Denim Blues

I hate shopping for clothes – mostly I hate shopping for jeans. Why?

1. Most stores don’t carry my size.
2. Rarely do they fit in all the necessary places.
3. The latest fad is always horrid (pre-torn, pre-stained).
4. The price is outrageous.
5. 1% lycra fabric begins as butt-clinging and ends as butt-sagging immediately after sitting down.

I didn’t own a pair of jeans for most of my elementary and tween years. In fact, I can’t remember having any jeans before the age of 13. The first pair were white and I needed them for marching band. Yes…. white jeans… for walking along the hot or drenched spring streets of the Rhododendron and Armed Force Day parades. However, their first parade was along the hallways of Jr. High. When I reached the doors of the band room a friend exclaimed “Kymberly – you wore jeans!” I both beamed and shrugged it off.

Those and subsequent pairs were from Lane Bryant – the fat girl, old lady store. I still shop there with moderate success and even bought a pair of skinny jeans this spring. But at 15 I didn’t need to shop there, it was simply my mom’s choice. I think she had a hard time with jeans beginning in her tween years, and assumed it would be the same for me (she claims it was merely the truth).

I did, however, feel some loyalty to Ms. Bryant those first couple years as I was thankful these jeans had brought me out of the dark days of stretch pants above socks and Birkenstocks. However, eventually the novelty wore off and I no longer wanted to buy a Venezia sweatshirt to proclaim my gratefulness.

The day I bought my Levis was one of liberation. I spent that Saturday morning as a typically bored teenage girl would – with my newly installed landline phone attached to my ear. Michelle and I spoke for awhile and as I complained about having no good jeans she mentioned she was going to the big mall with her mom and I could come along. I went downstairs to ask if I could go shopping and to announce my jean-buying intentions. My mom was fine that I go, but I believe a bit worried I’d return empty handed.

When we got to JCPenny I assumed none of the young women’s jeans would fit and so proceeded to the men’s section on the upper floor. The perplexing sizes of such as 42×38 resulted in guess-work and multiple escalator rides between the stacks and the ladies dressing room downstairs. Each fitting directed me to the ultimate conclusion that men just don’t have butts.

Michelle’s patience had waned and she blurted, “why don’t you just try on girl’s jeans?” My gut twisted a little, but I complied.

With trepidation I walked toward a long wall of perfectly folded jeans and looked toward the ground at the very bottom pair – size 15. This was it, they either fit or I was back to the men’s section. Who would have known….

A few days later I overheard my mom speaking to someone on the phone (probably my grandma) that I had found a pair of jeans that fit as if they were custom made for me. The tone of her voice proclaimed her elation.

Eventually I outgrew those size 15’s and found Old Navy. I later had a decent stint of $70 Gap Long and Lean days, but their cut changed and then the name and so it was back to Old Navy and Lane Bryant.

My jeans always wear-out in the crotch from thunder-thigh rubbing, and the 1% lycra speeds up the process. Over a month ago two pairs wore out the same week – their lives shortened due to the spandex, thighs, and cycling.

I wear jeans to work every. single. day. so I’ve been concerned that my one remaining pair will suddenly give-out. However, my dislike of jean shopping means that I hadn’t tried on a single pair all this while, until today.

My boyfriend called tonight to ask that I meet him in the city for jean shopping. The first store didn’t carry my size. The second store was closed. Old feelings of fatness, nervousness, and disappointment loomed. Not only that, I was shopping with my boyfriend – the 30 year old guy who until a month ago never realised that most women’s legs rub together. Add embarrassment to the looming list.

The third store had my size, but I initially didn’t know which one (apparently the UK sizes clothes two numbers up from the US, *grumble), and so I turned my boyfriend into a sherpa. I piled a dozen pairs into his arms then left him outside the dressing room while I squeezed into and gave up on most of the lot. Eventually I found two pairs of different colours in the same style. They were definitely not made for me and contain an ample dose of lycra, but they’ll do. They were a bargain and my boyfriend bought them for me, which caused my heart to melt a little. I wonder, and hope, if this touch of romance will change my mind about jean shopping.

Passing Through

2 years.

It was July 2009 when I packed up my beloved Wytherbei.  I sold the majority of my possessions, shipped the important bits to Seattle, and lived out of a suitcase for a subsequent 6 weeks.

2 years!

At that time I was thrilled with the idea of going light. I didn’t want stuff, I wanted to be fancy free.  With 2 large suitcases, a 35L backpack, and a bicycle, I moved to England for a year.

a.k.a. 2 years… and counting.

A few months ago it dawned on me that whilst properly sheltered for these 2 years, nevertheless, in most regards I have been homeless.  First it was 2 weeks shacking up in my friend’s basement, then it was 4 weeks with my parents and yet much of the time was on the road visiting people.  My first room in England was tiny, secluded, lonely, and miserable – I left after 5 months.  My second room was great and I had a fun housemate, but the lure of the fantasy caused a premature decision to be enacted upon.  I spent 1 month again shacking up, but this time in a single bedroom with another, although, 2 of those weeks were spent on a bicycle in Scotland.  Then it was 3 months in a house with “friends” which was a disaster with the exception of one dear Kenyan friend. I now find myself in a shared house, with a giant but cramped room, and have been here for nearly 9 months.  WTF.

I’m desperate to have a home.  I want to decorate, I want to return after a day’s work to find a place that smells like me, I want all my food to be stored and prepared in one place, I want to put my pictures on the wall again.

Yet.

I never expected to be in this shared house for so long, it was meant to be extremely temporary, 3 months even.  However 1 month rolls into the next and major life decisions refuse to be sorted.  So here I am, still longing.  I continually peruse online rental listings and even viewed a place recently.  I liked it, but didn’t love it, and was terrified by the upfront costs.  So I continue to scan the possibilities – constantly adding bookmarks and yet finding 1 flaw major enough to prevent me from dialing the letting agency.

The other major excuse for not doing so is usually lack of time, and this is the truth.

However, the other day I began to sense that my feelings are changing.  I go through a cycle of hating this house and being ready to explode with frustration to simmering down and forcing contentment upon myself until the next altercation or annoyance.  Lately the worst of the slob housemates has been absent and so feeling content has been much easier.  But the most interesting change in my feelings is that I may actually be too scared to find a home here in England.

I hate England.

To find a ‘home’ and try to ‘settle down’ here seems futile to say the least, but worse I’m afraid of being trapped.  Simply put, long-term immigration is not a likely option,yet still the thought of signing on for 6 months feels like I will get myself even more stuck then I seem to already be.  I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary and it seems I’m on the cusp of changes, something big.  The last thing I want is then to feel I have any sort of commitment to my living situation.  With 2 weeks notice I want to be able to leave my job, leave my home, leave this temporary life and get on with things.

So as I long for a place to call home, I know that essentially I must remain resolute in my initial intentions – that England would be a short adventure with a defined purpose filled with unique opportunities best achieved by remaining fancy free.

Passing through, but where am I heading to – and are we there yet?

Why I don’t write anymore

I don’t write anymore, in fact I hardly read.  The latter is best explained by the reality of reading too much during the one year MA.  I never thought that was possible, but apparently it was and continues to linger.  I got myself into novels early this spring and have finished a couple.  I can’t believe I hardly read.  This to me is far more shocking than my lack of writing.

As far as the lack of writing, well.. I’ve been dating the most lovely man for some time now, but he is so damn private.  I think out of respect for him and the fragility of our new relationship, I’ve self-censored.  There have definitely been a few occassions where he makes known his disapproval of a facebook status update.  In fact, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like ANY status update I make whether they be too revealing and personal or just too silly.  Conversely, I think he also likes my whitty remarks.  To be fair, I have toed the line of inappropriate status updating… such as when I’m in a mood and a bit perturbed at him and make this known to the world albeit cryptically.

I’m usually a no-censorship kinda girl.  If someone comments on this blog or facebook I usually let it be regardless of how much it may make me go ‘ugh’.  Of course there are limits and an occasional deletion, but only when a comment goes beyond good taste and thus in my opinion cancels any freedom of speech rights.  However, here I am, constantly censoring myself.  It’s been hard.  I still ‘think in tweet’ and write then edit updates in my head regularly – but only infrequently do they make it on the interwebs anymore.  It’s weird, and I’m not sure I like it.  Yet, I’m also not sure I care and figure this has probably been a good season of editing whilst censoring my own voice.

However… bigger than any of the above reasons, I would argue that I don’t write because I’m too busy.  I work a lot – A.LOT. The funny thing about that though is I don’t work any more, in fact, possibly less, than I did in Alaska.  I also have as short if not shorter commute to work (10 min bike vs. 45 min bike in winter).  But then… I used to live alone and do my own thing.  I could let the dishes stack, the laundry pile up, and so on and so forth.  That still happens quite a bit, but hmm… the workload is just so much greater.  No, the chores are not evenly distributed, but neither are they ridiculously unfairly weighted on my side.  I just can never seem to catch up.

Which brings me to my point of which is best illustrated by a particular birthday card give to me by my parents this May.  ”You’re 30, You’re mature, You’re responsible…. You’re old”.  Yes, that is it.  Not that I am old old, but wow, things change dramatically at 30 especially when a woman adds a huge dash of domesticity to her life.  In two years I’ve noticed big differences in my body, my energy, and most importantly, my interests.  I came to grad school wanting to read and write and that was it.  Two years later I’m over it.  My life consists of a simple, yet satisfying day job, chats with my sweetie are about practical issues in the present and fanciful dreams of our future, and the rest of my time is spent with my mac and reality tv – all of this leaves no room to write. [for now?]

Cycling Scotland

Lordy my calves are killing me!  It’s three days and I’m knackered, but instead of staying at this hostel (my first of the trip) two nights I’m aching to continue on.  Time to head right and hope for a tailwind.  It’s been a ridiculous ride of heavy head winds so far.

Started by training to Dunkell within plans to be at a hostel.  I knew better than to call before I got on the train because somehow I thought perhaps it wouldn’t work out.  Guess what, they didn’t answer the phone!  I also had some trouble with the train due to the poor booking by the lady in Norwich.  Figures, hey?  Woulda been better on the phone?  Who knows, but 4 trains later I made it just before dark and rolled in to an official camp ground.

I started off that day aprehension but excited.  The first bit around Pilotchy was lovely and as I was following the National Cycle Network I was able to easily go on some backroads.  They were a bit hilly, but the traffic free nature was worth it.  By midday the rains and winds had come on and stuck with me for the next 24 hours.  I was pushing against the most fierce headwind for at least the last 10 miles.  My body was suffering from fatigue and I was getting worried about where I would stay.  I figured I’d be wild camping that night, but the route kept me on a cycle path between the A9 and railroad.

Finally, I spotted a clump of trees and prayed this would be my home that night.  I even knocked on a nearby house but no one was home as it was only 4pm.  I went down to the trees and found they were fenced in!  What?  I guess to keep the sheep out…  Ther was a lodge down there, but it was being renovated.. figures.  I was getting chilled trying to make up my mind and started to panic a little.  I really wasn’t sure the outcome of any decision (either tw) I could make.  So I went for it and squatted a sheep pasture.

I’m pretty sure those trees saved me that night.  I kept thinking that if one thing went wrong it could all turn bad quickly.  I hunkered in my sleeping bag for about two hours trying to warm up.  I should have added a second smart wool to my top and feet – or even broken out the hand warmers, but I was too cold to move.  Scary stuff.  Finally I got warm and the wind eased off a bit.  I quickly gathered some water from the stream… yes, I treated it though it was stilly yucky Scotish river brown… and I’m sure with particles of sheep poo.  Made some dins and called my honey.  I had a tiny reprieve in the weather to stand outside and gaze down the valley before the wind picked up again.

I haven’t been so scared of the wind since 1992 in Washington State.  It as Clinton’s inagguration day and I had stayed home sick from the 6th grade.  We lost 26 trees on our property that day and electricity for the next three days.  I kept thinking about trees… and how they fall… and so proceeded to dig up all those hymns and church songs to sing in my head for comfort.  Around 4am something did fall on me… my bike.  I had leaned it up against the fencing and put my tent up close for security.  Amazing, that the wind made it through the trees and pushed the bike over like a blade of grass.  Luckily I had decided to put my head the other direction and so the bike just went on my feet and I was able to slip out.  I grabbed my headlamp and shoes to pull the bike off and push it further away.

I’m not sure I slept anymore even though I kept it dark by tucking my head in the hood of my sleeping bag and cinching up the closure to a 4 inch slit.  I ended up staying that way for another 2 or 3 hours until I decided to move and get my clothes on.  I stepped out to check the weather and went to the other side of the trees only to be pelted with rain drops.  The rain was moving in misty sheets horizontally!  I jumped back in the bag to warm up and waited awhile longer.  Finally I made some cold cereal and just as I was finishing the weather seemed to break.  I’ve never packed up so quickly.

Just as I got my tent down a truck pulled up.  I crouched behind my bike a little and tinkered with the poles… holding my breath.  He either didn’t see me or didn’t care and after getting through the gate blasted off (probably to go shoot some deer).

I made it to the mountain pass that day – 457meters.  Doesn’t seem like much, but I earned it.  Had I been able to go another 5 miles the night before I’d have reached a Bed and Breakfast, ergh.  Oh well, was an adventure!

Getting Old

My mobile just dropped the call with my mom – or maybe skype dropped the call on her side. Either way, I’m left waiting for it to ring again so we can continue the conversation at the point when we were agreeing that I am indeed getting old.

I’m supposed to go on this cycling trip and I’m about 2 weeks, 1 week, or just 3 days late from leaving. However, I can be sure there are 4 more days to add to the delay – at least. I can’t seem to get myself to buy a train ticket north. I got my bike tuned up today and even drug my 3 kilos of motorist atlas along for the overnight stay in Yarmouth… but didn’t even crack a page to start highlighting a route. What is my problem?

This trip has been on my mind all year long. I packed my cycle tour gear back in September when I made the move fully intending to put it to use sometime within the 12 months. I originally wanted to cycle Scotland in July and then take a major journey through Europe once the Masters program was over. All this fell apart for two reasons. The first being that writing a dissertation is much more time consuming (mainly slow-going for procrastination/motivation reasons) that one expects. The second is that the main thing I want in life right now is to be with my new sweetheart. He is from Africa, I am from North America and it seems Europe is most hospitable to our being together. To do this we must get post study work visas for the UK and to do that we must not leave the island until we have them in our little hands. We’re talking January people (if we’re lucky)! So I’ve taken to calling the island… Alcatraz.

I’m getting old because without my will or consent I’ve begun to seriously re-prioritise things. I’m beginning to think that a solo cycle trip is careless at best and reckless at worst. How can I go on a vacation when I’m already in the red and have no job to return to? Why would I go on holiday without my sweetheart when all I really want to do is be with him all-of-the-time? Is it right to experience yet another great adventure by myself? I’ve thought recently about all the amazing things I’ve done due to, yes, a lot of hard work and courage, but also just because I’m lucky and privileged enough. And I realise my dear has not been able to do these things and that I so badly want him to experience it too. I want to show him all the great things in Europe – the cathedrals and castles and cuisine. He’s never been in any mountains and I want him to experience the wonder of getting above a tree line amongst jagged rock. And his clothes, oh dear, he doesn’t own a scrap of high-tech gear.. no polypro, merino, or gore. [At this juncture I begin to ponder what kind of match we make and just how far one can extend to meet the cultural divide]

Of course its ridiculous to think I can or should try to replicate my memories for him – that’s not possible and I don’t really want a re-do. I want new memories, new adventures, but no longer as the solo wanderer. I’ve gotten a lot of flack over the years about my traveling solo. I’ve never been willing to just wait around for a travelling buddy to arrive and so I go it alone. But presently……… I just can’t help but be seriously frustrated at the Universe! I finally have someone I want very much to travel with and yet circumstances dictate he stay home. ACK!

At two months into the relationship it dawned on me that I’ve never been in a relationship before. The others were short affairs filled with childishness and trauma. But being with this man, oh goodness, its a partnership that’s been so quickly built on a lot of solid reality. It’s hard – damn hard. My ideals are being challenged especially my feminist values. While some stand.. others are becoming quite pliable. When it gets particularly difficult I start getting a little feisty and imagine myself shoving my feet in the sand trying with all my might to keep the ocean from stealing the grains from around my toes. I then mutter to myself about how great I am being single. How for 10 years I’ve been perfecting the art of single-hood to the point that I’m a master, an expert, a guru! And now what – I must start all over again figuring out how to be in a relationship?! Will this take another 10 years? [Don’t worry, I’m already seeing how learning to be a good partner is a process that will continue for the rest of life].

And so I ponder about how this could be my last time playing the role of the single girl that I fiercely love. Pretty soon (like seriously. soon!) I will have to finish up the last page of this decade’s scrapbook and pull out a new blank one. Oooh, those blank pages representing the hopeful unknown – yikes, scary.

So do I stay or do I go?

Silence

Why have I been silent so long you ask? Well… I haven’t been! I’ve been babbling along for the past 4 months writing a Master’s dissertation. Yep, and I had no more words for you. In fact my tweeting has ‘gone dark’ and my Facebook messaging intermittent. Writing 12,000 words for the capstone of your academic career leaves few words for anyone else. And not just creating words, but taking words in. There were times I just needed silence.

So now what? My dissertation is handed in (’Donate Now’ and Save the World: A proposed methodology for researching the stories of international development fundraising) and I’m free and clear from most any responsibility in life! Save those pesky student loans that will be scratching at my door come next month. But for now there is nothing, absolutely nothing. Yesterday I went to lunch with a friend, took a nap, ate dinner, and made popcorn for a movie night in with my sweetheart. This morning I slept in then puttered around the kitchen baking vegan Chai cake and Emmeline-is-a-muffin chocolate muffins. Some Facebook updates and now this blog… its just after noon and I’m thinking about a shopping trip and a visit to the neighbourhood coffee shop. Ahhhh…. stay-cation.

Of course this will not last, but oh wait – first a real holiday. I’ve got plans to visit Scotland by bicycle starting next week. My gear is nearly in order and my maps from amazon should be here shortly. I’m thinking to train north a ways then got on the bike and just go wherever. I don’t want a plan or agenda or expectations. When I feel I’m done I will come back… hopefully that will be after at least a week due to all the effort I’m putting forth to make this happen. The weather has dried up a bit down south, so fingers crossed we’ll get a blast of summer that we were missing out on all year.

That’s the update, I’ll probably write a few more blogs now that I have time and words… though not so much to write about!

Resources

My mom taught me not to let money get in the way of doing something. It’s not really a spiritual thing, I suppose sort of a philosophy – but mostly just an obstinate look at the world. A way of demanding everything from life.

I first remember her telling me this sometime around 14-16 years old. I didn’t interpret it to mean I could go out and buy lots of things – shop with friends for the latest fashions and the like. I’ve never been into that anyway. Nor did I interpret it to mean I could go to the movies or spend money on entertainment frivolously. It had nothing to do with justifying an obsession to consume.

Nope.

The philosophy is about claiming life-enriching experience. I assume she first told me this around the time I was doing a lot with the youth group and thinking about Jesus-festivals and mission trips – many of which required fundraising. I did a lot of these things and they were life-defining events in some matter or other. It definitely applies to education too and with a lot of parental help I was able to earn a Bachelor’s Degree.

So I’ve held this ideology my whole life and have rarely made a decision against an experience based on finances. If I did… it was probably an excuse to not do something that I didn’t necessarily want to do. This does mean that I’ve forgone a lot as I’m ever mindful of my bank account and saving goals. But for this reason I’ve almost always been able to do what I want – in due time. Last year I managed to send myself to the Middle East – the plane ticket alone cost $1,600! Never mind the time off work and expenses while traveling. And it was so worth it – another life changing experience.

I’m now nearing completion of my M.A. program and for the most part it has been self-funded. However, being ever so practical, I did take a government loan. This is because I have absolutely no clue what September brings. I don’t know where I’ll be, what I’ll do, if I’ll get a job etc. etc. etc. So I thought it best to borrow money and have a solid cushion beneath me while I wait out my destiny.

Now I’ve tooted my own horn: I’m a saver – I’m a doer – I’m incredibly privileged.

America is not really my favourite place these days and as far as I’m concerned, I’m “on a break”. However, living in another country always brings great perspective of your own and so there are many things I am thankful for about the States.

Studying with colleagues from 55 different countries – many from what we call “developing countries” blows away all perspective I’ve ever held.

The U.S. government gave me a loan. They said… here, have $14,000 at 6.5% (which is actually rather shitty… check out home loan rates these days) and have fun in England! I can pay this back over approximately 10 years and while the gov makes a profit, I still profit from living a cushy life. Today I had my hair cut, ate sushi, drank a latte, and enjoyed a massage. Seriously. I’m a poor example of a “broke university student” (to be honest I haven’t had many consumerist pleasures lately and they all just happened to fall on the same day, so I don’t feel guilty doing these things nor admitting I did them).

Can you feel the drips of entitlement for a comfortable life coming across…?

So I have a colleague who does not come from such a background. He’s quite frugal. He wears the same silly sweater nearly every day over a button-up shirt, he looks smart (he is smart) and carries himself proudly. But he’s broke. Flat out – its scary. And the university is demanding he pay up or he’ll be suspended… and as far as the UK government is concerned, that’s grounds for deportation.

Why the predicament? Didn’t he plan for the costs of this year? Yep, he did. He put his entire savings into it and had the promise of a relative who was to pay the balance. But like there’s this whole world economy recession crumbling thing… and so that relative lost his job. And so it snowballs: payments are not made, fines are doled, and an ultimatum is given.

What is my friend to do?

His government doesn’t lend money. His country’s economy is as shifty as the sandy beaches. He doesn’t have a Jeff & Roxi who (while worrying about their retirement nest egg) selflessly transfer numbers and decimals into a child’s account.

It all comes down to access to resources.

Of anyone who should be studying “international development” – it should NOT be the “white girl who cares”. It should be the nationals, the students who will return home and invest their lives into making their communities and countries more just, more equal, more livable, more lovely.

My heart is heavy.

A couple vids from my trip

Opinion on feminist conference presenters [20 May 2010]

Conference presenters are fascinating. Just as we are all diverse in appearance and interests – so are we in presentation style. Many are dry and content laborious while others are boisterous and entertaining. Currently I am writing this during the most unengaging speech ever.

The woman’s mouse voice matches her mousy brown hair. Soft-spoken is too bold a descriptor for her. Though her abstract is interesting and I’m sure the content fascinating – I think reading the aper while sitting on hot coals in a dim room would be more enjoyable.

This year I brought Prezi to UEA. It’s a super fun slideshow that emphasizes the visual by simplistic, yet flashy features. It is difficult to be bored with Prezi. Now powerpoint, as we all know is also a worse death than by slow starvation. i’ve seen more white background slides than I ever thought possible in 6 hours of a conference. Ppoint can be used well – when slowing images and long quotes, which will be read. Otherwise a few bullets are a ridiculous waste.

A major pet peeve of mine is to watch presenters fumble with technology. Perhaps the computer will not turn on or the slides are out of order or the microphone volume is too low. I am particularly critical of women’s fumblings. This is of course sexist, but I think I am so because it disappoints me that the lack of tech knowledge can become a stumbling block on the pathway to accessing the knowledge she will present. I would of course need to do proper research – but my theory is that those who fumble most often are indeed women. If so then it becomes unsurprising that a woman fumbles, and yet it still discredits her.

If you cannot convey your message then the content is lost. In this case then is it reasonable to say the content should never have been sought? If academics are unwilling to learn presentation skills then we will continue to observe the disconnect between academia and society. It is no wonder that sound bytes taken from journals convey too simplistic, possibly erroneous information, which will unfortunately be imprinted upon the reader.

A critique of this argument may be that the onus is on the audience. We are accused of being a people with too short of an attention span having been tainted for decades now with 30 second commercials and information overload. And this may be true, but unfortunately it is the current evolution. And so where does responsibility lie? Who should then adapt so a message can be received?

My other peeve is when a person asks a question by first informing the lecturer and surrounding colleagues of his or her cleverness. This is done by referencing multiple authors and philosophers (Darwin, Freud, Butler et et et) blah blah blah. The person uses no fewer than 20 sentences to “ask a question”. The ramble will somehow include a real question, which is either ridiculous short after all, or so embedded into the soapbox speech that no one can understand the point. This happened often at the conference and most regularly by an older man (one of two present) who did so with such hubris I think Plato ought to have struck him down. My favorite moments were when such lecture-questions were met with a blank stare from presenter. The best was Sarah Franklin who just replied, “I don’t’ know” and moved on to the next question. Awesome!

Rather than learn a lot about new adventures in gender studies, I learned about gender conferences. The awkwardness of feminists negotiating exercises in female solidarity with authoritative commandeering is a sight.

Tan Lines [18 May 2010]

I would like to thank Russia and Finland for my tan lines. Oh yes, it is true. Just as an Alaskan sunburn didn’t seem possible – so has the same randomness in the other North occurred.

Being in the arctic has made me realize just how arctic a girl I’ve become. This year has been nice being away from massive amounts of snow and ice. But oh how I’ve missed wavering trees and rippling waters! I miss having two and even three moose days! This is all no surprise. My need to leave Alaska was for soul-deep reasons and not because I did not love the land. I did! I loved it more than any other place in the world and often pinched myself to see if I was alive and actually living in such a beautiful place. Often I exclaimed to myself “I live here!”

But I live there no longer an now must renegotiate myself – my interests. I still have my bike and fiercely love riding. It’s not as easy to get to the outdoors in England, but when I do I am in love. Moving to a new place requires patience with ones self in the time it takes to adapt to the environment and relearn that self in a new context.

I can’t possibly utter the words “I belong here” – anywhere, let alone a Nordic country that I’ve spent one sleep in. But the possibility of such a reality is on my mind. It’s nice to be inconspicuous as a tourist – my blond hair attracted so much attention in the Middle East, but is of course ignored here. And while it is nice to be unique – to be different in this world of billions, it is also comforting to feel incredibly similar. It allows me to be completely comfortable in my skin. Goodness, I don’t even mind my non-euro look for the Alaskan attire I still don just barely passes here in a another land of the midnight sun.