The Beaches of Bali & the Tale of the Fashion-Forward Monkey

With one hand I clutched the back of the motorbike and with the other I held the camera, firmly strapped around my neck, and snapped pictures as we sped along. The exhaust fumes from the big monster trucks passing us with blaring horns only served to add to the terrifying idea that we were the tiniest vehicle on the highway. This was a different Bali than the one I had seen before. The day had been designated as a beach day and after some Google research the night before, it was agreed that three popular beaches would be visited: Sanur, Nusa Dua, and Kuta (perhaps the most well-known one of the three). And so, with a map and a general sense of which direction to go, we set off the next morning.

Our journey took us to the southern part of Bali, closer to the busy city center of Denpasar. The highway soaked up the heat of the sun an reflected it back on us. At one point, when we stopped at a stoplight, I saw a sign that kept updating the temperature every 2 minutes. 38 degrees Celsius, a nice even 100 degrees Fahrenheit. I couldn't wait to get to water. We wove in and out of traffic and down side streets, passing seaside restaurants and shops selling 'I Love Bali" shirts.

 Finally, up ahead we saw a man signaling frantically to us. He charged us 50 cents for parking and we looked uselessly for a spot in the shade. In the end, we settled for an area that was semi-shaded by the outskirt leaves of a tree. It was almost noon. Probably the worst time to be outside in the heat. I made a beeline for the water.....and stopped, disappointed. This was not what I had imagined tropical Bali would be like. Instead of clean pristine sand and water, brown sand littered with trash greeted my eye. Okay, maybe the water would be better. No such luck. The ocean edge was lapping against the beach filled with ocean debris. I couldn't picture myself swimming in it. The European retirees lying on the beach with already over cooked, crusty brown, scaly skin, didn't seem to mind. Obviously I had been spoiled by my ocean side upbringing in beautiful Mazatlan. Some time was spent walking and taking pictures, but eventually we tired and decided to try our luck further South in Nusa Dua.

We didn't have far to go, it was only around a 30 minute drive. As we neared the beach we were overwhelmed by the beautifully kept foliage and gardens that surrounded us on every side. This was obviously well kept for tourists which seemed like a promising start. We rode down lovely lanes shaded by trees on each side, saw neatly trimmed lawns branching out from the Nusa Dua Theatre, until finally we pulled up to a parking lot with beach and water shimmering invitingly in the distance. Parking was free as we had already paid a toll prior to entering the Nusa Dua area. Like a shot, I was off the bike and headed to the water. This was exactly what I had in mind all those years ago when I had sat pouring over our immense atlas at home in North America. I had dreamed of seeing sights like this and I could feel the magic tingling all around me as I witnessed my dreams come to life. Unfortunately, I would soon discover that Nusa Dua was purposely built and sterilized to please tourists - this took away from some of the awe at its natural beauty, but did not take away from the fun! The sand was white and silky and as I ran into the water I realized that it was so transparent I could see everything on the ocean floor. Amazing! The waves were very tiny and there was no undercurrent which made it one of the safest beaches I have visited. Seaweed and rocks dotted the ocean floor but the clear water made it easy to maneuver around them. I ran and played as if I were once again a child. And there were children there laughing and smiling with dimples the size of small craters and brown skin toasted to perfection by the Indonesian sun. They stopped in their games long enough to give us a few top model poses and some cheeky smiles.

 Life seemed surreal at that moment.









Having cooled down and played to our heart's content, we decided to move on to see the most famous (and notorious) beach of all: Kuta. Since we were still ahead of schedule, we opted to take a detour to see Uluwatu Temple on our way. Even as we got away from the bustle of the city center, I could see the scenery was vastly different from the poignantly green and moist rice fields and palm tree forests from before. The flora was much wilder and drier in this part of Bali. I began to see different types of trees and colorful flowers. There were no palm trees to block the horizon which gave a feeling of wide open spaces as far as the eye could see. We sped along under the sweltering sun, and after asking frequently for directions, we finally found Uluwatu. The sarongs were put on, the camera was pulled out, and we began our trek. What should be the first thing to greet our eyes? More monkeys! Everywhere! Apparently this temple is also known for the monkeys which hang out there. As we approached the temple steps, we witnessed a funny sight: somehow one of the monkeys had managed to get a hold of a man's sandal. It sat happily on a post hugging the shoe and snarling threateningly every time the poor tourist tried to take it back. This was obviously a common occurrence, because a Balinese man (who may or may not have been an employee there, it's hard to know) expertly threw a bag of peanuts straight at the monkey. The monkey greedily snatched them up and dropped the shoe - making for a successful rescue mission! It was a good reminder to keep all our things in our backpack just in case.

Uluwatu was an incredible experience! Perched precariously on a looming cliff edge, it offered one of the most awe-inspiring views of my time in Bali. Looking down meter upon meter I could see the ocean pulling and tossing, every now and then throwing itself against the cliff walls in a glorious burst of foamy spray. The temple was beautiful, but more worth it for the view, in my opinion. Just walking along the wall and watching the raging waters, brilliant in the afternoon sun, made me feel so small. It was wonderful.

My growling stomach betrayed the time that had elapsed since breakfast - it seemed like an eternity. We left the temple grounds and stopped at a stand on the outskirts that was selling Mee Goreng (spicy noodles!) and fresh coconuts. A plate was ordered and a coconut was cut open right in front of us. The coconut milk tasted so refreshing after a long day out in the sun! We settled in at a table and relaxed. When the meal came we dove in, starved. I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye and jumped up, startled. I was sure the monkey was going for the plate of food and I didn't plan on getting in his way (I had seen the fangs on those little guys!). Instead, he calmly picked up my sunglasses which I had foolishly left lying on the table and strolled away. A moment of shock ensued until I saw the shop lady who had prepared our meal streak by in a blaze of glory. She was laden down with chocolates and chucking them at the monkey with the hopes of either knocking him unconscious or distracting him, I couldn't decide which. The monkey scampered under a car refusing to give up the sunglasses. He did, after all, have something that none of the other monkeys had. He was a cutting edge, stylish monkey!

 I winced as he dragged the glasses along the ground surely scratching them beyond repair. He then perched himself outside of her throwing arm and calmly chewed on the the glasses. I began to doubt the necessity of actually getting them back. Would I want to put those back on my face after they'd been in a monkey's mouth? I wondered. The shop owner refused to give up and after many chocolates were wasted and the sunglasses had been passed around between three or four monkeys, one of them finally let go and like a shot the shop lady dashed in and grabbed them. Beaming with success, she brought them to me. The nose caps were gone and as I had suspected the lenses were too scratched to see through. The shop lady cheerfully added the chocolates to our bill. Talk about monkey madness!

Finally, we set off on the final leg of our journey: Kuta. Kuta Beach is quite close to Denpasar which meant that we would have to head back to the bustle and blaring of the city center. With reluctance I waved goodbye to the wide open spaces and clutched the motorbike seat precariously as traffic, buildings, and pollution became more and more dense around me. I had already experienced so many close brushes with death on that motorbike that I had resigned myself to the non-stop terror that ensued the minute I got on it and on the road. Traffic was heavy but it was easy to find Kuta without asking for too many directions as there were lots of signs to indicate which way we should go. Hair salons, massage parlors, half dressed mannequins, and surf shops greeted my eye as we got closer and closer. We turned down a side road and followed it to the end. It was another 50 cents for parking; this time inside a fenced in lot. And then we went down to the beach to have the 'Kuta' experience.

Perhaps I was already too tired and sunburned to properly enjoy it, but in all honesty, out of all three beaches Kuta was without a doubt the worst. There was garbage everywhere. And people! I can't remember the last time I have seen so many people on the beach and in the water. It gave the impression of a congested and dirty beach.

The sand was dirt brown, the water murky and questionable. A few pictures were taken, but in the end I had had enough of the beaches of Bali and really wanted to relax. We sped out into the evening traffic and headed back to Ubud. The moon began to show her face in the pink and orange streaked sky. It was beautiful. And then, suddenly, it started to rain. And there we were, on a motorbike, on a road that is dangerous in the daytime with full visibility, but riding through the dark night with rain pelting us from all sides. It was awesome! Sure, I was cold and achy after sitting on the motorbike all day, but I had to laugh thinking about how I had been wishing all day for a chance to cool off and now here it was! It was impossible to be grumpy about it!
Soaked to the bone and dead tired, we pulled into Ubud. And guess where I finished my long, hard day of seeing the beaches of Bali? Back at the Magic Finger, getting a luxurious 15 USD massage. A perfect ending to an exciting day!

Monkey Madness and Bali by Bike

 " We live in a wonderful world that is full of beauty, charm and adventure. There is no end the the adventures we can have if only we seek them with our eyes open." - Jawaharial Nehru

Jakarta was my original destination for the long weekend. However, my travel buddy had recently been to Jakarta and wasn't in the mood to repeat the same destination, instead we agreed on Bali. So I found myself on a Friday night touching down on the famous island looking forward to a much anticipated good time. What greeted me? Chaos, complete and utter chaos. First, we had to get in line to make our visa payment (25USD), after that it was a good long 45 minute wait to get through customs. When we finally managed to get our bags we had to merge into a blob of tourists fighting their way to the bag check stations - there were only two stations for hundreds of people which made the wait quite intense and stressful. Finally, we made our mad dash for the door! The beaches, rice terraces, and delicious food of Bali awaited us! The mood fell as rapidly as it rose. There was only one official taxi station for the entire airport which meant a fourth queue of around 30 minutes. Taxi drivers lolled nearby offering us tantalizing deals so that we wouldn't have to wait., but we knew better. Going through the official taxi station was safer and also much cheaper. While regular taxi drivers were offering to drive us to Ubud (around and hour and a half away) for 50USD, the official taxi station did it for half that price which made the wait well worth it. Unfortunately, the drive to Ubud was rather uneventful; it was late and the road was sparsely lit making it difficult to see much of the scenery outside the taxi windows. The road seemed to grow increasingly narrow as we distanced ourselves from the bustle of busy Denpasar; I caught glimpses of rice fields bathed in moonlight, ominous palm tree forests rising in the distance, and the occasional leering statue from temples by the roadside. Close to midnight we pulled into sleepy and quiet Ubud. The air was a fresh mixture of cow dung and grass and I took a big breath as I descended from the taxi. I could feel natural surroundings embracing me on all sides. I couldn't wait to see what Bali had to offer the next day!

The following morning, the first order of business was the procurement of a motorbike. This part was easy, at the cheap price of around 7USD per day (yes, I said PER DAY) the bike was a bargain. Now, if you are ever in Bali and decide to rent a motorbike to see the island, there is one very important thing to remember; be sure to bring a REALLY good bad driver. What is a good bad driver you may be wondering? The opposite of a good good driver, of course! I am a good good driver which means that I follow the rules, signal when I pass, don't drive at oncoming traffic, and generally try to behave very courteously towards other drivers. A good good driver is essentially useless in Bali and may quite possibly just end up getting you killed. A good bad driver, on the other hand, has no regard for anyone else on the road, never signals, drives at oncoming traffic and only swerves at the very last minute, and generally drives like a maniac. With a good bad driver you will have many close brushes with death, but you will come out the other side quite alive and without a scratch. Good bad drivers can be found in Thailand, India, Mexico, and of course Indonesia. :) I brought my very own Indian good bad driver which meant that I was set for an exciting day of motorbiking.

Our first stop was the famous Monkey Forest. This is a natural park/ forest where you can hang out with wild monkeys and even feed them! But be careful because these little guys are mastermind thieves; a lesson I learned quite quickly when, after purchasing 2USD worth of bananas and paying my entrance ticket (also 2USD) I was holding the bananas in my right hand as I read aloud the brochure the ticket guy had given me. Suddenly I felt something latch onto my arm and startled I let go of the entire bunch of bananas and turned and watched in awe as a monkey dashed off into the forest hauling his bananas with him. Wily monkey! I purchased another bunch of bananas and stored them in my backpack only holding one in my hand at a time. At first I was rather scared to hold the banana out and allow the monkeys to take it from my hand. I wasted two or three just throwing them half hazard in the direction of innocent monkeys out for their morning stroll and minding their own business. Breakfast was falling from the sky for them! Finally, I gathered my courage and picking out a tiny and harmless monkey I decided I would entice him to climb up to my arm to get a banana from my hand. I held the banana in my right hand high above my head and waited. In the blink of an eye a big dude of a monkey spotted the banana and made a beeline straight for me. I held my ground. He clambered straight up and perched happily on my shoulder, leaned his furry monkey paws casually on my hat as if he were hanging out at a local bar, and happily partook of the banana. Mission completed! Once the bananas were all gone and I had had my fill of frolicking monkeys, we headed out.




Our next stop (maneuvering the whole while through the terrifying Ubud traffic) was the Goa Gajah temple in Ubud. Bali is 90% Hindu so this temple featured (of course) a Hindu temple but also a Buddhist temple. It was necessary to purchase a sarong in order to look more modest prior to entering the temple grounds.

 We decided that we wanted to see an even more impressive temple so we opted for a  trek to Besakih, the highest temple in Bali. This is where the trip started to get really interesting. Being ignorant tourists, we had to stop frequently and ask for directions from local Balinese. Balinese are famous for being friendly which is something that proved true throughout the trip as we constantly had people asking us (even pulling up beside us on their own motorbikes to inquire) where we were trying to go. I think this mainly had to do with the fact that they would ride up behind our motorbike and see my scrawny, pasty white arms and legs flailing out in every direction and they would assume I was in dire need of some sort of assistance. Only once did someone give us wrong directions. Everyone we spoke to always knew which way we should go, the real problem became their strange inability to judge distance. The first person we asked told us Besakih was 40 km away - this seemed far but still doable-, but 10 minutes later when we stopped to double check, we were told it was 15km away. Hmmmm strange. Either we were traveling at lightning fast speed or something was going terribly awry. After riding for around and hour, we asked a police officer how far it was. "3km." Was his confident answer. Thirty minutes later I began to realize that this was turning out to be the longest 3km ever. However, it was somehow difficult to be bothered by this, mostly because the scenery was so beautiful that we were both occupied with just drinking it in. We saw rice terraces stacking up in green so vibrant it made our eyes ache, and we were awed by the stupendous presence of Danau Batur - one of the dormant volcanoes of Bali which features and enormous and exquisite crater lake by its side. The open fields gave way to forests as we rode up into the mountains. The air became chilly and nipped at our rosy cheeks.
And finally we saw Besakih rising up before us. The entire journey had taken us nearly two hours! It was beautiful temple made of ancient stone. There were statues surrounding the steps leading up to the temple and they were all wrapped in one of three colors: red, black, or white. According to one young gentleman who was helping us as a guide, these represented three elements: wind, rain, and fire. The temple was beautiful and definitely worth the drive.

 Heading back to Ubud the sun was starting to grow lower in the distance which made for a gorgeous view. Oranges and reds streaked the sky over endless fields of rice. The day ended with an hour long massage at a place in Ubud called The Magic Finger. It was deliciously relaxing and only 15USD for and hour! My first day in Bali seemed to me to be a resounding success! :)

The Good, the Bad, and the Choreographer's Block

" Choreography is simpler than you think. Just go and do, and don't think so much about it. Just make something interesting."                - George Balanchine

It usually starts with a piece of music. Mostly I am caught off guard, only once have I ever intentionally searched for music for a piece of choreography I was commissioned to do. Every other time it's the sudden realization that without knowing it I have started to naturally move to the music. Then I think "I could dance to this!". So I'll listen to the music over and over again, allowing my imagination to invoke ideas, memories, concepts of what the music makes me feel. Sometimes I feel great sadness, or a carefree happiness, or even just imagine colors mingling and merging in my mind - and those times I want to express what that color makes me feel.

At some point it starts coming together in my brain; I may not know the exact theme right away, but I know the feeling I want to convey and that is where I begin. Sometimes I have to hold on to ideas for weeks and months without an outlet to express them in, but, other times I get lucky and I am presented with a venue and dancers who I can share my ideas and emotions with and who can express these feelings with the athleticism of their bodies. This is when the hard work really begins.

The first couple of rehearsals go well; I teach small sequences of the dance so as to merge them together later. But at some point, the choreographer's block sets in (yes, I insist that choreographer's block is a real term). Suddenly I feel that I cannot find the right movements and transitions to fit smoothly into the choreography. Rehearsals are frustrating as I try to get dancers to where I want them but seem incapable of bringing to life what's in my head. I stop sleeping and lie awake at night thinking and thinking, listening and listening, allowing the music to organically express to me where I should go. I try to listen to what the musical artist behind the piece hopes to ennunciate to me as well - after all, it is important to remain true to the musician's artistic dream as well.

But finally, one day, as I'm listening to the music for the thousandth time, I experience a moment of clarity. Simpler is sometimes better, I realize, and so I stop striving for complicated formations and go with a more effortless idea. It starts coming together and before I know it time flies and the piece is finished. Now comes the fear. I begin to worry and dread putting the choreography onstage in front of people. What if no one likes it? What if they don't understand it? What if my choreography is unoriginal and not any good? This is the moment when I lean on other artsists and remind myself of a fellow artist's words: "You have to remain true to yourself, create something original, then just hope that everyone likes it." And then I just let go. :)

Life Lessons as Taught by Three Year Olds

"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

I'm still not really sure what made me decide to move to Singapore. It was a mixture of boredom and the anticipation of adventure, I suppose. I had nothing better to do, my prospects of finding a job post-graduation in the USA seemed slim, and Singapore sounded romantic and exotic in comparison to where I was in the drab desert of South Texas. So almost on a whim, I packed my life into two suitcases and moved to other side of the world - never imagining the heady highs and despondent lows that I would experience here – all of which would form part of what I now consider to be one of the greatest learning experiences of my life.

 What I encountered in Singapore left me saddened. It is a culture that still does not fully accept the arts as a viable career and has yet to grasp the concept of the time, effort, discipline, and beauty that goes into becoming an artist. I found myself teaching class after class to students whose parents only allowed them to attend ballet class once a week. Some of them were painfully talented, others disgruntled and disrespectful precisely because they didn't want to take dance classes. Very shortly after my arrival, I fell into a deep depression. I felt that what I was doing was irrelevant; I was not forming artists, nor was I choreographing, I was simply teaching classes to children who generally took it as a hobby or were pressured to do just well enough to pass the annual ballet exam. I gave the best of myself daily but began to question my purpose and what I could take from the job as well.

About three months into my time in Singapore, I was approached by a mother who had sat through her daughter's first Pre-primary ballet lesson. She had watched me struggle to get the little girl to make eye contact and to understand my movements. The mother was intensely apologetic: her little four year- old had autism and experienced issues with making eye contact and forming sentences. The mother - a young woman not much older than me - apologized again and again, mortified that her daughter had disrupted my class. I didn't know much about autism, but I sensed that taking dance lessons was probably good for the little girl no matter what. I asked that she bring her daughter back the next week and we would try again. In the few weeks that followed, I was initially hesitant and nervous because I wasn't quite sure how to adequately instruct a child in these special circumstances. However, her mother sat quietly in on every class and helped me along. I learned to use masking tape to help the tiny dancer find her place in the room, to snap my fingers when I needed her to focus her eyes, to pick up on signals which indicated that she felt lost in the studio space and needed guidance to her spot. Her mother firmly made her practice simple sentences on a weekly basis: "Hello, Teacher Katherine.", "I want the blue sticker.", "Good-bye, Teacher Katherine." Suddenly, without realizing how or why, this little girl has become the highlight of my week. As the tiniest dancer in the class, she is looked after by the taller girls who have all fallen in love with her. She is generally the last dancer to arrive after all my other ballerinas have already taken their places on the studio floor, but the minute she walks into the room in her tiny pink leotard, skirt, tights, and shoes, with her hair pulled back into a neat bun on the top of her head, and an enormous smile on her face, the entire class calls out her name in excited unison.

 Another learning experience for me began when I was asked to teach one on one classes to two little three year old sisters. It was an odd request, as at that age one on one classes are not necessary, but for some reason I agreed. My first lesson with the two little sisters created a deep impression on me. One of them was your typical three year- old: she didn't take the class seriously, enjoyed playing the games, and had her moments of distraction. The other little sister, however, was the complete opposite. She never made a joke out of my class, but watched me with luminous, serious brown eyes and copied with precision my every movement. She had a raw 2 inch scar on her upper right chest and a head of peach fuzz hair - I discovered that she was fighting leukemia and for fear of infection her mother didn't want her in a regular class of three year olds. The scar was a constant reminder of the surgeries and treatments she was suffering through at a time in her life which should have been made up of innocence and joy. Perhaps this is why she seemed so mature - she innately understood something that I probably never would. Not even she knew that she possessed this wisdom. Every day was a battle and a struggle yet she seemed to live life to a much fuller extent than any of my other three year old students. She seemed determined to squeeze each moment out of each ballet class she took and to never take a single second of it for granted. There were difficult days: days where her mother would call and say that she was too sick to come to class, or days where she would be crying uncontrollably throughout the entire class because (as her mother would explain to me) she had just changed medications and it was wreaking havoc on her emotions and her tiny body. But even days like these have been few and far in between. Mostly she seems sturdy and wise beyond her years and yet terrifyingly fragile at the same time. She loves the same things that other little girls love: the color pink, monkeys, smiley face stickers, and twirling on tip-toe, and yet she remains in a league of her own - completely different from every other little girl.

 So I can't say that these days I feel as if my life and my career have any more of a purpose, but I can say with certainty that I am discovering the gems and life lessons that I am humbled to learn from the tiniest of human beings. After all, if my little students can keep their chins up while going through the unimaginable, I'm sure I can do the same! :)

The Solo Girl's Guide to Thailand: Part 1

I touched down in Bangkok at 8am on a Tuesday. I had barely slept the night before, but my exhaustion was instantly replaced by excitement and I watched Bangkok envelope me bit by bit as I sped towards the heart of the city via metro. When I emmerged from the metro car, I was greeted by a plethora of sights, smells, and sounds that stood in stark contrast to the sterling,prim and proper Singapore I had left behind. The constant blare of traffic, the smell of gasoline, pollution, and garbage, the shady men who cat called to me as I walked by, all reminded me of the twilight world I lived in in Singapore - and I loved the complete change. I crashed for a nap at the hostel and awoke to the friendly face of one of my bunkmates grinning at me. Enter Kitty, a spunky Indonesian doctor who was taking her first solo trip ever and was extremely excited about it. We became friends immediately and agreed to set out exploring that same evening after my job interview. At 7:30pm we issued forth into the Bangkok night and hailed a taxi to go to Chinatown. If I felt overwhelmed as I tried to take in all the sights and sounds of Bangkok by night, Chinatown literally blew my mind. My first reaction was an awed "Wow!"; neon signs blinkind bright Chinese characters at us, traffic whipped by and people milled about the streets stopping at vending stands or sitting down at restaurants which had extended their tables out onto the sidewalks and streets. We picked the busiest restaurant we could find and stood patiently in line waiting for a couple of the plastic stools set up around one of the many foldable tables to clear up. One of the waiters winked suggestively at us while teasing that it was going to take at least two hours for us to get a seat. But two minutes later we found ourselves squeezed in at the end of a table and ordering with relish. Oyester omelette, black pepper crab, fried rice with crab meat, and mussels with chili were our choices and these were produced with rapid haste. We feasted until we were stuffed then ate more until we polished off all four dishes. The entire meal, including drinks, cost each of us less than fifteen dollars. We walked the length of Chinatown taking in the sights and smells. The majority of the vendors were Chinese which made listening to them speak music to my ears. I pulled out some of my rusty Chinese and tried to use it - this allowed me to garner more than one smile from several of the stand owners. Our next two destinations were Khaosan and Patpong. The former was a backpacker's paradise: there were cheap clothes, jewelry, bags, and other brandless items. There were vendors selling fried bugs (even cockroaches!) which was by far the most interesting thing I spotted there. Patpong was a little bit more of a hub of decadence; the night bazaar is famous for the knock-off brands sold there and you can find everything from Coach to Chanel at bargain prices (as long as you know how to barter for them). The bazaar runs down the middle of a street which has strip clubs on each side. It was a strange feeling to walk by and have people shoving laminated peices of paper in my face trying to convince me that I should go in and see one of the shows. Accross the street was another alley dedicated for those with a rather different taste: signs advertised "Fresh Young Boys" (as if they were the equivalent of purchasing fresh fruit or fish) and "Hot Male Bar". I think this is the thing the surprised me the least about Bangkok; I had heard enough about the city to know that decadence is a large part of it's notorious image. That marked the end of the night for me, I felt sure that I had had enough of this side of Bangkok and I looked forward to discovering a whole new dimension to Thailand the next day.

Church Hunting Abroad

Whenever I move to a new place, I've discovered that one of the most intimidating processes that I have to face is that of finding a church to go to. Attending a congregation of a hundred or so people who for the most part have broken off into smaller groups of aquaintences can be scary and overwhelming. Back when I left home for the first time, my first day away actually fell on a Sunday. I was taken to a local church and dropped off at the door with directions on how to get home. Even though I was fifteen minutes early, the church was jam packed with people - there wasn't an empty seat in sight. This, however, did not stop the usher from leading me to the second pew from the front and requesting that a woman give up her seat to me, as I was a guest at the service. Mortified I tried to say no, but both the usher and the lady were insistent. I would feel even more mortified later on when I learned that people would stake out seats for up to an hour before hand in order to have the privilege of sitting down throughout the service. Everyone else crowded around the door and at the windows in the alleys to the side of the church. My experiences later on of standing in 100 degree humidity just to be able to worship God forever changed my persepective on Christians.
But there were other more amusing episodes of church hunting. Once, when a pastor delightedly discovered that not only was I a visiting guest that day but that it also happened to be my birthday, he led the ENTIRE congregation in a hearty rendition of "Happy Birthday". Another time, after I had unwittingly filled out a visitor card at a church with all of my information (address included) I recieved an impromtu visit from two members of the congregation who stopped by my apartment randomly un-announced (it gave me the feeling that I was being stalked). Perhaps one of the best stories I can tell involves my mother who had flown to visit me while I was in training. She handed me the address of a church with the full confidence that I would know how to get there. The grandfather who lived at the house where I rented a room gave us directions on which bus to take and we set out on what would turn out to be a two hour ordeal. We switched bus lines twice and as we rumbled further and further away from anything I considered remotely familiar, I began to worry. It was growing dark and although I generally don't have a problem being lost by myself, I felt a little distressed at being completely lost with my mom in tow. Fortunately, she has a healthy sense of adventure and wasn't too phased by it at all. I finally walked to the front of the bus and asked the bus driver if we were anywhere near the address on the sheet of paper my mom had given me (by now it was a crumpled mess after being held too long in my nervous, sweaty palm). It was nothing short of a miracle when a woman who was standing off to the side remarked that she lived right down the street from the church and she could show us the way. We exited the bus and followed her through the night (again, not the safest idea, but if you know my mom you'll understand the inordinate amount of faith she has in that everything happens for a reason - a great viewpoint which she has passed on to me). We arrived safe and sound at the church doors and the look of astonishment on the pastor's face that we had made it out that far only increased when we told him we had come on the bus. "Not even a local would come all this way on the bus!" He exclaimed, surprised. We were, of course, led to the very front pew as, I now knew, was customary for guests. That night, after the service was over, they found someone with access to a car to give us a ride back. What strikes me most, is that neither my mom nor I had even thought about how we would manage to get back home - we had only thought about the journey there and assumed that, somehow, it would all work out.
So when I began my hunt for a church to attend in Singapore, it was with a bit of trepidition. I didn't know what to expect from the culture here. Luckily, I found a great church on my first try. Sure, I stand out like a sore thumb as the only blonde-haired, blue-eyed, woman in attendance (I also happen to be several inches taller than most the people there), but I am reminded of how much peace it brings me to be in a foreign place so far away from family and friends and yet to still carry out a custom that I share in common with them from the other side of the world. And I put it down to my interesting experiences visiting churches in the wierdest places that, when the pastor of the church I attend here announced from the pulpit that there was a visitor all the way from Texas and asked me to stand up, I brushed it off with a laugh - it's not so embarassing any more. :)

A Semester of Russian and a Glass of Bulgarian Whiskey

When my company manager informed me that there was going to be a special employee luncheon to celebrate Chinese New Year, I looked forward to it as an opportunity to meet some of my music and dance colleagues. My job involves very little interaction with other teachers as I am constantly shut up in the studio teaching and working with students. But I was rather surprised the next day to find myself sitting at a table compromised entirely of Eastern Europeans and Russians - all communicating in rapid Russian with the occasional English thrown in for my benefit. I would have never imagined that I would be using my one semester of Russian more than my three years of Chinese, but apparently the grand majority of my co-workers speak it better than English.
It was a fascinating community of expats of a variety of ages and professions. Some were pianists, others violinists, others dance teachers like myself. But two stood out amongst them as the most memorable for me.
One character appeared out of the blue and disappeared almost as rapidly. I returned from a trip to the buffet to discover that a rather unkempt looking man - complete with long hair and frazzled greying beard - had availed himself of the seat right accross from mine. He had brought with him an enormous plate piled high with what looked like every possible food from the buffet, and an empty glass. He didn't aknowledge me right away, but instead sat down and pulled out of his backback a glass bottle of some sort of clear liquid. For some reason I didn't think it was water. He proceeded to fill his glass with this unlabeled substance, then holding the glass in one hand he fixed me with an intense stare over the top of his spectacles and asked in heavily accented English:
"Where are you from?"
"The U.S." I replied rather timorously, poking at my watermelon slices like a little girl.
"Oh!" He turned his face away and held up his empty hand, "Then I cannot speak to you!"
Oh dear, I thought, I've offended him just by the sheer act of being American. But I had to ask.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't speak English." He replied in perfect English.
I wasn't sure whether or not to laugh at this response so I mustered a polite smile.
"Cheers!" He said, with a less than cheerful face and holding the glass of miscellaneous liquid up in the air in my general direction. Then he downed the entire glass in one gulp.
He smacked his lips, satisfied, then explained: "Bulgarian whiskey."
My reaction was a tie between admiration and alarm at having just witnessed someone swallowing that much hard liquor so easily and so early (it was noon). He then began the monumental job of working his way through his huge pile of food. He ate the entire plate,and having satisfied his T-Rex sized apetite, stood up, then asked me: "Do you smoke?" and before I could respond, answered his own question with: "Of course you don't smoke, you're American." (I'm unsure of what being American has to do with not smoking.) He then disappeared as quickly as he had come.
Still reeling from the encounter, and in search of some icecream to calm me down, I headed towards the dessert section where I was approached by a beautiful young woman.
"You work for the company as well, don't you?" She asked me.
"Yes! What do you teach?" I asked, even though I could tell that she was most likely a dancer.
"I teach dance." She smiled. "When I first came to Singapore, I was completely alone." She confided in me as we stood by pastry counter. "I was depressed for two months and I didn't know anyone."
I nodded sympathetically.
"I will give you my phone number," she continued, "I don't want the same thing to happen to you."
This sentence startled me. I didn't imagine that her story was going to end that way, I believed I was just lending her a listening ear. But she had known me less than five minutes and was already concerned for me. Back at her table, she passed her phone number to me, then as I got up to leave she gave me a glance filled with such sweet compassion that it nearly broke my heart. I saw the pain reflected from her memories of her first difficult months away from home, but even worse, I saw the reflection of how I seemed to her. I've lived far away from my childhood home for so long, that I've stopped thinking about the fact that I'm alone, or that I'm so many miles away. But in that look I saw that I looked like a young woman, who ocean's away from everything and everyone she knew, was completely and utterly alone in a strange place. For the first time since I arrived, I was enveloped in a feeling of overwhelming despair. I've been an expat my entire life and I'll probably be one until the day I die. But in that moment I realized that it takes an expat to truly understand and empathize with another. And she was the first one who, in all my travels, had managed to do that with a single glance.