A Day in the Life

I knew that today, as the day before the big trip, would not be a good day for a sit-down blog.  So I wrote an itinerant sort of blog to catch the moments today because they are leaving me like water leaves a sieve.   

7:00am

Gentle jungle noises drift into my consciousness from the direction of the phone alarm on my nightstand and I hit snooze...twice.  I always hate the jungle at this time of day.

8:00am

Finds me in the kitchen coaxing the once-upon-a-garage-sale waffle iron to life because I've promised Ethan I would make him waffles.  Mom is frying bacon and Ethan himself is grating potatoes for hash browns.

9:00am

We are around the table, our family.  When we finish breakfast I tell Ethan I love him.  "I know you do," he says, because of all of this." He motions to the food spread over the table.  His eyes are big, his nine-year-old soul satisfied.  Good, now I can get a shower.

10:00am

I am not showering or packing.  I am on the phone with the bank and the airline. 

11:00

Showering has been postponed in favor of packing.  This is the moment I begin to have grave doubts that

This:

Will fit into 

This:

But there is no going back.  I consider a larger suitcase but my vertebrae collectively scream out a resounding "NO!" and I am persuaded. 

Noon:

I will not be taking hiking boots.  They weren't in the picture anyway because I could not find them.  I believe this is a sign from God.

1:00pm

Lunch with grandparents.  Grammie spreads and elegant feast of chicken salad and fruit.  Paw Paw hugs me hard as ever.  They are some of the hardest people to leave because time passes differently with them and I treasure every minute.

2:00pm

Finishing our coffee and cranberry bread.

3:00pm

I embark on a "quick" Target trip to obtain three (3) items I am lacking.  I need little presents for certain people. 

4:00pm

Still getting little presents.  A lot more than three little presents.  And I find the yellow jeggings I searched for all last semester.  I buy them too.  

5:00pm

I am getting gas at Green Top because I think I can say bye to my friend Sujan, whom I suddenly realize I have not really seen all summer.  He is not there but his sister is and she will give him the message. She smiles at me, shy. 

6:00pm

Back to packing. The suitcase is full.  Flotsam and jetsam litter the living room rug and I am industriously consolidating my toiletries.  Someone will not be getting oreos.  I'm sorry.  The oreos go to Dad, who will not complain, I'm sure.

7:00pm

Again we are eating together.  Mom has made a beautiful meal and Connor and Jessica are over.   

8:00pm

My suitcase is still not quite packed.  It appears to have vomited all over the living room.  The pile of items I am not including nearly exceeds the pile of things that fit.  But it's getting closer, and Mom, Mattie, and I make a quick trip with Jessica to see her newly decorated classroom.  On the way back, a storm hits and we reach home just before the hail, just before the clouds burst and the house blacks out.  It is beautiful and powerful and the I remember the fear I had as a little child of the colossal wave of pines above our house, a fear now replaced by awe.  Well, I wanted to see rain before I left. 

9:00pm and After

I finish packing by candle light.  Quiet fills the living room.  Everyone goes to bed except for Dad, and we both hope the night will bring sleep.  Then, with blinks and starts, the lights come on and the air conditioning returns.  Back to life.  I survey my packing job and think the zipper will hold. 

And I am here writing, drawing the day by its strings and hoping for rest before tomorrow.   

Ice Skating: A Small Experiment With Movement

 Mattie and I went ice skating yesterday in Dallas.  It was our summer sister date, something we've been planning since I got my car in the spring but not done till now.  All day we talked and laughed.  Shopped for nothing and finally made it to the skating rink.  Both of us have skated there before but I think I was twelve or something.  So for a few seconds, as a watched from dizzying height of the third-floor railing above the rink, I wondered if this idea I had that I could skate was just a fantasy.  Because you know, a surprising lot of people can't get off the rail at all without busting their tailbone.  

But we had to try.  After all, we had been planning this all summer.  Sure enough, after about a minute on the wall I began to glide gingerly across the ice.  Soon it wasn't gingerly any more, it was...fast!  Mattie got her bearings too, and we went round and round the rink for about 45 minutes, growing steadier and happier, wearing blisters into various parts of our feet and roses into our cheeks.  I felt at once five years old and as grown up as I've ever been.  And really, most of the people out there were about five.  All these cute kids with mom or dad or a trainer, some of them really good.  I saw a trainer set a stuffed animal on the ice and get the kid to skate to reach it.  Slippin' and slidin' everywhere.  There was a lot of clinging for dear life.  And that's how learning is.  But there they were, getting to know how their bodies work.  And on some level I was doing that too. 

It was a reconnection with my body that I needed.  Sometimes I realize that I am holding my breath. I realize that I am holding myself so still because I'm afraid that eventually someone will catch me in the act of living. It will be Messy and Awkward and Someone Will Have to Pay.  But now I know that I am free of that, so how should the new person that I am be acting?  Skating was a small experiment with movement.  When you are skating, posture is everything: remembering how your body wants to hold itself and what it can do when it is free, balancing, moving boldly against and into space, uninhibited.  Each movement a small act of faith until they flow together and you forget to think.

Tinkering

In the last post I mentioned "tinkering" with languages (a term that linguist Michael Erard uses briefly in his book Babel No More).  Tinkering with language is no more or less than playing with words, experimenting with them.  Certain images come to my mind with the word. You tinker like an old man in an old cap, taking apart grammars like small engines and rebuilding them.  You learn without pressure and only for delight in the simultaneous beauty and functionality of things.  I love this tinkering not only because it is fun, but because it forges brain connections that can come in handy later.

I was inspired to learn Hebrew when when my mom made friends with Israeli 20-somethings selling Dead Sea products at the mall.  They came for Thanksgiving and, to my delight, burst into spirited Hebrew exclamations over our dinner table every time they got excited about something.  My head was swimming.  At fourteen I was too shy to invite myself into their world. However, the next summer found me pacing the dining room with a copy of Hebrew for Dummies and a glass of milk, attempting to prime my vocal chords for pharyngeal fricatives...which I simply knew at the time as that sound my cat makes when she's got a hairball.  All that to say, I didn't get far with Hebrew, but the experience prepared my vocal chords in some small way for what they would encounter when I began studying Russian.

Then there was my discovery about Kyrgyz.  Since I am going to Kyrgyzstan I have been learning a few phrases, and one of the first things I looked at were numbers.  I had heard that Kyrgyz and Turkish were part of the same language family, but I imagined them to be sort of cousins that visited each other on holidays.  To my great joy, I found that the numbers I studied looked more like fraternal twins! Below are the numbers 1-10 in Kyrgyz and Turkish, taken from Turkey Travel Planner and the Kyrgyz Phrasebook on the School of Russian and Asian Studies website.

Number	Kyrgyz	Turkish	Pronunciation
1	бир	bir	bir
2	еки	iki	eki
3	уч	üç	uch
4	торт	dört	tort
5	беш	beş	besh
6	алтй	altı	alty
7	жеди	yedi	jeti
8	сегиз	sekiz	segiz
9	тогуз	dokuz	toguz
10	он	on	on

Native speakers might see a big difference in pronunciation, and I don't know enough about the languages yet to tell if the numbers are indicative of the two languages as wholes.  BUT that little light of recognition going off in my brain was exciting.  To strike out into the dark unknown and smack up against something familiar...that is good.  And that familiarity would not have been possible without the funky urge I had to learn those Turkish numbers several years ago.  Because of that little connection, I suddenly felt smart and able, maybe even falsely proficient!

You never know when those three phrases of Indonesian you learned on a whim in high school will make someone's day.  So I see my eventual goal (besides actually settling down and becoming fluent in one of the languages I'm interested in and/or studying) as having a Mary Poppins bag of phrases with me wherever I go.  To tinker with and delight in, and to make bridges with people around the world.    

The Speed of Life

 Life has the most terrifying way of accelerating just when you start to settle in.  I've been having a blast this summer in both expected and unexpected ways.  And now it's less than two weeks till I hug necks in Ukraine and just one month till I'll start out the school semester in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. I recognize the onset of this piranhas-in-my-gut feeling as the usual case of emotional motion sickness, and I'm holding on for the ride.  Excited.  

My Russian study has ebbed (the sight of flashcards is sickening) and Kyrgyz has been at a trickle.  I attribute to this to little infidelities with German and French that started last year.  I've indulged them shamelessly over the summer with very little to show for it.  Trying to read the French section of the Lonely Planet European phrasebook to myself, only to have the epiphany in the lamplight of my cozy room, struggling with elusive pronunciations, that Lonely Planet is owned by BBC and...probably based on British pronunciation.  Which is great.  For the Brits.

I, on the other hand, with my Modified Texan Accent, need some other guidance.  Next on the queue is to watch Fantastic Mr. Fox in French.  Haven't done it yet. Cleaned my grandmother's kitchen cabinets instead.    

And I went to see my friend Chelsea in Dallas, where we visited a Half Price Books.  Which inevitably led to the inordinate purchase of two boxes of old school Russian verb/grammar flashcards, (If they are vintage I will want to use them, right?), a set of note cards featuring İznik tile patterns (one of my favorites from Islamic art) and two (small!) German language books (one grammar and one dictionary). I blame the last one on my friend DJ who gave me a digital tour of his home town, Vienna, and showed me how to make the @ symbol on a German keyboard.  That's all it takes.

Well, all I can say is that, as bad as my Russian study habits have been, I really am using the Russian cards, and the German stuff, well, it provides a little breather (I'm not getting a grade for it any time soon) and the aesthetic goes well with my shelf of occasionally-used language books ranging from Old English to Hebrew to Cantonese.

I will write more later about tinkering with languages and why it matters that I have a shelf full of books that I keep more or less like a shrine...

Summer Reading

One of my favorite parts of summer is the bi-monthly library raid.  I like to do this during the school year too, but since I really don't have time to lose myself in extraneous reading material during the semesters I try to limit that.  Sometime in April my resolve usually snaps and I'll end up skipping a class to pillage the library and return with a stack of contraband right before finals week.  Not that I actually read the books at that point.  They usually root themselves in a prominent spot on my desk/bookshelf/floor among tor-like mounds of their denser relatives used for research papers.  But their presence directs me to a horizon beyond finals week, and for that I am always grateful.

But then summer.  Summer, which I loath for the humidity, the necessary absence of sweaters, and the increased possibilities of contact with swimming pools and fresh-cut grass, but love for the family meals, the open road, and...the books.  During the school year, I am a student of history.  In the summer I become an arm chair psychologist- neuroscientist-linguist-archaeologist, albeit of a very passive kind.  I most recently read Clotaire Rapaille's The Culture Code: An Ingenious Way to Understand Why People Around the World Live and Buy As They Do. 

 Rapaille, a cultural anthropologist, developed his method of understanding people and cultures from studying the idea of emotional imprints.  When he (with the help of an acquaintance) realized the potential for his ideas in the marketing world, the author left his work as a psychoanalyst in Paris to become a consultant for various companies, including Nestle, Chrysler, and L'Oreal. 

So what is this code?  Well, it's quirky, and companies were skeptical until it started boosting their sales, but it makes sense to me.  The code for a particular thing (concrete or abstract) is the emotional imprint a person or a society as a whole has of that thing.  For instance, Rapaille writes about his experience with Chrysler when he counseled them to stop making the Jeep prettier and and fancier.  Despite the fact that prospective customers seemed to ask for prettier and fancier, they weren't buying the Jeep.  It was only when the company took a different turn and followed Rapaille's advice to make the Jeep more accessible, free, and wilderness friendly that the sales went up.  According to Rapaille, this is because the code for Jeep is "HORSE."  For Americans, the Jeep is a ride into the wild.  It's not supposed to be a Lexus. 

Rapaille expands the "code" across cultures, for instance, what the Germans think of the Jeep (Liberator, dating from WWII days).  And what the French think of cheese (Alive vs. dead and moldy as Americans see it).  All of this is based on studies involving people who attend structured sessions where they tell Rapaille their associations and memories concerning different brands, objects, and ideas.  He then uses that information to determine what kind of advertisement would be "on code" for that particular group of people.  If the Jeep is supposed to be a horse, advertising it as a luxury vehicle isn't on code.  

My only complaint about the book is that I wanted more codes, more cultures.  Rapaille sets the book up with an element of suspense as he described his study on a particular object or idea (home, for example) and lets you guess a while before revealing his answer to the code.  And outside the USA he only covers a handful of European countries plus Japan.  Which is ok; I guess the guy can't know everything.  But it makes me want to go out and figure out codes for everything.  When I study abroad this fall I'll be walking around Bishkek saying to myself, "Hm, so what IS the Kyrgyz code for American College Student?" 

The Culture Code is an intensely personal twist on marketing, to the point of being scary.  They can read my mind.  At the same time, I firmly believe that humans are capable of self control.  I am not my buying impulses. I'm not really as interested in marketing as I am in understanding the world I live in.  And Rapaille makes it clear that the code does not just apply to marketing, but to how we understand the world around us.  This book is "on code" for me because it reveals the "secrets" to getting into people's brains.  Sneaky, I know. I don't know how much of my short life I've spent trying to figure out what people are thinking and what they meant with they said or did X, Y, or Z.  Of course, I've learned to curb a lot of the compulsive agonized fretting, but now that the fog has cleared a bit I've found that the advantage to this kind of bent is that you care about where other people are coming from.  That's a handy quality in this shrinking world, and The Culture Code is a handy tool to compliment it.    

If the Song Fits

I renamed and restructured this blog last week because the layout really bothered me before.  There wasn't space for me to come and roost. It wasn't a place I could stay comfortably in cyberspace.  The orangey gold works well because I think it fits the feel of the song the blog is named for (Fiona Apple's cover of Across the Universe, by The Beatles).

My sister says I need to get a different profile picture.  She thinks the photo of me being goofy with Ethan (our small brother) is smarmy.  I know what she means, but I'm not too photogenic and all my other photos just look like I'm trying too hard.  This one is more genuine, even if it could be mistaken for the oh my gosh look how amazing I am with small children vibe. "Just please don't be one of those moms who always posts pictures of their kids for their profile on Facebook," she moans.  Well, haters gonna hate. 

As for the song, I chose it because not only is it beautiful, but the lyrics are fitting for both a writing process and the idea of traveling around a lot.  I can't decide whether the oft repeated chorus "Nothin's gonna change my world" signifies that I am a very inflexible person or that I am a very badass person who is unperturbed by life's obstacles.  I choose to believe the latter.

It's hard to believe that this time last year I was posting on this blog about this obscure study abroad program I'd found, wondering if it might work out.  Here I am on a nine week countdown, accepted to the program, all scholarshipped up and ready to go.

In August I will be traveling to Ukraine for two weeks to be reunited with the Crowe family and other good friends in Rzhishchiv, where I stayed for nearly a year in 2008-2009.  After two weeks I'll hop on over a couple mountain ranges to Kyrgyzstan for a long awaited study abroad, where I will be delving into Central Asian and Russian Language studies for a semester in the capital city, Bishkek.  I hope to roam the mountainous country, visiting ancient ruins and national parks and overcoming my fear of large animals (horseback riding).

So although I'll begin posting regularly this summer, the resurrection of the blog is mainly with the intent of chronicling the adventures to come, more or less across the universe...

Cincinnati

Driving is my favorite.  I mean that.  I am in love with several things, namely, Simon and Garfunkel, city driving, truck stop coffee, and Laundromats on rainy days.  The Laundromat is where I am now, and whenever I come here it rains (all two times I’ve been this month).  But it’s cozy with the dryers and the detergent smell and the gum ball machines. 

Yesterday I was in Cincinnati, meeting my dear friends Rosanna and Alyssa at a good compromise between Berea and Indianapolis.  It was a beautiful day.  The only blight on it is that I am gravely disappointed that Cincinnati does not have two repeating syllables like I thought it did.  I checked every sign I passed but its true that Cincinnati only has three n’s.  I could swear I read it “Cinncinnati” somewhere.  But that somewhere was Divine Right’s Trip by Gurney Norman, and the fictional main character was the one discussing this. He was also stoned for most of the book. 

Every city I drive in issues a fresh challenge.  Driving the interstate reminds me of algebra II in high school. It builds on itself; once you get a concept it applies elsewhere.  You realize that when you get off an exit to switch directions you might have to drive through a sketchy neighborhood, but you will once more be reunited with the lifeline of green signs.  

You need to drive through a city twice.  Once on your own, maneuvering the loops and spaghetti bowl of interstates, then with an alternate driver, so that you can look at the scenery.  I admired the surprise view coming over the hill into Cincinnati and enjoyed the bridge crossing over from Kentucky.  I hadn’t been in Ohio since I was six, and hadn’t had the chance to feel the difference between the two.  Cincinnati was hillier than I expected.  The skyline wasn’t magnificent, but there was flavor to the city.  The shot gun houses standing like pieces of cake in a row, the bridges over the Ohio River (in various colors; blue, yellow, and lavender).  

I tried to be both a driver and a passenger for a while, but missed the junction to get back on I-75 north.  I knew the second it happened, but once off the google-mapped path, getting back was puzzle. 

Panic does not help anything.  And I had allotted myself 30 extra minutes for this express purpose of missing turns and “recalculating” as the GPS would probably say.  After a couple of GPS experiences, I have decided that if I want to travel the world, I’d better learn to follow, give, and work out my own directions. 

So, in the spirit of not panicking, I talk myself through it.   

Ok, we’re driving over the freaking Ohio River again.  Drive over the bridges.  Drive over all the bridges!  This one is yellow.  (In searching of a spot to turn around, I drove through downtown and headed back to Newport, Kentucky on I-471 South).  Newport looks fine.  The aquarium is in Newport.  I really have to pee. Surely I can still make it on time to Colerain.

Newport provides an exit, so I turn around and head back over the river into Ohio.   

That’s a good sign.  I was on I-71 North before so it stands to reason that I should get back on it.  Or does it?  I’m headed to Columbus.  That can’t be right.  I really need to pee.  Oh, look, the Zoo. 

After back tracking to the junction I am finally reunited with I-75 and continue to Colerain, pondering the mysteries of exit numbers that decrease instead of increase.  Off the exit onto I-74, up through that narrow winding of Colerain Road, which Rosanna later informs me I do NOT pronounce like a local, and soon I have just passed our meeting place for a detour to the nearest quick-stop-because-I-absolutely-have-to-pee. 

Our afternoon was truly wonderful, gallivanting about, hugging their necks, walking in the park, eating Graeter’s ice cream to our hearts’ content and laying in the sun, wandering back and forth across the different colored bridges, splashing in the fountains, enjoying Claddagh’s Irish Pub at dinnertime.  The violent thunderstorms held till the moment we drove away and we had a lightning show on the way home.