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.

Singapore: A Brave New World

"Yet he did not waver through unbelief regarding the promise of God, but was strengthened in his faith and gave glory to God, being fully persuaded that God had power to do what he had promised." Romans 4:20

My first impression of Singapore is that it is a place of order. The streets are washed, heavy fines in the 1,000 of dollars are imposed for anything from littering to riding one's bicycle on the sidewalk, and chaos is more than a foreign term here - it simply does not exist. I didn't know enough of the poliitics of Singapore to realize why; my new roommate took me out to lunch upon my arrival and explained to me in candid tones that politics are not generally discussed by locals. "It's a communist government under the guise of a democracy." he explained. The next day, I discovered this to be relatively true when I found myself riding in a car with a new aquaintance. "I'm going to tell you something that I probably shouldn't say," she said in hushed tones, once we were safely in the vehicle, "some people say it is worse than communism here, but if you don't do anything wrong then you will be okay." I somehow sensed this was a warning. "Well it seems to make everything very efficient." I told her politely. "Yes, but you can never run away." This reply caused an omnious sense of dread to settle on me. I had already lived through something similar to this many years ago, I felt unsure of my desire and ability to do it again - no matter how wealthy, globalized, and orderly this country may seem. I feel that perhaps a healthy dose of the unruly chaos of Mexico will be necessary when my vacation time rolls around; this will help counteract this strange sense that I've fallen into a twilight world of mass mind control.
Perhaps it is incorrect to complain: I can see myself living a nice, orderly life here. My apartment lies a two minutes walk from the beach so now every day I can start it off with a morning jog along the coast while smelling the sweet, pungent scent of the greenery and watching the sun rise over the Singapore Strait. I will go to work on an efficient transportation system that is never late. I will never have to go without anything that I need as it is all available in shops that are right at my fingertips. And all of this terrifies me. I came for the adventure and seem to have ended up with the life of a pampered expat. All those years of repeating my mother's advice of: "Hope for the best, expect the worst." is so utterly useless here that I am left confused. I don't believe there is anything that could have prepared me for this. I've fallen into Aldous Huxley's novel "Brave New World" and I'm not quite sure what to do about it. Even I have to laugh at myself when I realize that my biggest complaint is that I'm too comfortable, but being too comfortable makes me uncomfortable in return. I will have to grow accustomed to this feeling - it may persist for the next year or so.

What is Occupy Austin?

We've all watched as the Occupy movement has taken over not only the USA, but other parts of the world as well. Today, on October 15th, people from all over the globe marched in a solidarity movement to speak out against corruption, corporate power, and even budget cuts. People in Australia, Germany,Italy,Japan, and many other countries took to the streets to speak their minds and let the world know that they are the 99%. The Occupation, quite simply, has gone global.
Today, Austin marched in what was a surprisingly peaceful manner. Maybe it's all part of 'keeping Austin weird', but there was not a single issue with anyone acting out against police or attempting to turn the rally into something other than a peaceful protest. Organizers encouraged a 'police neutral' approach - basically whether you love them or hate them, you should remain neutral to police presence at all times. This worked well. The police chief even got up on a podium and thanked the Austin crowd for protesting in a manner that was respectful and peaceful. And protesters were grateful as well that the police did not crack down in Austin in the way they have in New York, Denver, and other cities. Though police lined the streets all the way from City Hall to the Capitol building, they seemed to be present to just ensure over all peace - not only from protesters, but also from pedestrians and people driving their cars downtown.

Slogans ranged from "You bailed them out and sold us out!" and "We are the 99%" to "Occupy this street, occupy Austin!", and these were all shouted vigorously during the march. A popular protest item has been the mask that most of us would recognize from the film "V for Vendetta" and which in this last year has come to be associated heavily with the resistance group called "Anonymous".

It's hard to say exactly what will ultimately be accomplished through these global protests. Perhaps one thing which the Occupy Austin movement should be most concerned with is the issue of straying too far from the point. It becomes redundant when speech makers break away from the original goals of the protest to also attempt to turn the rallies into anti-war movements. The last anti-war protest I went to was sparsely populated and not well organized - only partial proof of how this topic has been beaten past the point of no return in the last five years. It's not that Austin doesn't care about the war in Afghanistan and Iraq, it's more that it doesn't tie quite so neatly in with the concept of protesting corporations getting richer while average Americans get poorer.

Other than that, it is a very exciting to be able to witness these movements. History is in the making and many individuals are choosing to become active participants of this.

A Missionary Tale

There once was a man on a mission. He had been born and raised in the heartland of the American dream, but a child of whom nothing much was expected. He spent his childhood and the greater part of his adolescence getting himself into trouble and then swiftly getting out of it using his charming grin and Irish blue eyes. He spent time in the army as a young man and was stationed in Germany where he learned sufficient German in order to be able to sell army rationed cigarettes outside the base. He was kept away from Vietnam by sheer luck; he tried his hardest to enlist but his path was not meant to go that route and he eventually found himself back in the Mid-west with a new passion: Christianity. It's difficult to say at what point he felt that call- the strange yet distinct urging to do something specific as well as immeasurably difficult- but he felt it and one day knew that he was meant to go to Mexico.
It was the height of the hippie movement as well as the radical Jesus movement of the 1970s so the fact that a young man was getting ready to head South without knowing where he was going or even how to speak Spanish did not seem out of the ordinary. Fortunately, direction came in the form of a newsletter by Danny Ost (a man known as the ‘apostle to Mexico’) which somehow ended up in his mailbox. Aha! He thought. I’ll go work with Danny Ost. And so one day he, along with a young couple, packed up his Hippie Bus (a former school bus now serving the role as a type of camper), pointed its nose South and started to drive. The first stop was at Danny Ost’s headquarters in Laredo, TX. Jaws dropped at the sight of this young man who looked a rather shocking sight to these clean cut Pentecostals. In fact, he looked almost intimidating with his shaven head and unruly dark brown beard.
“Where are you going?” they asked with raised eyebrows and wide eyes.
Almost a little too enthusiastically (let’s not forget that our protagonist was still rather young and starry eyed) he replied: “I’m going to work with Danny Ost!”. It seemed inevitable that Danny Ost would, of course, be absolutely delighted to see him.
The people at headquarters overlooked their misgivings long enough to point him in the right direction – not so much because he absolutely convinced them of his calling, but rather because they had recently received a rather cumbersome donation of two massive speakers by a freshly converted rock star who wanted them delivered to Danny Ost in Monterrey, Mexico. It seemed easy enough to send them with this hippie – despite his rather uncouth appearance.
The young hippie responded with equal enthusiasm to the idea of transporting these speakers across the border – ah young gullibility can be bliss. When asked how much he would need to pay off the customs guards he responded with cheerful ignorance: “Nothing!”. The people at headquarters were hesitant to send him away empty handed so after loading the speakers onto the Hippie Bus ( a task which took two people per speaker to accomplish) they handed him a $20 dollar bill and sent him on his way.
Hence the young hippie found himself approaching the USA/Mexico border completely unaware that the items he was carrying would be impossible to get in with a $20 dollar bribe. He walked into the offices to get his paperwork filled out and then confidently walked out to have his paperwork and vehicle checked. A minute later he found himself being shouted and motioned at in a very energetic fashion by a customs official rather on the portly side. The hippie didn’t understand Spanish but he got the general idea that the speakers were a definite problem and that he wouldn’t be crossing the border with them. He had a choice: go back and leave the speakers or simply go back to stay. But a man on a mission does not let himself be deterred by the simple international rules regarding immigration, so the young hippie just simply…well…he hung out. He’d pop in cheerfully every little while to ask the customs officials if he could go into Mexico (he asked in English of course – he only knew a handful of Spanish words) and disgruntled and annoyed they’d shout back at him in Spanish to go home. Finally, irritated beyond belief and in a final play to get rid of this tenacious American, they huddled in a group and came to the joint agreement to let him through. It seems that the minute they ran up against this hippie they also had two choices: to let him through or to be consistently annoyed until they let him through. Most, I’m sure, where wishing they had avoided the hassle and just gone ahead with the first option.
But the war had not yet been won. The young hippie made it across the border but hit a second customs checkpoint in which the reaction was pretty much the same: a customs official started shouting and waving his arms about indicating that there was no way they could take the speakers through. The hippie decided to try a different approach.
“Iglesia!” he started yelling back in his painfully thick American accent. Iglesia means church and this was, rather fortunately (as you shall see), one of the handful of Spanish words that he knew. Then he pulled out his $20 dollar bill which had safely made it through the first customs check and tried to give it to the official. It’s difficult to say why the official felt moved by this obviously oblivious American’s shouting of this single word, but he pushed the money back at the young man and waved him through. As the hippie breathed a sigh of relief and made his way deeper into Mexico he couldn’t have imagined that this would be the smallest of the big adventures that awaited him.

3,000 Miles and a Brother Like No Other

After traveling through three countries, over 3,000 miles, and through around 20 states in the USA alone (we stopped counting after awhile), it feels good to have a place to finally settle - even if it's only temporarily. I realized that over the last five weeks I only slept in a bed once. Every other night was either spent lying on the ground somewhere or sitting in our car by the side of the road as the headlights of other travelers passed gently over us. It's difficult to find a way to explain the events of this last summer except to say that they will be hard to surpass and quite possibly impossible.
It wasn't so much the concerts that made the summer memorable (although they were all truly epic!), but other moments that will be difficult to forget. Such as being woken up at 2am by a police officer in Massachusetts who instead of telling us to move on (we were asleep in our car) merely told us he was checking to make sure we were okay and that we were welcome to stay. There was the conversation in Pittsburgh we had with a married couple in their 40s who talked about music with more passion than anyone I have ever met and showed us that kindred spirits come in all shapes and sizes. There was a young Canadian couple that camped next to us in Moncton who discussed how at ease they felt behind the wheel of a car and how traveling 15 hours a day was not out of the ordinary. There was breathtaking scenery in Canada which rivaled anything I have every seen and reminded me of how small we truly are. We watched Niagara falls dump her fury into her river and lay on the beach of Lake Michigan. We got lost in New York (twice) and had trouble starting our car at 2am an hour outside of Chicago. It rained practically every time we camped out and for every single concert except for one. But even that was wonderful. We stood in the rain for ten hours and made friends because we were all in the same wet boat. I watched the moon trickle over the lakes in Minnesota by night as they lay like so many yards of dark velvet by the roadside. And finally we saw hues of green, orange, yellow, and blue streak across the sky and collide like comets over the Texas horizon as sunset filled the desert and we made our final journey home.
I learned things too, like how to let go of a grudge, to avoid fighting with the person you will be in the car with for 8 hours, how to cook over a fire, and how to let go of fear. What struck me the most in the end was the unique relationship I have with my brother. Not a single person we met on this long journey assumed we were brother and sister; we were always asked first if we were either married or a couple. Then when we said we were siblings people couldn't believe that we got along so well that we would actually be able to take that kind of trip together (although I can't imagine attempting that trip with a significant other - I think I would go insane). So I learned how lucky I am. I'm lucky to have a brother who is also my best friend, someone who proved throughout our trip that he would stick with me through thick and thin and most of the time just laugh at our predicaments. Someone who will work for 30 minutes to start a fire in the rain and who gamely goes to an Eminem concert just so I can sing to at least one song. Therefore, the most poignant part of the trip for me was the end; when I had to take Eric to the airport to catch a flight back to Minnesota and I realized that it was really over. He had hung around for three months - and now the end was in sight. And I cried all the way home from the airport. :)

Eric is my Poodle and Other Stories

I informed Eric several days ago that on this road trip through the USA he would play the part of my poodle. The reference I was making was to Steinbeck's novel "Travels with Charley" in which Steinbeck treks across the USA with his aristocratic and sophisticated French poodle. Eric was not amused; regardless of how sophisticated said poodle was. It took one night of camping out for me to realize that I who was in fact the poodle. The only thing necessary to convince me that I was more of a companion in the situation was Eric sending me to fetch a pile of wood and then proceeding to start a fire in a very rapid and Boy Scout-esk fashion (keep in mind that this was after he also erected our tent). Suffice to say I did manage to reap the joys of Smores which were cooked on that campfire. :)
I am also apparently not very adept at choosing good campgrounds. This was proved so when we drove into Clarksville, Indiana yesterday afternoon. I was at the wheel as Eric squinted at a Googlemap printout with directions to our supposed campsite. We soon found ourselves wandering around the most decrepit and run down area of Clarksville - the kind of area of town that makes you nervous if you hang out there past 7pm. There was nothing resembling a beautiful, natural campsite in sight. Almost by accident we stumbled upon a sign directing us to the camp area. We drove past "Derbey's Dinner Playhouse" with its flashing pink neon sign and dubiously entered the parking lot.
" There's some old dude looking at you." Eric said as we pulled up to the building (which featured a window through which this man was apparently having a good look). I went in to fix our reservation and was greeted by Earl. Pale blue eyes, bleached blonde hair, a diamond stud in his left ear, ranging in age from 55-65, and exuding an air of creepy self confidence.I will simply refer to the other character as "Mumbly" as the only thing I understood was an occasional "Bathroom...mumble, mumble, key, mumble, deposit, mumble." Then the fatal words "Earl...mumble,mumble, smoking, mumble." Apparently Earl was going on a smoke break and would be available to conveniently show us our campsite. He proceeded to lead us to a patch of grass surrounded as far as the eye can see by concrete on every side. Keeping in mind the rather shady neighborhood we had just driven through, I couldn't help but ask Earl an important question: "How safe is it around here?" I didn't expect him to say it wasn't, but also didn't expect him to launch into a descriptive analogy with some vague reference to Andy Griffith. He flicked the ashes from his cigarette looked me up and down AGAIN and then said: "Don't worry, we patrol this area at night all the time." I didn't have the heart to tell Earl that the idea of him creeping around my tent in the middle of the night 'patrolling' was scarier than the idea of some delinquent from the outside coming to murder me in my sleep.
Ah, but the night turned out to be uneventful (although not very resting) and what glorious sight should greet Eric and me when we stepped out of our tent early the next morning? None other than Earl on a 'patrol' on his bright yellow go cart, staring intensely at us as he puttered by with a half smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. We hightailed it out of there.

You Know You're in Mexico When...

1. The immigration officer tries to get you to bribe him in order to get your visa 'taken care of'.
2. The military is waiting with their LAVs to do drug checks on the Mexican side - they make the American border patrol look about as fierce as a crate of puppies.
3. Driving anywhere at anytime becomes a near death experience.
4. You find 'Stop' signs hanging out in irrational places such as in front of stoplights and beside 'Yield' signs - and that's ok.
5. You find cheaper and much better food.
6. You don't have to fill up your own gas tank.
7. Suited up and masked super cop types patrolling the streets with semi-automatic weapons is normal.
8. Acknowledging people on the street (whether strangers or not) is not weird - and people don't look at you like you're an alien when you say hello.
9. People are afraid of your dog because she is larger than a chihuahua.
10. You don't need your ID for anything. :)

Fear

I admit I bought into the whole fear aspect. For less than and hour, for the first time in my life, I was afraid to go back to the town I grew up in. It wasn't the mass e-mails sent out by my university warning students not to go to Mexico that caused this fear, it wasn't even the wide-eyed classmate who in hushed tones questioned my sanity at going to such a 'dangerous' place, it was the words written in bold and splashed accross the front of a newspaper page that ultimately marked my momentary hesitation. "18 killed in Culiacan!" it read. I panicked.
Fortunately I knew exactly who to call. And once he was able to pause for a breath of air after laughing hysterically at my question of "Is it safe?" my dad managed to gasp out "Of course it's safe!". My face burned with shame.
When I landed in Mazatlan a few days later, what I encountered was not at all what I expected. Apparently the newspapers had not even voiced the worst of it. People told me about the night club shooting where 4 died and 21 were wounded, the 4 men who were shot and then hung off an overpass, the restaurant that was shot up twice because the owner either couldn't or wouldn't pay safety / blackmail fees to the cartel, the 2 cartel members shot in broad daylight in the middle of the day in front of a big hotel on the main strip, and so on. But this was not at all what surprised me, I was astonished to hear the same people who expressed these terrible situations saying in almost the same breath "We are not afraid to be here.". And I was awed. Because at the end of the day the truth of the matter is that it is EXTREMELY unlikely that anyone I know could possibly get hurt because of this cartel situation. People killed are those who are involved in the cartel or are simply hanging out with the wrong crowd at the wrong time.
On my second day I had the privelage of going to see not only the 12th feeding center that has been sponsored by the Vineyard, but I was privelaged enough to stand on the ground that is destined to someday hold the 13th feeding center. And I realized that life has to go on. People continue living with the same issues, working for a living, and in general etching out a life. I nearly burst with pride at how lucky I was to be surrounded by so many fearless people who put aside their own worries and anxieties in order to continue to do great work.And most importantly, I find Mazatlan greatly unchanged. There are fewer tourists, but it is the same town that I loved in my younger years and that I now miss for whenever I am away;the same people who are loving and helpful and warm; the same laid back and relaxed approach to any issue that life brings our way. In essence, in my opinion the absolutely best place to be right now is defnitely Mazatlan. :)

Snow Day in Texas

I always wondered what would happen if it snowed in South Texas. Despite having already lived through quite a few winters here, I thought the universe would never deign to answer this question for me....until today.
I woke up early in the morning and was groggily wandering about when I happened to look out my window. My jaw dropped. Everything was covered in a layer of white and although I had heard that it was going to snow I didn't know it would be so much! So I decided that I would brave the cold and go down to the university to see what people were out doing on a snow day.I slogged out to my car to try and brush the snow off of the windows. Apparently that takes a lot more skill than I possess, because the snow was sticking obstinately. So I slogged back to my apartment, filled a bucket with hot water, slogged back to the car, and half-heartedly poured it over the front windshield. Voila! It did manage to melt the snow despite leaving a crust of ice on the lower half. Good enough for me, I thought. Until I climbed in my car and realized that what I was left with was literally two holes to look through in the front, not to mention the back window and side windows were still crusted in stubborn snow - making visibility impossible. Northerners will mock me but I am a tropical girl at heart and really thought of this as a true dilemma.
OK, no driving then. I could walk. It was cold but not windy so I assumed I would survive just fine (and I figured that classes and work were cancelled for a reason - South Texans have no clue how to drive in the snow). I bundled up as if the Arctic north were awaiting me outside and set off. Then I noticed South Texans do not know how to walk in the snow - and also do not have shoes with proper traction for walking in the snow. People were slipping and sliding across the street, inching little by little in order not to fall. Of course, students were out early gathering the snow for snow fights, building tiny snowmen (not enough snow for normal sized snowmen), and generally in awe at the sight of Austin covered in snow. Having already gotten my fill of snow angels in Utah and Minnesota - as well as having been shoved into a 3 foot snow drift by my impish brother (where I proceeded to sink like a stone and flounder about until a friend kindly fished me out)- I wasn't up for playing in the snow.
I have thoroughly enjoyed seeing Austin in a different light. Being as this is possibly my last year here, I feel so fortunate to be able to have a winter that differs from previous ones. I finally got to see it snow in Texas :)!

The Wild South

In my travels this Christmas season, I have to admit I was more worried about the TSA than about the drug cartel problems in Mexico. Would I get searched? Be forced to choose between the backscatter or being patted down? Apparently neither. I flew on eight different flights during the busiest time of the year and not a single time did I even so much as witness anyone being subjected to the backscatter or a search....and I'm not even sure if I should be relieved or worried about this (given that last year the 'underwear bomber' tried to blow up a plane during the Christmas season). What was the most extensive search I had to go through? It was actually in Mazatlan!
I flew in on a tiny 60 person jet to the place that I consider my hometown. As my dad tore through crazy traffic - refusing to yield or even stop at the stop signs (ahhhh I miss that Mexican way of driving :) )- he casually mentioned that 11 people had been shot in the outskirts of Mazatlan just the week before. This is nothing new, especially to a girl like myself who grew up hearing about shootouts at restaurants, watched the feds clean up after gun fights from the night before, and was told to never even look at the expensive cars we sometimes encountered as they were driving around downtown with windows so tinted it was impossible to see in anyways. But it was a bit different this time. That first day I walked to the beach and saw military helicopters flying overhead (this actually happened more than once during that week), on one walk later that week I came upon the feds standing on the beach holding their automatic weapons and instinct caused me to head in the other direction as fast as possible (no one wants to be in the wrong place at the wrong time), I even saw them downtown staking out a small taco stand IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY, and a friend of mine mentioned that she had heard gunshots in her neighborhood at 3 in the afternoon. I'm accustomed to witnessing the aftermath of these things the next morning but although I have seen the feds hanging around most of the time, I can't really remember a time when gun fights would happen in the daytime.This is a new Mazatlan to me but I understand why people stay and why my dad goes back again and again; Mexico is special, despite all her problems.
When I flew out all of my bags were opened and extensively searched....twice- I even saw one guy taking off his shoes so that the police could check inside. The only other place I have witnessed such extensive searches was in Manila when they searched me before I could get into the stores (and the searches to get on the plane were even worse!). And in both cases I felt safer flying out of a third world country than I did out of the USA where people complain about random and sporadic searches that are meant to keep us safe. And so this brings me in a full circle....I would rather be in wild Mexico where people understand that inadequate searches put us in danger as opposed to the USA where the seeds of discontent sprout up at the slightest inconvenience. And I really am a Mexican at heart.....give me Mazatlan any day,with or without the drug wars.

UT Lockdown

Today the University of Texas was on lockdown for almost 4 hours. Although this was not such a serioius situation given the fact that there were no third person casualties, it was a surreal shock into the realization that "This could happen to us!". The shooter was a child - only 19 years old. I was in class when he ran down the street adjacent to our building firing shots into the air. He was carrying an AK-47 and wearing a ski mask which possibly marks his intention to do harm, however, he ended up on the 6th floor of the library and committed suicide. A man shot himself not a block away from where I was.
We first recieved alerts a little before 9am. Unsure of what to do, I foolishly walked to the stairwell and looked out the window. The campus was dead quiet except for the shouts of the police officers running back and forth signalling students back into buildings. By the time I went back to the classroom there were already alerts of a second suspect. "We should probably turn out the lights and lock the doors." was the general suggestion. There were two problems: we couldn't figure out how to get the doors locked, and although we shoved desks and chairs up against them, they opened outwards meaning anyone who came in would only be momentarily deterred by this. We sat against the wall in the dark classroom, knees pulled up to our chests waiting. At this point more alerts were coming in and we recieved messages saying that the second suspect was in the building next to ours - this building has a hallway that connects it to our building. I started shaking like a leaf, and texted my parents and brother repeatedly. We could hear the swat team taking over the building next door because we could hear the sound of dogs. Eric called me just a second later to ask how I was doing but the conversation was cut short as we heard noise out in the hall. Being cautious, I hung up the phone and we sat in dead silence with dread permeating the room. Suddenly we heard a man screaming: "Get on your knees! Get on your knees!" and realized that whoever it was, be it shooter or SWAT team, they were right outside our door. At that point I figured the best way of defending myself was to hold my backpack in front of my head so that if there was any shooting it might somewhat sheild me. When the door of our classroom flew open the first thing I saw out of the corner of my eye was the nozzle of a huge automatic rifle. I think in that moment everyone's heart dropped to their feet. For me my first thought was "It's the second shooter. I'm going to die.". The only reason why the majority of us (I later found out) made the same assumption that this was the shooter was b/c we assumed he would be carrying a similar weapon to that of the first suspect so we were on the look out for an AK-47. In this case it was two SWAT team members and they came in screaming "Put your hands on your face! Hands on your face! NOW!". I shoved my bag away and my hands went to my face. They closed themselves in with us and were checking through the windows to see if anyone was comeing. They were on high alert prepared for anything and they were shouting at us "Did you see anything? Did you see anyone?". I was frightened b/c I felt that maybe it was a sure thing that there was a second shooter. "No, no!" we told them. And then we begged them to lock us in b/c we couldn't get the doors locked. They left and made sure we were locked in the classroom. During this whole time we were listening to alarms and sirens going off, we had messages saying there were armored trucks on campus and helicopters were flying constantly overhead.
We sat on the floor for two and a half hours waiting. We had frequent reports about the second suspect but it was generally believed that they were being cautious and there was really only a single shooter. Finally, we were free to leave and the campus was evacuated. What a heartbreaking story for the young shooter. He was someone's son and he tragically took his own life. I think that given how the situation could have turned out, we were extremely lucky. I admit to being shaken up by this, even though I didn't witness any act of brutality. It was the sitting there, not knowing and not sure of what could really be going on that triggered this fear, in those moments you can't help but have thoughts about "What would happen if today is my last day?". My mom sent me text message after text message saying she loved me. I made sure I told my brother and parents that I loved them. I was probably never in any real danger, but I wanted to make sure I wouldn't leave any regrets at not having said it when it mattered.
So now tomorrow it's back to school for me. I may avoid the library for a while, and probably start sitting away from the doors of the classrooms, because if there is ever a next time I'm sure we won't be so lucky.

An Afternoon in the Temple

I recently spent an afternoon wandering through the largest temple here in Taipei. I was with a Taiwanese friend who attempted as best he could to answer my many questions. This temple was vastly different from the large one I visited in the Jiji area of central Taiwan. While that temple was a Buddhist one, this one was a Taoist temple. The differences were enormous. The Taoist temple is much more colorful, it has the traditional sloped Chinese roofs with colorfully painted dragons and other mythical creatures. On the walls outside were brightly painted pictures of stories and legends. The color alone was overwhelming, however, when I entered the temple I found a whole different world.
This temple had three levels to go to; I first went to the central level. What was happening seemed pretty typical of Asian culture: people were holding incense and bowing to different idols. There was fruit lying before the idols on tables. Apparently people bring the fruit so the gods can feast. It's okay to take the fruit home and eat it after the deities have had their full; however, some people claim that the fruit does not taste the same once it has been offered. The reason why there are so many different idols is because each one is for a specific need. I you wish to do well on exams - you pray to a certain one, if you wish to have children - another, and so on......This was only the front part of the temple.
Entering into a long tunnel, we were able to make our way towards the back of the temple. The tunnel had intricate stone carvings with some sort of story written in Chinese. There were little enclosures all along the way and in each one were sometimes fierce, sometimes kind, looking statues of different height and type. Some were men, some were women. My friend explained that these serve as bodyguards to the bigger god. They protect him from wayward ghosts. When we reached the end of the tunnel, we were greeted by a Yin and Yang symbol and on the other side, looking out to the river was a huge idol. Apparently he is the more important god that the bodyguards protect.
Next, we went to the upper level. The stairway was flanked on each side by two huge elephants - supposedly for good luck. There were also little dragon/lion guardians everywhere. These little guys supposedly eat evil spirits. the upper level led to and intricate and beautiful garden. With winding pathways and beautiful trees and flowers it seeded pretty peaceful, until I spotted a statue of a woman overlooking a waterfall. According to my friend, she watches over Taipei from her high perch. The gardens offered us a beautiful view to the river and was the best part of the visit (for me).
Lastly, we went to the lower level. At this point, I was starting to feel a bit stressed out. Being raised a Christian, many of these concepts are difficult, if not impossible to grasp. The downstairs took us down yet another long hall, this time the statues behind the glass were gods. If you needed money, these were the ones you prayed to. At the end was another huge statue. This time, he had a friendly face and was flanked on each side by fat Buddhas smiling widely. People came down the hall with incense in their hands bowing to each god along the way. When they finally reached the large one, they would stay a bit longer praying and then deposit their incense in this huge cauldron for the god to smell it and grant their wishes.
The temple was huge and definitely very impressive, however, the feeling I took away was how exhausting it all seemed. Like mentioned before, because I was not raised in this religious culture some of it is hard to understand. However, the impression I got was how complicated it would be to have to go to all these different gods for all the different things you need. I guess I'm spoiled in my belief of one God. It just seems so much simpler to be able to pray to one, instead of so many.

Lantern Festival

The weather was miserable all Chinese New Year - a disappointment that kept me inside without much to do for a week. However, barely a week after Chinese New Year ends, the big Lantern Festival begins. I took a train out to Ping Hsi to see it at its best and experienced Taiwanese trains at their worst. The train platforms were crowded with masses of people trying to get on already jam packed trains. We stood the whole way and what should have been an hour trip became almost a three hour experience. The train stopped continually at 'strategic' locations to wait for who knows what and those of us who were standing became a bit uncomfortable. We were all afraid to get off the train because it might leave at any minute when (oh the irony) we actually a long wait ahead anyways. It was well worth it though, because the following experience turned out to be the most impacting I have experienced since I've been in Taiwan.
Imagine descending into the humid dusk in little town. The streets are old and made of stone and the first thing that you see just at the bridge is three people getting ready to send their lantern into the sky. On it, they have written their wishes for the coming year. (On this particular one, one guy was wishing for a BMW ;)). As they send it off into the night sky, you follow it with your eye and find yourself standing mouth agape staring up. Hundreds and hundreds of lanterns are floating into the distance. Some of them are close by, others are merely red specks in the sky. It was so mind blowing and beautiful that I actually teared up.
The town is brightly lit for the occasion with lanterns hanging everywhere. You can purchase your own lantern and write your own wishes on it for 100NT (around 3 dollars). People are also setting off fireworks like crazy, some right next to each other. Others are frantically putting out the flames of lanterns that caught on fire and came crashing down. Car alarms start going off and it is a general joyful hubbub.
Zac and I purchased some fireworks of our own and set out to have our own fun. We came upon the railroad tracks that run right through the middle of town. People were sitting, lying, setting of fireworks, eating, lounging, etc. right on the tracks. When trains came along they would scatter briefly and then just move back on. We started setting off our own fireworks when we were be-friended (in the typical friendly Taiwanese way) by a group of young Taiwanese. The made friends with us immediately and set off our fireworks with us. Then, they brought out a giant lantern and handed me a black marker. "Write your wish! Write your wish!" I wanted to write something in Chinese and I couldn't think of anything except 我要钱 which translated is "I want money". Not the best wish, but hey I was under pressure.:) Everyone wrote on the lantern some wishing for promotions, to get married, or to have a nice house and car. Then, they sent into the night sky and........it promptly crashed ten seconds later. I guess my wish won't come true - that's ok though, I didn't need it that badly anyways. :)

Unlucky No. 25

My shoes were literally falling off of my feet before I finally agreed to buy a new pair. I don't like to spend the money unless I have to, but it was high time - especially when the soles of my old pair had already started to crack. On rainy days I would end up with more water inside my shoes than in the puddles I stepped in unawares. So shoe shopping it was....how hard could it be? I'm not hard to satisfy, but I will not buy something unless I really, really, really like it. But I figured out of all of Taipei's night markets there had to be something I would like. The quest began. When I started looking on Sunday night, I wasn't aware that the following three days would be the hell of shoe shopping - and not just for me but for various store clerks who would end up giving me the evil eye.
It started with a pair of blue Converse. I fell in love with them. Easy! I asked for size 25. They didn't have 25, the largest they had was 24.5. Ok. I tried them anyways. I was tempted to be them despite them being a little tight, but I knew I would regret it. I politely deferred. This was the first nightmarket: Raohe. I proceeded to walk to all the stores in search of the shoes I wanted. No luck, and even when they did carry a pair I liked, the largest they could get was 24.5. I began to feel rather large as far as feet go. The first day ended dissapointingly mostly because I had set my mind on getting a new pair and I was going home empty handed.
Second day. I headed to Gongguan on a hell bent mission. I walked into the first store I came to. Nothing. My feet were just too big. The clerk apologetically told me that I could try other stores but that store did not carry such a ginormous size that is 25. The second store I went to seemed to be my lucky charm. Not only did they have several of the ones I liked in my size, but the one pair that I absolutely wanted was too small and they promised to order in a 25 and have it for me the next day. I left smiling and satisfied. Life was good.
Third day. Jumping up and down in excitement, I headed to the shoe store to pick up my new pair of size 25 shoes. I put on the right foot and it felt oddly tight. I looked at the size: 24.5. Really? Someone had made a mistake. I communicated to the clerk that I wore 25. She went searching for a larger pair. She came back apologizing profusely. That one shoe did not come in a larger size. I would have to try elsewhere. Grrrrrrr........ I started popping into every store I came to after that. I was desperate to find something that I liked in my size. Finally, one store clerk explained that 25 is the largest size for women and the smallest size for men so most stores don't carry it. It was an unlucky number indeed.
I gave up on Gongguan and headed to Shilin. I proceeded to put four different store clerks through shoe hell at four different stores. The scenerio repeated itself over and over: I would ask for 25 and would be brought a 24.5. The clerks would come lugging armfuls of shoes as they tried to find one that would fit me. They would finish looking at me disgruntled and cranky as I politely explained that a 24.5 was just too small. Some even managed to bring me a 25.5 or a 26, but wearing those I bore some resemblance to Donald Duck or a clown on lunch break from the circus. I know I have big feet (and at this point I felt like it was deformity) but a 26 just made them look ENORMOUSE. One store clerk looked alarmed and immediately got on the phone to (I'm assuming) a neighboring store. I must have looked really upset at that point, because he was trying so hard to find a number 25 for me somewhere. He looked especially apologetic when he came back to tell me the same bad news.
Close to tears (over shoes, for heveans sake!) I stormed off to the subway and sat outside glaring at the unaware Taiwanese girls that walked by. They had normal sized feet, they could fit into any shoe they wanted, their foot wasn't bigger than 24.5. I now realize that I hate the number 25 with a passion. I tremble at the thought of going shoe shopping again any time soon. Now that I think about it, I dread going shopping for jeans too. After all, I am taller than the average woman ; I may have to settle for capris instead of actual pants. But that is another bridge that I will cross when I come to it. As for the shoes; I settled on the one pair that they had in my size and walked out that same night with a new pair of shoes. I can't complain, I like them and they are comfortable. Mostly it's just a relief to get it over with....hopefully I won't need to buy shoes again until I go back to the USA - where women's sizes go much larger than a silly little number like 25cm.