Category Archives: Best blog posts

If You Love Something, Strap Your Feet Into It

My shoes in repose.

More info about my Italy trip:

Before leaving, it crossed my mind that I might not stand out as much in Italy since the people look more Caucasian and I would be wearing black shirts, which I heard the Italians are prone to do. I could not have begun to fathom the depths of my ignorance.

First of all, Italians (in the regions I visited) are a people who have adapted to the sun by developing more melanin in their skin, giving it a nice tan color. I, in contrast, am of Northern European descent where people are still actively debating whether or not the sun exists more than 3 months a year. I was the pale needle in a bronzed haystack.

Second of all, mimicking Italian fashion requires more than wearing a black shirt purchased at TJ Maxx. The first problem was the fact it was just a frilly black shirt and not a tight tank top. The second problem is that I paired it either with jeans or  business casual slacks (Old Navy) instead of shorts, skinny jeans, or leggings. My backpack was also problematic, since it indicated I was either an elementary school student or a dirty hippy backpacker. Yet despite all these flagrant violations of well known fashion rules, the real deal breaker in my quest to blend in was my adventure sandals, also known as Chacos, that are so supportive the arch that can be seen from the moon. Only a sloppy tourist would dare be seen wearing something close to practical footwear, not including elderly people that have a prescription for their shoes and can’t fight off their nurse.

I proudly admit without shame that I am such a sloppy tourist, and I spent almost my entire European adventure in Chaco’s. These shoes, unlike humans, have never let me down. They lift me 1.5 inches above mysterious ground moisture. They keep my feet comfortable even after walking for hours on ancient Roman streets. They dry quickly should they become wet. They don’t bill me for therapy sessions. I am so dedicated to these shoes that I even wore them when I knew the occasion might call for something more formal, such a fancy dinner with my Italian host’s family. She donned an elegant coral dress and gold jewelry, her sister sparkled in a well tailored black cocktail number and fancy black flats, and I stood out in my wrinkled purple sundress and adventure sandals. I’m almost certain a group of Italian men was mocking me on my way to the bathroom, but I harbor no regrets especially because of what followed.

After dinner, we visited a medieval city full of steep pathways and slippery cobblestone lanes and aimed to climb to the highest point in order see yet another breathtaking view of the Italian countryside. While the others were inching gingerly along in their chic but impractical footware, I sprinted past them and left little puffs of adventure sandal dust in their faces. That night, I proved beyond the shadow of a doubt to myself and the entire world that fashion is never a substitute for functionality. A rib might break, and an ankle might roll, but my arches will forever remain supported. I don’t care what anyone else says; I love my adventure sandals.

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Please Send Lactation Cookies

Despite the glistening fountain water the only moisture you’ll get is a tourist’s back sweat.

More content inspired by my trip to Italy:

Postcards to Mother

While lazing about the Italian countryside, I thought constantly of mother and how much she would have liked everything I was doing, so I took to writing little fake postcards to her in order to bridge the miles between us. Of course, they never got sent and oftentimes do not describe “reality,” but it’s the blog that counts.

Rome

Tonight we ate ham, so that was good. I’m staying at a stranger’s house. Hope she doesn’t kill us. It feels so empty here, so sometimes I close my eyes and cross the street. It’s very peaceful. Miss you.

I walked around in Rome with my backpack on today. Do salt stains bleach shirts? Everyone here seems to know I’m not Italian even though you said I looked European. Were you lying to me?

Saw a dumb fountain but was distracted by the writhing mass of human flesh worshiping it. You wouldn’t have liked it very much. The weather was hot and it didn’t look like a mountain.

My vest doesn’t have enough pockets in it to hold all of my allergy medication. Please send me a new one?  And Major Milk Makin’ Lactation Cookies?

Our couchsurfing host was very nice. She didn’t kill us and even gave us a key to her place. I wish the guy I am traveling with were you. Please send cookies.

San Benedetto Del Tronto

I’m at the beach. The only way to not fit in here is to be pale. I felt like I was in middle school again except for I was wearing pale skin and adventure sandals instead of purple every day of the week. You always appreciated my fashion and pastiness.

Saw a field full of dead sunflowers today and thought of you.

Our friend’s parents don’t speak much English and they remind me of you when you speak Spanish. They make up for it in kindness though, just like you, except that you usually have lactation cookies. Please send some.

There are a lot of tattooed and other “weird” people in Italy. You’ll have to ignore them if you come. I saw old men in speedos today and it was more jarring than watching a Lady Gaga performance. You might just avoid the beach altogether.

People here eat Italian food every day. I miss your meatloaves.

I bought an earring, a tank top, and some hair gel for Dad so he can look more Italian. I got you and the sisters matching snakeskin string bikinis. Brother already looks Euro enough. Hope you like everything. It all cost 50 Euro. Pay me when I get back.

My host’s dad was making penis jokes at dinner about the phallic bread we had. You would have disapproved just like his mother. Wish you were here to scold.

Bologna

Traveling companion has fallen ill. I’m feeling weak too. Both very hungry. Please send lactation cookies/medicine.

Mom, I dangled over the side of a cliff today, my feet barely scraping the side of a very deep ravine. I didn’t even want to do it but no one would tell me no. Wish you were here.

Do you remember the check Grandma sent me for my birthday? Could you put the money in my account? Italy is great.

Despite your reassurances that “everyone will know what I’m talking about” no one knows this kind of cheese you want. Are you sure it’s Italian?

Italy is wonderful. I’m not coming back to the states. I didn’t think I hated my family enough to stay abroad forever but it’s just that beautiful. I know you’ll understand. Email me with questions.

Egypt Again

Back in Egypt. Food turns to ash in my mouth. I’m hallucinating that I can hear crickets and didn’t even have the energy to kill the cockroach that was preening itself on the wall for an hour. Please send money and cookies. Sorry I said that I’d never be coming back to the states. What I meant was I am never coming back to Oklahoma.

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Remembering the Frenchman Who Showed Us His Apartment Today

Here was the bed he slept in. And this was the kitchen he would always make his instant coffee in. Do you remember how much he loved instant coffee? He would always offer us some even though we never accepted. And do you remember how he would let us wander in his apartment as we examined it, awkwardly standing by as I took a few haphazard photos? His complete lack of facial expressions was so disconcerting!

This was the bathroom he showered in and the toilet he used, the sink he sometimes shaved over and the black-splotched mirror he would look into as he brushed his teeth.

These were the books he read, and oh! There was the one he was currently reading: Modern Trends in Post-Colonial Interpretations of Revolutionary Artwork. He was such a scholar, getting his PhD I believe.

Remember when he told us in his endearing French accent about the crazy lady who lived in the vacant building across from his apartment and how she would scream at the people in the subsidized bread line as they were fighting? How we nervously laughed and laughed! We were so unsure of what the proper response should be!

And when, right after meeting him at Hardees, I asked him what his wife does and it turned out she was the lady sitting right next to you? Wasn’t that funny!

The way he asked us whether or not we wanted the apartment was certainly charming as well. He inhaled deeply and said, “So, do you think this is something like what you are looking for,” and as we looked at each other we both knew that there was no way we would ever want to live somewhere the kitchen is the size of the bathtub.

As soon as we’d seen the kitchen, we heard the death knell of our relationship. There would be no second meeting to sign the contract or determine the final details of the lease. There would be no exchange of phone numbers with the real estate agent or the bowab, and no other semi-firm handshakes.

And so it is with fondness I remember those awkward moments we spent in his tiny apartment, examining his home and finding it wanting. Though our friendship, and I hope we can call it friendship, lasted only a painful 30 minutes, I know I will be unable to forget the complete lack of comfort I felt while in his presence. It may have been the fact we were not speaking in his native tongue, or perhaps he had forgotten how to interact with humans other than his wife and research subjects because of his time spent buried under PhD work. Whatever the reason for his particular brand of charm, his company was priceless. I do hope he finds someone else to rent his apartment quite soon.

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One Day in Post-Revolutionary Cairo

Fellow revolutionaries.

WARNING: extreme content ahead. Approach with caution.

1:00 pm: Wake up! Surf the Egyptian internet! Eat natural yoghurt and granola! Brush my teeth! Whoa!

3:00 pm: Go to a friend’s crazy air-conditioned apartment…! Wile out and watch True Blood and eat insane pancakes! Clean up the kitchen! This is Cairo, baby!

8:00 pm: Politely say goodbye to the hella gracious host! Wish him a speedy recovery since he’s feeling under the weather–more pancakes to eat in the fridge, bro! Dominate the elevator all the way down to the ground floor…in Cairo! Sick!

8:30 pm: Sit in the shade to get out of the sun—-naw, just kidding, man! The sun’s long gone. This is night Cairo now! Stroll to a rooftop café! Sit for hours and discuss religion! Too extreme for you?? Too bad cupcake, you’re in Cairo!

10:00 pm: Hey, Mr. Waiter! What say you revolutionize my sheesha with more coals? You know how we roll!

12:00 am: Get home to avoid being locked out! Make a gnarly cup of Nescafe! Uh oh—the internet’s not working. Night ruined? Not a chance! Break out the Arrested Development DVDs! This night just got more extreeeeeeeeeeeeme!

3:00 am: It’s Madame Bovary time! Classical French literature is so subversive!

6:00 am: Journaling so hard right now! Tons of feelings and awesome thoughts! All you mopey teenagers ain’t got nothin’ on me! Chilla!

7:00 am: See ya later, Cairo! Get ready to rock it hard tomorrow, and by that I mean today—the sun’s already up! Yeah! I be playin’ it vampire style!

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A Brief Treatment of Common Singalong Pitfalls

Our program has been blessed with incredible musical talent, including guitarists, one percussionist, and someone who plays the spoons. Though all of them are gifted, only one has compiled, of his own free will, an entire songbook full of songs he transcribed, printed, alphabetized, and then put into a binder. This songbook is accompanied by a mini-me spiral bound version that looks as professional as anything you could buy from a Christian bookstore.

Because of the abundance of musical talent, at many of our gatherings we have had the great privilege of huddling around his songbooks, flipping through them until some loudmouth sees a song they like and then calls out, “Hey can you play _____”, a question that deserves a swift slap in the face since he was the one who transcribed every song himself.

Obviously the singalongs are wonderful, especially since we have able bodied players, a songbook, and people who are literate. One would even think we had the recipe for seamless, coordinated singing that anyone would be overjoyed to hear. Unfortunately, my friend, it is not so. Despite that fact it is always fun, our singing often misses the “enjoyable for others” mark by a long shot. I have outlined below some of the causes of this phenomenon, one that also plagues buses and campfires the world over. First of all, however, let me state that I am one of the most egregious singalong offenders, and have committed every possible singalong offense hundreds of times over and look forward to doing so again in the future.

Factors contributing to less than perfect singalongs:

a. It’s hard to think of songs everyone knows on the spot. Inevitably, the first songs thrown into the mix are the national anthem and “Amazing Grace,” both of which are impossible for most humans to sing. The next ones are songs that people only think they know, “Sweet Caroline” or “Don’t Stop Believing” for example, which quickly sour as the majority realizes they only know one line that comes halfway through the song and lasts for brief 5 seconds of exhilaration.

b. No one knows all the words to almost any song, unless they’ve memorized it like a freak. One cannot live on choruses alone, yet the compulsively memorized songs are also the ones that others are most likely not to know. These are the personal favorites, the songs played on repeat in the soft darkness of one’s room during most of junior year in high school. Alternatively, the song reminds one of summer camp or an old crush, also experiences no one else will share. They will not like the song as much as you.

c. People choose songs that are inappropriate for group settings, suggesting their favorites which, as I’ve already pointed out, the entire group will not instantly love. Songs that people enjoy for their easy pace, wistfulness, and deepness will almost never carry over well in a group because they are, above all, slow and sad. Do you go to parties and try to make friends by talking about the long and drawn out death of your next door neighbor? No, you tell jokes. This is the singalong equivalent of a Lady Gaga song.

d. Famous singers generally have beautiful and/or distinctive voices. Singalong companions often do not and are also unaware of this discrepancy in vocal ability.  There are not many people that can sing like Kelly Clarkson. She won a nation-wide contest that captivated America and if people of her skill level were present at any Chuckie Cheese’s, then obviously things like American Idol wouldn’t exist. Therefore, we should not be so surprised that we do not sound like her when we sing her songs and indeed that we cannot sing her songs very well.

e. Singing along with a guitar is different from singing with a YouTube video or your car radio. For the unexperienced,  it is always difficult to find the key in which the guitarist is playing. Some never find it and continue to blissfully sing in the key they are most used to hearing while they are alone in the kitchen cooking and singing. Since they are not vegetables, everyone else notices.

f. Similar to the above foible, everyone likes to sing the song just as they hear it in their head. If they’ve sung the song many times on their own without backup music, it’s likely they’ve added cute dips and improvisations to the normal cadence, all of which the rest of the group is unaware and cannot follow along with. A group of 6 people each singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” as they have developed it in their personal repertoires sounds surprisingly similar to an ax sharpening contest.

g. Invariably, some  participants exhibit a severe lack of personal awareness while they are singing. Though you feel you are pouring your heart out during a rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” staying true to the original intent of the song, to others you look like a maniac that will soon be in need of a defibrillator.

h. And, as always in groups intent on singing, the silent majority is forced to listen to the louder minority. Sorry, everyone else, even though all of you had a better song suggestions, because you couldn’t speak up in time you will be forced to listen to this really long, slow song that we don’t know very well since someone yelled it out a second ago and said it was their favorite even though it turns out they don’t know most of the words.

But, like I said, these factors in no way impede the enjoyability of a singalong, they only enrich it. The best part is that despite how much of a failure one singalong may be, there is always hope that next time it will be different, and that the person playing the guitar will know that one song you’ve been dying to sing even though it’s 9 minutes long and is about cat diabetes.

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