playing hooky from church

Yay for cleaning out computers and finding stuff! Playing hooky from church one Sunday afternoon in Micronesia, I assuaged my guilt of not attending the service by writing about it.

"I’ve avoided writing much about Kosrae, largely because I’m scared to fall into the trap of vomiting gross, sweeping generalizations about a place. But, I don’t suppose I can blog forever about the trivialities of apartment life. It is once again Sunday, and I’m supposed to throw on my aqua flowered nuk-nuk and bike on over to church. But today the clouds are dumping water, so I’m thinking maybe not; besides, writing about church is indisputably more fun than actually going. The novelty of attending Kosrean church (where the whole service is in their language) wears off like cheap sunscreen in water. The church itself is quaint enough; an unassuming tin- roofed white building that is splashed with colors every Sunday from the women’s nuk-nuks. Inside, the wooden pews are split down to the T: men on the right, women on the left. While the congregation is separated by gender, the amount of dozing off (which appears to be perfectly acceptable and frequent) and the mindless mumbling of worn prayers are spread evenly all around.

The only aspect of Church that seems to save an otherwise droning service (and wake people up) is the singing, which is probably the God-liest aspect of it all. No joke, these people are good, really good; and how they acquired such immaculate vocal skills is likewise remarkable. My previous experience with musical education involved tuners, sound proof rooms, the reading of notes, music theory, black dresses and recital halls. Throw all the aforementioned out the window, and throw in 15 women sitting cross legged on the floor singing off a ripped piece of paper tacked up on the wall of my host family’s living room, you have Kosrean music class. There no notes, just words written in dried out marker and a lady leading the singing in front. After several rounds, the song and at hand and its particular pitches become internalized, and that’s it. Notes and tuners? Forget it.

Okay, I’m not the world’s best church go-er. So shoot me."

To sidewalk or not to sidewalk? That is the question. But not really.

I biked to work last week. Aside from the initial hill, the route is an easy 3.3 mile, relatively straight path. The word path, in actuality, is probably the most ineffectual word. Path implies a curving country road with nicely trimmed hedges; Beach Blvd. is a monster that could eat a country road with a single gulp, with its roaring 6 lane highway that my measly teenage-esque purple street bike cowers by while tinkering on by the sidelines. The only thing missing are handle bar streamers, I swear. I had bought it to replace my stolen aqua one when I was 10.

You would think that at 6:30am, there would be no promising signs of life in this sedated suburbia I call home, but that simply isn't true-- as proven by my newest fellow commuters who also jump on the saddle at an early hour: emo boy #1 in black who waits for emo boy #2 (also in black), crazy Indian man who screams obscenities (and I thought I left this scene behind at Berkeley), and Jesus-haired white man. Together, while I'm sure we share somewhat different life stories, we share a commonality: a no shame attitude toward biking...on.. *gasp*...the sidewalk. That's right, you heard me.

Let the runners hate and the morning walkers hate even more; I'm not relinquishing my title as a sidewalk biker anytime soon. It doesn't take long for a total newb in the world of spokes and padded-spandex in southern California to figure out The definitive divider between the initiated and the timid neophyte in this peculiar sport/mode of transportation. The sidewalk is a raised pedestal, a pledge pin so to speak, for those getting their feet wet in this activity. Perhaps this differs in other regions, but remember Beach Blvd equals monstrous path gobbler; the sidewalk is the playpen in the middle of an urban jungle, the coral reef of a vast ocean, where all the little fishies get to play.

I'm not sure which factor is the catalyst or the factor effecting change, but there is a definite correlation between the amount of spandex pieces one wears and whether one is expected to bike on the road versus the sidewalk; namely, the more pieces of spandex, the higher the likelihood of abandoning the sidewalk. Apparently, higher wear-age of spandex attire empowers the wearer with the right to give knowing "you'll get there someday" glances to the sidewalk young'uns as they whiz by on their speedy thin-tired road bikes on...you guessed it, the road. Having played volleyball in high school, I have my fair share of spandex stored in the closet; but I will happily stick to jeans and my multi colored scarf for now.