What to say

I awoke to sunshine.  Ziiing!  I’m full of energy and anticipation.  This is a huge improvement from the past few days – or perhaps longer?

I may have left Alaska, but it hasn’t seemed to have departed from inside me.  I hopped the pond and carried with me the memories, the hurts, the idiosyncrasies.  For instance: this obsession with sunshine.  I’ve been learning to get over the ‘guilt’ feelings of not being outdoors every second of every day possible.  But I haven’t managed to work away from the guilt of not being outdoors the moment the sun shines.  To remedy this sitch I’ve learned to blame the need to study in lieu of enjoying nature.  However, more often last semester it was really an excuse to nurse a hang-over.

Working backwards…  I just read my Alaskan friend OKI’s blog, he’s on a ridiculous bike trip from Anchorage to Colombia.  I shuffled to his Mission page where he starts out by telling how the theft of his truck led to the over-use of his bicycle and how he “came to realize what I value most: community, innovation and self reliance.”

I’ve done a lousy job processing the past 14 months of my life – holy moley its been that long!  I’ve had bits and blurbs of reflection, but overall I feel I’ve just been in survival mode.  Should I make the laundry list?  It began in October: suicide, life-changing trip, suicide, stolen car, transition, new country, disappointing studies.  A lotta shit, a little very incredibly cool life.

I still have sad and sick feelings over both Greg and my car.  The first was just too much of a shock, I’m not sure I’ll ever figure it all out in my head.  The latter had such lasting impressions on my life.  I suppose there is a chance I wouldn’t be here (in England) had my car not been taken…?  It really was the last straw for my life in Alaska for it stripped so much from my life.  Safety: as it was taken from my driveway at night.  Autonomy: as I was not free to hop around or out of town as I pleased.  Fun: as my skate skis were inside.  Wow, as I write this I feel the pain bubbling up.

But I have to agree with OKI that in troubles one learns to re-invent.

Safety: I had to move, though I absolutely loved Wytherbei, I just couldn’t stay any longer.  When I first moved to that cute little apartment I knew that there would be no reason to move unless I bought a place or moved out of state.  Apparently I took it to the extreme and moved outta country.  And it was time.  I did need to leave.  Immediately upon return from my trip to the Middle East I found myself selling things.  I’d go out of my way to meet someone from craigslist to earn $3 off a few wine glasses.  This seemed entirely appropriate at the time, now I just laugh at the absurdity.  But I had this need to slough of things, to be unencumbered.  At the time I did not understand my actions, just that it felt great – felt freeing.

Autonomy: I am extremely independent.  I like to live alone, travel alone, be alone most of the time.  Being without a car exacerbated and inhibited this characteristic.  In one way I had even more time alone as the time spent traveling lengthened with each pedal of my bike.  On the other hand, I became incredibly reliant upon my friends.  Dear Leah lent me her truck a few times to run errands and I had free reign of Harry & Leslie’s jalopy for the 2 weeks I lived with them.  Oh ya, you heard that – I went from my own little place to shacking up with a married couple.  And it was wonderful.  I felt so safe and had such a nice time.  It really made me look forward to having a roommate in England.  Concluding remarks: I had to swallow my pride and ask for help.  It was good, really good.  The only thing I hated was feeling like I couldn’t help others.  The insult to injury about my car is that I felt that I had given its use to many people over the 9 years I had Antiochus.  I was still practical Kymberly and rarely let anyone else drive it – but besides that, I went on many airport runs, offered it up for road trips etc. etc.  And so having it taken made me feel like some of my charity-work was trashed.  In fact, I did have to quit bringing meals to CSS for newly arrived refugees.  Ugh, I’m gutted.

Fun: This is the part I haven’t recovered.  I’m a bit lost in what it is I enjoy doing.  So much of my time in AK was spent outdoors doing burly outdoor things.  I quit attempting to train for triathlon once the car was taken because I couldn’t get to training sessions or even the event.  Same with bike races I’d wanted to join.  However, I did other cool things, like bike rallies with bike kids, mostly the point was to drink and ride of course.  Same as coming here to the UK – wow, they drink a lot here! But since going on my trip to Europe I’m just not feeling it.  I’m not in the mood for partying and staying up late.  In fact, I’m to be running with a friend in a few minutes, but its been postponed due to a late night on her part – which is fine, but still you can see my quandary.  Where do I fit in with fun?  good clean fun?  I’m completely out of sorts.

I believe I’ve broken all rules of blogging… this one is far too long and is more of a ramble than an exercise in brevity.  It also goes against my New Years Resolution: Work less, work less hard.  This has been decided due to my need to remedy my understanding of last said point.  Also because apparently the: least interesting class + least amount of reading + least amount of writing effort = crazy high marks.  So in order to do well I need to do less…? *sigh

Signing off with this.  I feel I am on the up as I am coming to terms with the reality of my year abroad.  I’ve also found a new place to live and hope to move pronto – even if it sucks in the end… I’m relishing in the possibilities of now.

Just when apathy sets in…

HRC speaks to me:

“I just want to urge that we do not grow weary. I don’t about you, but sometimes it can seem a little bit hard to take. It is also self-evident; it seems so obvious to the rest of us that this needs to be done, and we keep encountering obstacles of every shape and size. But please, stay with us and let’s try to create institutional and structural change that does not get wiped away when the political winds blow. Let’s try to create markets for these goods and ways of funding them and educational and instructional programs along with our commitment to serve that will give women everywhere a chance to take their own lives and their own futures into their own hands.”
-Sec. of State Hillary Rodham Clinton’s remarks on the 15th Anniversary of the International Conference on Population and Development more here

AND

El acoso de la calle / Assédio rua

I’ve avoided writing this post, but can’t hold back any longer.  I will try to speak fairly… though I am afraid I will probably start a rant.

Street Harassment.

Perhaps it is the context that throws me off the most.  I figure being in a developed country should mean people are more civilized.  But this is a lie.  People, and by that I mean men, are douche bags everywhere.

I just had to turn the corner into Placa Reial and I’d be to my hostel.  It was quite the feat as I had forgotten to write down the directions.  But my happiness of finishing the scavenger hunt was squashed when an inebriated man noticed me.  He said a few words in Spanish, I’m sure I was to take it as a compliment.  But then he started to walk toward me  and by the time he grabbed my arms I was stepping into the gutter.  Not okay, especially with this American girl’s love of personal space.

The park along the seashore of  Barcelona is full of benches.  Upon those benches sit single men, most of whom cat call women.  So tiring, but at least not threatening.  Take a right past the Great Genicist’s statue (Columbus) and you walk up  La Rambla.  It is  known for its heaps of people, loads of restaurants, and multiple pick-pocketers.  I found that its also a great place to be followed.  I had wandered out around 9pm for Gelato.  There were lots of people around and I felt safe.  But then a man came up next to me to chat.  I kept looking forward and waved my hand to brush him away.  He stayed by my side a couple more seconds before walking ahead of me.  I slowed my pace to give space and he slowed his.  Half a block later I slipped to the left to enter the Plaza.  Surprise, surprise, he followed me.  I didn’t notice until I turned to the right toward the hostel and he came up alongside.  I hurried over to the big group of hostelers.  He then stood by a column for a few minutes before giving up.  Persistence!  I wasn’t really in danger, but it still pissed me off that I felt threatened.

I left Barcelona and breathed easily in the northern part of Portugal, but not here in Lisbon.  Last night my hostel was on a dodgy road.  Its the kinda place where piles of garbage are strewn across street corners.  As I walked to the grocery store for some dins I lost count of how many single African men meandered about.  Only two tried to talk to me in that short block, but so many more stared.

Being seen is not a big deal, it is everyday life, but being ‘looked at’ is almost always threatening.  To be stared at and followed by another’s piercing eyes is to be objectified.  This too is ever day life in many places around the world.  I’ve learned to deal with it by keeping my eyes straight forward and pretending not to notice.   But I do notice!  My awareness is heightened when in my peripheral vision I see a man’s head slightly turn as I pass.

I hate this, it is not fair.  Yes, I know I play a role in making myself more vulnerable by traveling solo.  But it does not mean I deserve it!  I should not have to ask a guy from the hostel to accompany me for a gelato run.  No woman should have to feel the hair on her neck prickle while she picks up the pace.

I remember some years back buying a black & white postcard of an Italian scene from the mid 20th century.  A woman clutches her bag and with chin high and eyes straight forward she tromps down the street.  She is defiant against the dozen or so men whistling, laughing, and looking at her.

Street harassment will not end anytime soon.  It is too ingrained into the culture of men who suggest women should be flattered by such attention.

I am neither flattered nor amused – no, instead I am quite fed up.

[Disclaimer: this rant is but one sliver of travel time and is in no way reflective of my overall state of enjoyment for places and its people]

Babel: what if the tower had never been attempted…?

I’ve grown more accustomed to the variety of accents in just these three months studying with students from 55 different countries.  It is still difficult to understand all that is said – but this is nothing.  I am in awe that my colleagues study for a Master’s degree in a second language.  But hearing a different accent is much different than constantly hearing a different language.

Last winter I traveled the Middle East and therefore spent much of my day in my head listening to my own words as nothing around me was familiar.  Surprisingly, it has been similar this trip in Spain and Portugal.  The hostel in Barcelona was filled with Spanish speakers and so naturally that was the dominant language.

One evening I was to go out to dinner with three others.  As we walked to our destination the conversation switched between French and English.  One guy only spoke French and Spanish, me only English.  The other two all three and so they translated and swapped around.

Earlier that week I shared a room with a Swiss girl who knew just a bit of English, but was fluent in Spanish.  I know the tiniest bit of Spanish and made what little use I could to have conversations with her.  No, seriously.  We spoke for about an hour in our room and in little bits throughout the two days… both in our own language and with a word here and there of each others.  Was the most bizarre time and challenging.  Yet I loved that we could communicate the gist of the topic enough to enjoy our time with each other.  I also loved how the odd word would be remembered from my 2 semesters of Spanish class… 4 and 5 years ago!

Most impressive are the girls I met doing a ERASMUS program in “cultural landscapes”.  Two are from China, one from Indonesia, and another from Iran.  They will be in 3 countries studying over 1.5 years.  They came a bit early to France so as to learn French.  The course began and they are learning everything in their very new language.  Simultaneously they are learning both Italian and German in preparation for the upcoming semesters.  Amazing, inspiring, wow.

Here in Portugal it is much more difficult as the language is surprisingly nothing like Spanish – at least to my ear.  In fact, to me there are traces of Italian and Russian sounds.  Apparently Spain Spanish is more precise than South American and I think the difference between those two are replicated between Spanish and Portuguese on this shared bit of continent.

I like Portuguese, especially when sung.  My last night in Barcelona was spent staying up till 2am so I could make way to the bus to the airport for a half 6 flight.  I had been to Tapas night with 21 people, all of whom were forced to sing a song from each one’s country.  Unfortunately we Americans have lost a tradition of impromptu, public singing… and so the two of us went for “Take me out to the ball game” – yuck.

However, the Portuguese regularly start up a song after dinner parties and so they busted out an impressive repertoire.  I have no idea what the songs were about, probably love, regardless they were beautiful.  Apparently all Portuguese have nice voices as all 5 sounded great.

But the best singer was one Joao, who is I guess is a famous Portuguese telenovella (soap opera) star.  Same with his companion Ruben who is so beautiful he belongs behind museum glass for he is untouchable.  Ah, but it was a blast with both of them and their oh so dramatic selves.  But I digress.

Language.  I know just my native tongue.  I hate this.  I despise the American school system that does not allow us to learn a language before 15 years old (unless privileged with private lessons or to live in a big city with immersion programs).  In Barcelona I so often felt like a burden needing people to translate.  I also felt ridiculous when people would break their conversation to apologize for speaking another language.  They would then translate a bit of what they had been saying.  So so kind, but it shouldn’t be this way.  I’m not saying I should know every language every time, of course this is impossible (except for my French friend Yaan who seemed to know every language spoken in the hostel).  But it is a bit ridiculous to know no others.

And so it is time… or at least time soon to suck it up, move to a country, take a course, and learn a language… TBD.

Unknown

Traveling, to me, is not a vacation in the typical sense.  In fact it is a lot of work.  sightseeing on one´s feet is exhausting.  Traveling solo means making constant decisions with no one to help bounce ideas.  Though I have recently found that traveling duo can be even more strenuous when one becomes simultaneous travel agent and tour guide.

To me, vacation means freedom from societal expectation of a well-kept appearance.  To keep up one´s body to a minimal state is hard work.  When traveling with a small pack, one can only afford space to the minimum necessities: a few clothes, a few toiletries, a book.  Showering each day becomes a nuisance for who wants to spend time grooming when you can be walking along cobblestones and gazing at architecture?

While doing so much exploration, one also realizes a change in physicality.  Eventually feet adapt to long days and the bum firms itself.  And yet the person consumes buttery treats and so much bread.  Perhaps it cannot truly be afforded, but the traveler feels as if she can.  And she can because she travels and again it is free of expectation of beauty.  Tummy rolls, stringy hair, and ugly clothes, though noticed, are not taken into account as a measure of a good or bad journey.  These things, which oppress the creative and steal time when in a place of residence are traded for experience via practicality.

But this is only my opinion.  I am astonished by how few share this with me.  This trip of all is most surprising.  I have witnessed women in fashionable clothing applying ample cosmetics from a bag merely the size of my backpack.  In London my friend witnessed a girl weighing herself on a scale which she packed along.  Why do so many comply with ridiculous rules of perceived beauty when they can easily be ignored? 

Touring has always been for the privileged and before a person would be accompanied by steamer trunks.  But journeying is arduous – dirty, dusty, quite often disgusting.  The traveler arriving to a destination always needs a wash and fresh clothes.  How is it that these two states have meshed¿  Why¿

It is access for so many more people¿ Is it quality of accommodation that accommodates a partying and prissy lifestyle¿  But if so – then why do so many more women than men participate in this behavior¿ Why do more women not forgo the constraints fo prettiness while traveling¿  By bother emulate¿

In these cities of fashion – Paris, London, Barcelona, Milan – I find the locals are most beautifully dressed in leather and fur.  Though many city sites are gorgeous – much of every city is drab.  And so it seems the people on streets provide the aesthetics of life against gray, sometimes black stone backdrops.  But once in the country, the people become small artifacts against a landscape of endless beauty.  Overdone human creations from buildings to clothing is unsightly in such a location.  It’s only value is a juxtaposition of opposites.

For this reason I visit places of wonder as an unknown.  Nondescript in attire and behavior… I wander.  I wish not to stand out or leave an imprint, but how can I do this for simplicity of being is then its own awkward juxtaposition against fashionistas – especially those attempting it in the hostel bed below¿ 

I should not judge so much for to each their own.  But I am thankful for having been able to recognize the burden maintaining ´beauty´at home let alone on the road.  And by forgetting about it I can desire to discover the truth and beauty outside myself so it may infect the me within.

The busiest travel day of the year

The Austerlitz airport was crowded but silent when I arrived.  Not surprisingly, I was 2 hours early and quickly caught wind that trains were running late.  This too was not shocking as the week of snow in Europe has caused chaos.

I picked my way through the masses of people standing before each of the three giant train schedule signs.  Glowing in orange lights were times beginning just past 1pm; it was presently 6pm.

I found a seat on a slab of concrete along a billboarded wall and contemplated what to do until the platform would be announced for the Barcelona train.  My bum had not yet frozen against the cold, improvised bench when the intercom chimed duh dun daaa duh and a woman speaking in French  gave an update.  A few cheers went up to the sky and I looked around perplexed.  I queried the girl to my right who briefly explained the reaction of the people who  had been waiting many hours.

A group of four young women and one older man began chanting – I can only guess it was a rally for their specific trains to be assigned a platform.

Just then it happened.

Lights illuminated and cheers once again broke the stillness of a busy train station.  Then swoosh!  Like a director shouting ¨scene¨ the characters broke their pose and a flurry of commotion ensued.  Some went right, some went left.  The girl to my side jumped up with a huge grin, grabbed the handle of her rolling suitcase and dashed to her platform.  Wheels spun, feet pattered – energy rushed.

I watched the blur of people go this way and that way.  Two pet owners held tight to the leash of their eager dogs while babies in prams yelped at the disturbance of motion.  Train employees zoomed by on segways.  The scene was all very amusing.

And then it stopped.

The station is now normal.  Some wait for platform numbers while others grab a panini for supper.  I can now see across to the doorway where I entered.  With bum now feeling like ice I wait and gaze up with fingers crossed that I will not suffer a similar fate.

Smelly Cheese and Achey Feet

Back in Paris and goodness this keyboard sucks!  But otherwise it is lovely even in the dead of winter.  Somehow there is magic in this city even with gray skies and bare trees.  Ill definitely need to come back again… but perhaps in a month other than December.  Maybe as a May birthday present to myself?

So far we have eaten a few delightful pasteries.  Tomorrow will be about crepes and for our Aris last night we will definitely find a nice French cafe.

My new favorite thing about this city are the rent a bikes.  I dont know where to get an access card but if I had one Id brave the streets but perhaps not the Arc d Triomphe circle of chaos.  You just swipe the card and it releases a bike.  You take it for a spin and return it when  you are done.  Fantastic and even more amazing than zip cars.

My favorite part of the day was coming across a placard on a building.  It reminds me that I need to translate what it said for it was about Simone de Beauvoir.  Better still was that we wandered into a cemeterie and found it to be the resting place of she and Jean Paul Sartre.  I love those random finds.  The cemeteries are much like those in New Orleans where the graves are overlaid with massive granite or marble or other stone slabs.  Others are mini houses that most likely host an entire family.  Somehow I dont find these final resting places to be at all creepy…  but then we did just come out of the catacombes…

Hollandaise [Holland Days] {hollan daze}

Wow, its been snowing non-stop.  I’m about to send this Alaskan girl home so she’ll take the weather with her!  Can’t wait to get to Barcelona.. oh my, I hope it is dry.

It’s been a bit of a silly adventure.  I definitely recommend taking the ferry from Harwich to Hoek de Holland.  You get to sleep the whole way of boredom and it is probably cheaper and about the same amount of travel time than flying from Stanstedt.   But make sure you book your train ticket from Hoek to wherever.  We were destined for Amsterdam and since the ticket is only about 15 euro I figured it was silly to pre-book.  I’ve done waaay too much booking for this trip and have lost a couple deposits because we’ve changed plans a tiny bit.

So we got the ticket kiosk and of course it will not accept my credit or debit cards.  I did not bring my barclays chip-n-pin, so we had to search for a “cashpoint”.  That was found and I took out a bunch of euros.  We got back to the machine to find it only accepted coins.  No seriously, coins only.  And we needed 31 coins!

We went back to the shopping area and went from store to store asking [read begging] for cash exchange from notes.  The first was about to do it, but then said no – they didn’t want to run out for the weekend… this was customer service at a grocery store {stingy much?}  Then a shop of random stuff traded 20 euro worth – they were really nice.  Next door a grumpy man at the book store said no before I had barely finished my sentence.  I begged for just 5 euro… nope.  I turned and in my most ugly American, sarcastic voice said “such a friendly country here”".  I felt justified in doing so.  Finally the second grocery store swapped the last 15 euro.  Success and back to the ticket kiosk.  We got on the next train, had a 2 minute window to switch in Rotterdam and then go to Amsterdam.

We are “couch surfing” with a lovely girl named Dita.  She is from the east of Holland and I love her little apartment.  It reminds me a lot of Raw Whimsee.  It is many steep stairs up to the top of the building and has a great deck with a bit of a view above the other adoreable buildings.  We are here one more night and then off to Paris!

Favorite things in Amsterdam?  Um… no surprise… bicycles!  We rented a bike for 24 hours and had a lovely time freezing our buns off through the streets.  It’s easy to get lost here, but doesn’t feel as dire since the feet do not feel the pain, just a bit of time use.  However, this morning it was a little more difficult with the fresh snow.  It was drier this morning but is slushing out.  The bikes have been returned, so no worries anymore.  I only nearly took a spill once.  Why?  Oh yes, another slight curb – this time hidden under snow.  Definitely brought back toughts of my hedge crash this fall!

Oh, and adding to my cycle collection… I have a cool claw clam for the back wheel.  I’ll just need someone to drill a coupla holes in my fram and viola, always with me lock for that tire.  Then, oh goodness I’m so excited, a seat cover!  Its white with little blue flowers.  I believe it is oil cloth.  Absolutely love it and hope I can hang onto it for the next 4 months {at least} of cycling in rainy England.

Internet time is running out and the “coffee shop” scent is getting a little heady… more again!

A{lone}lies

Six days, three emmotional shifts.

I suffer from the lonelies, do you?  Periodically the darkness and gloom of being alone rages around me.  I feel ridiculous: unwanted, bored, tired – always tired.  And then I’m ‘in-it’.  How to describe this?  Like the scene in Garden State… look it up.

In-it.       Focused on thoughts.          Unaware of my surroundings.          Snap, snap, snap out of it already!

And so I do.

Without reason, I’m out just like that.  I don’t feel depressed or unloved.  I no longer bumble through the day.  My mind stops the spin, the spiral downward.  I’m done.

Then I begin to love myself.  Fiercely.  I reflect on just how damn cool I am.  That I do cool, random things.  I make myself laugh.  I catch myself smiling to myself.  I feel my heart swelling and my skin glowing with joy for this life lived.  Life well lived.  And I wonder why I spent the last 2.75 days feeling rejection coming from no direct figure.  And I wonder why every being in any direction is missing this moment with me.

I look around and there is no one, and I’m satisfied.

From one extreme to the next, I find myself settling in.  To the me.  To my independent self.  I wander aisles of art giving commentary to no one but who is in my head.  I pause to wonder what it’d be like to walk near another and say my thoughts aloud.  But then if this were so I would not have these thoughts.

I’d be thinking something else.

I’d be with someone else.

Would I then be my self?

A room with no name

It’s been awhile since I’ve lived in a place with no name.  Maybe I’m just “over-it” in giving inanimate objects/places a way to be known.  My bike was never bestowed one maybe because its brown and boring (yet super sweet really).  I used to give plants names too, but the ones I have now are pretty crummy and undeserving.  There have been no pets lately to name either.

I really miss Wytherbei, like a lot.  My little place in the ghetto with its green walls and quirks was so lovely.  I named her by means of mixing a bit of Jane Austen (think Willoughby) and the need for serenity.  {Note: my current place is located not far from a Weatherby Rd., this I really like}.  It seems that when choosing a name I had a premonition of needs.  I needed a place to “weather out” the storms of life and just “be”.  And oh goodness the hurricanes and snow showers that enveloped me were constant.  And yes, my little apartment proved a haven.

The other little place I called my own was Raw Whimsee.  She too was lovely, just a tiny studio on the 7th floor in New West.  I miss her hard wood floors, though dusty they were so more easily cleaned.  And the feeling of being up and away from it all was rewarding.  I remember lamenting her passage to a friend who encouraged me saying “there will be even greater places ahead”.  It was said with much hope, but a little condescension too.  He occassionally spoke down to me, the dear, sweet, young girl.

So here I am.  Raw Whimsee and Wytherbei fading memories… and how I long so much for either.  It seems that in the deconstructing of a life, I have taken a major step backward and away from my self.

The problem is not just that I enjoy living alone and doing my own thing, but its that I currently live in someone else’s home.  I have some liberties over my room, but even asking if it was permissible to put thumb tack holes in the wall was met with resistance.  Ack!

I need to be surrounded by beautiful things.  Aesthetics permeate the air I breathe – and for now it is so thin.  I brought a few “artifacts”, but desperately need to find a new bit of local inspiration.  The worst is when I leave this tiny room.  As I open my door I am hit with more lousily painted, builder-beige walls than you can imagine.  The energy of this house is, on a good day, neutral, but too often a vortex of suckage.

I guess I imagined my olde world experience to be filled with crown molding, exposed brick, or at least sleak, scandinavian-esque lines.  Instead there is carpet in the bathroom and row upon row of flimsy suburban dull.

Perhaps then in these remaining semester weeks I should make it my mission to attempt a name for this room of my own.  Creativity has been possible within these four corners and maybe I will enjoy an uptick in inspiration with the ordination of a name.  Any ideas?