I made a new friend over Thanksgiving. His name is Mitch, and in some ways, I think we were meant to meet. Mitch seemed a little nervous to meet me too. One could tell that he was dressed to impress by the sleek black cover he was donning, and he had cleaned himself up to shine.
When I first looked at him, I felt this odd connection-- as if an old comrade had all of a sudden walked into the room. Mitch looks incredibly similar to a friend I had during my stint in Micronesia. My old friend and I would sit underneath the porch of our home, and have hours of fun while the rain poured from the heavens a few feet away from us. He would also sit with me as I graded essays and did lesson planning on a lazy Sunday afternoon in my open air classroom. On a special staff luncheon, he even participated in a show with me and some other teachers!
However, like a tide rising and then retreating, my time in Micronesia had to come to an end after almost a year. I said goodbye to my friend, probably never to see him again.
When I saw Mitch, a lot of island memories came flooding back and like a washer on the rinse cycle, swirled around and around my mind. I am so happy to have found Mitch
(or that Mitch had found me)-- because now I can have a new friend over here too.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
If you wanna bike across the country...
Last week, I swiped my MasterCard to buy some spandex with a huge pad sewn onto the crotch.
I have also been scouring the internet for deals on various creams to rub on my ass.
These are just two purchases I have had to make recently as a result of a decision to do a cross country cycling trip.
...
Recently, preparing for this trip reminded me of concept coveted by my sociology professors at Berkeley. There was a phrase that ruled my college academic life; a phrase that, when used, would ensure that my sociology exams be a whole letter grade higher. This phrase is social construction.
...
Biking doesn't seem to be entirely synonymous with cycling.
Biking is an effective mode of transportation. I learned that last year when hitchhiking became overrated and walking was so last season. I biked in dresses, and held the down the dress in the middle of the seat to avoid giving the world an eco-friendly peep show. I carried a long stick, and occasionally wacked dogs that yipped at my feet.
I realize now that while I have biked, I have never cycled.
If biking is a transport activity that a billion people in China have to do because they can't afford cars, the world of cycling seems to be set up different, with social markers that mark clear distinction from its primitive counterpart.
If the world of cycling is socially constructed, here are some markers thus far. Sexy, sexy markers for that matter:
1. Spandex with bulge.
When I was in high school, boys would come cheer on our volleyball games because, let's face it, all the squatting from the sport ultimately led to killer thighs and toned butts. And of course, the standard southern California outfit for a volleyball girl was ridiculously short spandex (who would have expected otherwise?).
Now take that image of spandex, and stick in two Overnight Maxi-pads. You have my most recent purchase at Sports Authority.
Certainly the anatomically shaped pad at the crotch must serve a purpose for long distances on bikes that I will probably attest to at a later point. But for now, they just feel (and look) supremely awkward. A bulge exists at all angles.
This recent awkwardness is only superseded by the next social marker of cycling.
2. Application of ass creams.
Rightfully named "Assos" and "Butt'r", these are products that are next to show up on my visa.
I just can't wrap my mind around the idea yet that in a couple weeks, I will be applying gunky gunk on my otherwise clean butt. I know they serve an important purpose of preventing saddle sores, and after Googling "saddle sores" I know that is something I definitely do not want. I guess it's one of those things I will understand in a few weeks. But now...gunk all day on my ass. Fancy that.
That, and the idea that the bulging spandex are intended to be worn commando.
Those are just two. But really there has been (and will be) so much to learn!
I have also been scouring the internet for deals on various creams to rub on my ass.
These are just two purchases I have had to make recently as a result of a decision to do a cross country cycling trip.
...
Recently, preparing for this trip reminded me of concept coveted by my sociology professors at Berkeley. There was a phrase that ruled my college academic life; a phrase that, when used, would ensure that my sociology exams be a whole letter grade higher. This phrase is social construction.
...
Biking doesn't seem to be entirely synonymous with cycling.
Biking is an effective mode of transportation. I learned that last year when hitchhiking became overrated and walking was so last season. I biked in dresses, and held the down the dress in the middle of the seat to avoid giving the world an eco-friendly peep show. I carried a long stick, and occasionally wacked dogs that yipped at my feet.
I realize now that while I have biked, I have never cycled.
If biking is a transport activity that a billion people in China have to do because they can't afford cars, the world of cycling seems to be set up different, with social markers that mark clear distinction from its primitive counterpart.
If the world of cycling is socially constructed, here are some markers thus far. Sexy, sexy markers for that matter:
1. Spandex with bulge.
When I was in high school, boys would come cheer on our volleyball games because, let's face it, all the squatting from the sport ultimately led to killer thighs and toned butts. And of course, the standard southern California outfit for a volleyball girl was ridiculously short spandex (who would have expected otherwise?).
Now take that image of spandex, and stick in two Overnight Maxi-pads. You have my most recent purchase at Sports Authority.
Certainly the anatomically shaped pad at the crotch must serve a purpose for long distances on bikes that I will probably attest to at a later point. But for now, they just feel (and look) supremely awkward. A bulge exists at all angles.
This recent awkwardness is only superseded by the next social marker of cycling.
2. Application of ass creams.
Rightfully named "Assos" and "Butt'r", these are products that are next to show up on my visa.
I just can't wrap my mind around the idea yet that in a couple weeks, I will be applying gunky gunk on my otherwise clean butt. I know they serve an important purpose of preventing saddle sores, and after Googling "saddle sores" I know that is something I definitely do not want. I guess it's one of those things I will understand in a few weeks. But now...gunk all day on my ass. Fancy that.
That, and the idea that the bulging spandex are intended to be worn commando.
Those are just two. But really there has been (and will be) so much to learn!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
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."
"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."
Sunday, March 06, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
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