lovely mother Tina who let me drink water on the fifth night while they drank beer, and thank you to Pete who talked to the death rattle coming out of my throat every morning and didn't laugh too much. I wouldn't have made it without you guys.
My goal for Oktoberfest was to do it right, do it well, and then never do it again. Mission accomplished: nothing on Earth could drag me back there again. Yet I am proud to have survived an exhilarating experience.
Oktoberfest, stated plainly, is this most incredible thing I have ever witnessed; incredible not always being a positive thing. Imagine six million people trying to cram themselves into twelve tents that can hold a few thousand. Imagine the drunkest you've ever been, next to thousands who have had more to drink than you have. Imagine the fattest man you have ever seen, wearing the shortest shorts you have ever seen, waving a thick, heavy glass beer stein near you head whilst belting out one of Germany's oldest drinking songs. Imagine chaos.
If you look closely, you might even see a girl in the middle wearing a blue checkered dirndl (the traditional German dress). She is standing on a bench that seats six with fifteen people, toasting and singing and dancing with the rest. Her dreadlocks reach halfway down her back now and she is smacking a few people in the face with them as she dances. They don't seem to notice, the energy in the tent is all they can feel. The rhythm, the heartbeat, the central pulse pushes forward, faster and higher, beating the beat of life into every core, until nothing makes sense any longer. Then suddenly, without warning the music stops. The girl's eyes snap back into focus, she raises her glass, holding a litre of the best beer in the world, bellows "PROST!!!" and smashes it into her neighbors glass. The madness continues from there.
All together I did five days at Oktoberfest. At the end I thought I was dying because my liver was trying to kick its way out from the inside. The memories however, I would not trade for anything. I loved standing at a table with other Americans, Canadians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, and Spanish people. I love that I met half of Italy in one afternoon. I love the different cultures, languages, people from all walks of life brought together with the common goal of drinking beer and having a good time. I love that at one point I was concerned about contracting lederhosen poisoning, a highly dangerous malady concerning short leather shorts and suspenders. I love all the best friends I made and forgot in the span of minutes, and the old friends I was fortunate to meet up with. Thank you Martin who let me stay at his place, thank you Jordan and Mara for the dirndls and the beginning, thank you to Crazy Irish John, Mark and Krasna for the end, thank you Vicky and her lovely mother Tina who let me drink water on the fifth night while they drank beer, and thank you to Pete who talked to the death rattle coming out of my throat every morning and didn't laugh too much. I wouldn't have made it without you guys.
My goal for Oktoberfest was to do it right, do it well, and then never do it again. Mission accomplished: nothing on Earth could drag me back there again. Yet I am proud to have survived an exhilarating experience.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Mama Mia
A few nights ago I almost died. Serves me right for accepting a dinner invitation from a large Italian family.
Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?
The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.
About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.
Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."
After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.
We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.
The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.
Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?
The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.
About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.
Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."
After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.
We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.
The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Candy from a Baby
The alarm went off next to my head at 6:20 a.m. I slunk out of bed and lit a candle to see my way down the stairs in the mountain hut. In the kitchen I found what I sought: a large metal pot and long wooden spoon. I tiptoe carefully up the centuries-old staircase and into a room filled with children sleeping peacefully, their innocent little faces just now visible from the rising sun. I love teaching.
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGABANGBANG!!!!!!
GOOD MORNING CHILDREN!! IT'S 6:30 A.M. TIME TO GET UP UP UP!!!
It was unnecessary to get them up so early. It was also quite unnecessary to wake them up in that fashion. One kid jumped a foot in the air, a few screamed. Most just rolled over and moaned. There was no real reason for doing it, except simply that I said bedtime was at 10:00 and they had stayed up late talking.
I operate on the principle that every action has a reaction. A boy sprayed his deodorant into the girls room, therefore each girl gets a turn spraying the boys room with his own deodorant. The boys walked around with a strange powdery scent for the rest of the week. I find this method extremely fair and entertaining. I'm not a huge fan of rules, and I am definitely not their mother, so they are allowed to swear as long as it's in English. They are allowed to play in the mud if they don't track it in the house, and they can eat all the sugar they want until dinnertime. If I catch them after that, whatever they have is mine. So easy, like taking candy from a baby, literally.
And then, after a week of bonding and fun, they are gone. After a week of testing our boundaries, pushing our limits, living, laughing and working together, these little German children say goodbye and shake my hand. A few I would like to punch in the face and then sterilize, but most I would just like to hug goodbye, and thank them for the time we shared together. But no, I'm in Germany, and they just shake my hand. It's a bit weird.
After four very crazy weeks, eighty-nine children, and eight instructors and language assistants, it's time to leave the tiny village of Baad. Living in the Alps for a month has quite possibly made me weirder than I was before going in, but there's not much I can do about that now. I'm currently siting in Innsbruck, Austria and tomorrow my plan is to head south to Venice, Italy to catch up with Sharla, an old friend I used to work with at Fado in Austin.
Small world, huh?
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGABANGBANG!!!!!!
GOOD MORNING CHILDREN!! IT'S 6:30 A.M. TIME TO GET UP UP UP!!!
It was unnecessary to get them up so early. It was also quite unnecessary to wake them up in that fashion. One kid jumped a foot in the air, a few screamed. Most just rolled over and moaned. There was no real reason for doing it, except simply that I said bedtime was at 10:00 and they had stayed up late talking.
I operate on the principle that every action has a reaction. A boy sprayed his deodorant into the girls room, therefore each girl gets a turn spraying the boys room with his own deodorant. The boys walked around with a strange powdery scent for the rest of the week. I find this method extremely fair and entertaining. I'm not a huge fan of rules, and I am definitely not their mother, so they are allowed to swear as long as it's in English. They are allowed to play in the mud if they don't track it in the house, and they can eat all the sugar they want until dinnertime. If I catch them after that, whatever they have is mine. So easy, like taking candy from a baby, literally.
And then, after a week of bonding and fun, they are gone. After a week of testing our boundaries, pushing our limits, living, laughing and working together, these little German children say goodbye and shake my hand. A few I would like to punch in the face and then sterilize, but most I would just like to hug goodbye, and thank them for the time we shared together. But no, I'm in Germany, and they just shake my hand. It's a bit weird.
After four very crazy weeks, eighty-nine children, and eight instructors and language assistants, it's time to leave the tiny village of Baad. Living in the Alps for a month has quite possibly made me weirder than I was before going in, but there's not much I can do about that now. I'm currently siting in Innsbruck, Austria and tomorrow my plan is to head south to Venice, Italy to catch up with Sharla, an old friend I used to work with at Fado in Austin.
Small world, huh?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Mountains of Patience
She's speaking to me again in German. She knows I don't speak German. It's 7:00 am, I am physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted and all I want is three cups of coffee, but Silvia our robust, smiling cook continues on with our morning ritual. '"Guten morgen Silvia....ja.....ja....kaffee, bitte......danke....." I say. Great peals of laughter disappear into the kitchen for my jug of coffee. On returning it is always the same, something to the effect of "Ra-hell, you still don't understand German yet? You've been here a week! Tomorrow I try again." And then the jolly woman erupts in laughter once more.
The change from living in my van in New Zealand to teaching German children English in the Alps has been extreme. My work day starts at 7:00, we get between 30-40 kids up, ages 9-16 and usher them down to breakfast. We play English games in the morning, then are usually off hiking, rock climbing, and doing high ropes courses in the afternoons. Dinner at 6:00, then an intense hour of physical exercise I like to call "fun time" and if we exhaust them enough they'll be in bed by 11:00. My "free time" are the hours I get to sleep in between when the children go to bed and when they wake up again. As you might imagine, it's very full on.
Although quite stressful at times, I'm having a lot of fun. I wake up every morning and look up to the stunning green alps that technically belong to Austria. I'm living in a village of about 50 people called Baad in the Kleinwasertal, which is a funny area in that it's a part of Austria but only accessible from the Germany side due to the towering Alps blocking any sort of road. I'm leaning German slowly and understand more than I speak, but it can be frustrating being the only teacher/instructor there that only speaks English. My Vietnamese has not helped me one bit.
The kids, for the most part, are great. I pretty much let them do what they want as long as they aren't too loud, and operate under the basic principles that when you grow up it is socially unacceptable to be muddy so have fun now kiddos! I find that I'm not here to be a parent, but more of a mentor giving out some good, general information about life they might not get from their parents or school teachers. However, that does not mean that I'm any good at it. Enter Maxim, age 12:
"Rachel, what is a booty call?"
I choke reflexively, not knowing if I heard him correctly. I look over at Jordan, one of the other teachers, who is wide-eyed and thanking the Gods she was not the one asked.
"Well...errr...Maxim. Well, when two people love each other..."
At that Jordan cracks up laughing and I have to laugh because how am I supposed to explain this?? I have to tell him because if I don't he'll hear it from another kid and will undoubtedly be misinformed. I have to tell him because I used to hate it when people said "I'll tell you when you're older." I have to tell him because it's the right thing to do. And I did.
Maybe I'm cut out for this, maybe not. Patience has been my best friend thus far, and I haven't beaten any of the kids yet so that's a good sign. Although I have come close.
The change from living in my van in New Zealand to teaching German children English in the Alps has been extreme. My work day starts at 7:00, we get between 30-40 kids up, ages 9-16 and usher them down to breakfast. We play English games in the morning, then are usually off hiking, rock climbing, and doing high ropes courses in the afternoons. Dinner at 6:00, then an intense hour of physical exercise I like to call "fun time" and if we exhaust them enough they'll be in bed by 11:00. My "free time" are the hours I get to sleep in between when the children go to bed and when they wake up again. As you might imagine, it's very full on.
Although quite stressful at times, I'm having a lot of fun. I wake up every morning and look up to the stunning green alps that technically belong to Austria. I'm living in a village of about 50 people called Baad in the Kleinwasertal, which is a funny area in that it's a part of Austria but only accessible from the Germany side due to the towering Alps blocking any sort of road. I'm leaning German slowly and understand more than I speak, but it can be frustrating being the only teacher/instructor there that only speaks English. My Vietnamese has not helped me one bit.
The kids, for the most part, are great. I pretty much let them do what they want as long as they aren't too loud, and operate under the basic principles that when you grow up it is socially unacceptable to be muddy so have fun now kiddos! I find that I'm not here to be a parent, but more of a mentor giving out some good, general information about life they might not get from their parents or school teachers. However, that does not mean that I'm any good at it. Enter Maxim, age 12:
"Rachel, what is a booty call?"
I choke reflexively, not knowing if I heard him correctly. I look over at Jordan, one of the other teachers, who is wide-eyed and thanking the Gods she was not the one asked.
"Well...errr...Maxim. Well, when two people love each other..."
At that Jordan cracks up laughing and I have to laugh because how am I supposed to explain this?? I have to tell him because if I don't he'll hear it from another kid and will undoubtedly be misinformed. I have to tell him because I used to hate it when people said "I'll tell you when you're older." I have to tell him because it's the right thing to do. And I did.
Maybe I'm cut out for this, maybe not. Patience has been my best friend thus far, and I haven't beaten any of the kids yet so that's a good sign. Although I have come close.
Wandering Downfall
It's 5:00 am and I can't sleep.
Maybe it's because I'm still a bit jetlagged from the 41 straight hours of travel I recently survived. From Auckland to Hong Kong to London to Munich by plane, to a small town called Immenstadt by train and then to a tiny village called Kranzegg by car in the middle of the mountains in southern Germany. Somewhere in between I pulled a classic Rachel move and lost my wallet and a little bit of my heart. The wallet I can find through the airlines, the heart piece I'm pretty sure I left in New Zealand and will be much more difficult to retrieve.
Or maybe I'm awake because my head is flooded with memories from the last month. Pete, Crazy Carl and I left Queenstown at the beginning of July, boosted up to say goodbye to Nelson and my Kiwi family there then headed to the North Island. A few days out and about in Wellington with James and Stina, through Napier to Taupo with it's beautiful lake and hot springs, up to Rotorua which smells like rotten eggs, and west to Raglan, a small hippie community and surfers paradise. (*Note: If I ever dissdisappear the face of the Earth, you can find me in Raglan.) Up through Auckland to Whangarei, Kerikeri, Paihia, Kaitaia and all the way to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand. Back down and around the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days and back to Auckland to pick up my shiny new passport and sell Crazy Carl with a tearful goodbye. Harder still was saying goodbye to Pete at the airport and leaving the land I have grown to love and think of as my home.
Why I tend to leave the people I care about most at airports I will never know. That will be my ultimate downfall, the fact that I have got on every single bus, train and plane I have ever bought a ticket for. How many times should I have stayed? How many happy lives could I have had, if not for this insatiable urge to move, travel and grow? Whether it's a genetic defect or just itchy feet, it drains me physically, mentally and emotionally every single time I go. It's heart-wrenching to know, as I step on the plane, that I might never come back or see those special people who have made me a better person ever again. It's one of many sacrifices I have had to make, again and again, to enjoy the freedoms I enjoy and the life I have chosen to lead. And here I am, staring out the window at the sunny, green countryside of Germany, smiling and looking forward to my next adventure.
Tomorrow I leave to start work as a language assistant in a kids summer camp. I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do, but that's nothing new is it?
Maybe it's because I'm still a bit jetlagged from the 41 straight hours of travel I recently survived. From Auckland to Hong Kong to London to Munich by plane, to a small town called Immenstadt by train and then to a tiny village called Kranzegg by car in the middle of the mountains in southern Germany. Somewhere in between I pulled a classic Rachel move and lost my wallet and a little bit of my heart. The wallet I can find through the airlines, the heart piece I'm pretty sure I left in New Zealand and will be much more difficult to retrieve.
Or maybe I'm awake because my head is flooded with memories from the last month. Pete, Crazy Carl and I left Queenstown at the beginning of July, boosted up to say goodbye to Nelson and my Kiwi family there then headed to the North Island. A few days out and about in Wellington with James and Stina, through Napier to Taupo with it's beautiful lake and hot springs, up to Rotorua which smells like rotten eggs, and west to Raglan, a small hippie community and surfers paradise. (*Note: If I ever dissdisappear the face of the Earth, you can find me in Raglan.) Up through Auckland to Whangarei, Kerikeri, Paihia, Kaitaia and all the way to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of New Zealand. Back down and around the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days and back to Auckland to pick up my shiny new passport and sell Crazy Carl with a tearful goodbye. Harder still was saying goodbye to Pete at the airport and leaving the land I have grown to love and think of as my home.
Why I tend to leave the people I care about most at airports I will never know. That will be my ultimate downfall, the fact that I have got on every single bus, train and plane I have ever bought a ticket for. How many times should I have stayed? How many happy lives could I have had, if not for this insatiable urge to move, travel and grow? Whether it's a genetic defect or just itchy feet, it drains me physically, mentally and emotionally every single time I go. It's heart-wrenching to know, as I step on the plane, that I might never come back or see those special people who have made me a better person ever again. It's one of many sacrifices I have had to make, again and again, to enjoy the freedoms I enjoy and the life I have chosen to lead. And here I am, staring out the window at the sunny, green countryside of Germany, smiling and looking forward to my next adventure.
Tomorrow I leave to start work as a language assistant in a kids summer camp. I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do, but that's nothing new is it?
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Living on the Edge
Like an abusive relationship I get thrown to the ground and get up for more. Telltale signs of beatings surface in the form of bruises on my knees and tailbone area. I avoid questioning as to why my clothes are ripped and torn. Mountain, you are a cruel mistress.
While we're all here, lets take a minute to laugh at the Texan who decided to learn how to snowboard. At first it seemed a good idea, some of my closest friends being snowboard instructors and me living in Queenstown, one of the best places in the world for it. Plus there was the "cool factor." Snowboarders always look so smooth and confident, striding with purpose and so sure of their passion that I wanted to be in their Cool Kid Club. Little did I know the price I would pay for my vanity.
Day one we gather at Zeb and Andys house before going up Coronet Peak, the mountain closest to Queenstown. As preparation for my first lesson, Andy sits me down in front of the TV and I play Shaun White Snowboarding on the XBox for a few minutes. If you don't know who Shaun White is either, don't ask a snowboarder. They will get angry. Up on the mountain which wasn't even open yet, we hike up a bit and Zeb very patiently teaches me the basics of sliding, turning, braking and falling. I am absolute crap but stubborn as hell, so for the next few days we spent our mornings hiking up, boarding down, and hiking back up again. Bruises and pains start to appear, as do the beginnings of addiction. It was then I realized I was in serious trouble, because snowboarding is a seriously expensive addiction.
So far I have been very lucky with gear, or perhaps destiny had taken hold once again. On the mountain I need a set of thermals, a waterproof snowboarding jacket and pants, boots, bindings, board, goggles, gloves, and an assortment of hats, hoodies, scarves, wool socks and hankerchiefs to cover my entire body and shield me from the icy torrent. All of this came to me quite serendipidously through several friends, except the boots which I bought used and cheap. With my first ever collection of winter gear I was ready for the start of the season, or so I thought. While I'm being physically abused by the kiddie slope on the first day on the lifts, Andy breaks his collarbone at the top and is instantly out for six weeks. The reality that I could get seriously injured sets in, and I finish earlier than usual and go over to Pete's house to borrow his BMX helmet which I have been wearing religiously ever since.
I know the helmet kicks my "cool factor" down a few notches, but we all know I'm not cool anyway. The mountain fashion scene is a strage beast and I want no part in it. I am there to snowboard in my secondhand gear and I don't want anyone watching me while I do it, which is exactly the opposite thought of everyone else there. The "snow bunnies" walk around wearing makeup and designer gear that they would ruin if they actually got on the lift, all the guys are wearing oversized, baggy shirts and pants that they're about to trip on, and there's a weird new trend to wear mismatching flourescent outfits that I just don't understand because it looks pretty ridiculous and hurts my eyes. I blame the Australians for that one.
In total I did five days on the lifts (not counting my training days) of Coronet Peak and The Remarkables, another mountain near town. I connect my turns now, I shred, I board on the greens and some blues, and I am so addicted to this crazy sport that I am concerned for my sanity and wellbeing. I have never visualized myself being a mountain person, but two months of boarding and I am beginning to love them. I've started saying weird things like "Epic shred aye bro! Sweet as ride!" whatever that means. The cold is bearable when the sun is shining and the mountain is covered with powder. How snow has the ability to be so soft and so hard at the same time I will never know, but we have made peace and I smile whenever I fall, knowing that the mountain is simply putting me in my place when I get a bit too cocky.
For now, these beginnings will have to do. Today is my last day in Queenstown, and it will be sorely missed. Tomorrow Crazy Carl, Pete and I are driving up to Nelson to say goodbye to the beautiful people I have grown to love there and think of as family. I only have one month left here in New Zealand until they boot me out, so I'm going to check out the North Island before catching my flight to Germany on July 27th, thus starting a new adventure and falling in love with life all over again.
And as Zeb always says: "If you're living on the edge, you're not taking up too much space."
While we're all here, lets take a minute to laugh at the Texan who decided to learn how to snowboard. At first it seemed a good idea, some of my closest friends being snowboard instructors and me living in Queenstown, one of the best places in the world for it. Plus there was the "cool factor." Snowboarders always look so smooth and confident, striding with purpose and so sure of their passion that I wanted to be in their Cool Kid Club. Little did I know the price I would pay for my vanity.
Day one we gather at Zeb and Andys house before going up Coronet Peak, the mountain closest to Queenstown. As preparation for my first lesson, Andy sits me down in front of the TV and I play Shaun White Snowboarding on the XBox for a few minutes. If you don't know who Shaun White is either, don't ask a snowboarder. They will get angry. Up on the mountain which wasn't even open yet, we hike up a bit and Zeb very patiently teaches me the basics of sliding, turning, braking and falling. I am absolute crap but stubborn as hell, so for the next few days we spent our mornings hiking up, boarding down, and hiking back up again. Bruises and pains start to appear, as do the beginnings of addiction. It was then I realized I was in serious trouble, because snowboarding is a seriously expensive addiction.
So far I have been very lucky with gear, or perhaps destiny had taken hold once again. On the mountain I need a set of thermals, a waterproof snowboarding jacket and pants, boots, bindings, board, goggles, gloves, and an assortment of hats, hoodies, scarves, wool socks and hankerchiefs to cover my entire body and shield me from the icy torrent. All of this came to me quite serendipidously through several friends, except the boots which I bought used and cheap. With my first ever collection of winter gear I was ready for the start of the season, or so I thought. While I'm being physically abused by the kiddie slope on the first day on the lifts, Andy breaks his collarbone at the top and is instantly out for six weeks. The reality that I could get seriously injured sets in, and I finish earlier than usual and go over to Pete's house to borrow his BMX helmet which I have been wearing religiously ever since.
I know the helmet kicks my "cool factor" down a few notches, but we all know I'm not cool anyway. The mountain fashion scene is a strage beast and I want no part in it. I am there to snowboard in my secondhand gear and I don't want anyone watching me while I do it, which is exactly the opposite thought of everyone else there. The "snow bunnies" walk around wearing makeup and designer gear that they would ruin if they actually got on the lift, all the guys are wearing oversized, baggy shirts and pants that they're about to trip on, and there's a weird new trend to wear mismatching flourescent outfits that I just don't understand because it looks pretty ridiculous and hurts my eyes. I blame the Australians for that one.
In total I did five days on the lifts (not counting my training days) of Coronet Peak and The Remarkables, another mountain near town. I connect my turns now, I shred, I board on the greens and some blues, and I am so addicted to this crazy sport that I am concerned for my sanity and wellbeing. I have never visualized myself being a mountain person, but two months of boarding and I am beginning to love them. I've started saying weird things like "Epic shred aye bro! Sweet as ride!" whatever that means. The cold is bearable when the sun is shining and the mountain is covered with powder. How snow has the ability to be so soft and so hard at the same time I will never know, but we have made peace and I smile whenever I fall, knowing that the mountain is simply putting me in my place when I get a bit too cocky.
For now, these beginnings will have to do. Today is my last day in Queenstown, and it will be sorely missed. Tomorrow Crazy Carl, Pete and I are driving up to Nelson to say goodbye to the beautiful people I have grown to love there and think of as family. I only have one month left here in New Zealand until they boot me out, so I'm going to check out the North Island before catching my flight to Germany on July 27th, thus starting a new adventure and falling in love with life all over again.
And as Zeb always says: "If you're living on the edge, you're not taking up too much space."
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