Thursday, August 22, 2013

10 things I learned in Rome


 1. Walking is always best. Public transportation (the metro or bus 64) will save you blisters, perhaps, but you will miss the countless beautiful moments hidden in unexpected back alleys.

2.  That said, invest in a good street map beforehand. Particularly if it has interesting tips and historical facts.



3. Watch Roman Holiday and track down the spots where Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck went.

4. Italian food is divine. Italian restaurants are not. Overpriced and with disappointing quality, stay away from any tourist cafe or restaurant near main attractions (so, basically all the restaurants). That said, here is a link to one woman's favorite places...


5. The Vatican is a total zoo. Beautiful and magnificent (getting to see the Sistine Chapel is absolutely awe-inspiring), but your stress level will probably rise with the masses/throngs/swarms/mobs of tourists who crash into you, step on your feet, forget deodorant, or have forgotten how to move.


6. Always tip the street musicians. They bring beauty and life to the streets. Let them know you appreciate it.



7. If you can, go in the spring or fall. August is awfully hot and most shops (and night clubs) are closed since the Romans are all on vacation themselves.

8. Grattachecca. Found only in Italy's capital, this shaved ice, fruit juice and fresh fruit chunks is hands-down the very best way to quench thirst during the torrid August days. The best, and oldest, one is lemon and coconut. You shouldn't pay more than about 4 euro for one (at the most).


9. Make friends with a gelato worker. If you go enough, they'll start giving you discounts or extra scoopings.

10. Explore at night and learn some Italian. Not only is the temperature a good 10-20 degrees cooler, but seeing the ancient monuments lit up is breath-taking, and this is when you'll get to meet new Italian friends to explore with.


11. And go with your best friend. :D

Monday, August 12, 2013

Free Wifi


Starbucks in Madrid has us pegged. The barista with grey eyes smiles when we ask, again, for the wifi codes along with our espressos. 

Madrid is a patchwork of color, languages, and mouth-watering cuisine. Mom and Spanish-Dad found a little flat tucked inside a colorful courtyard; drying laundry and wailing toddlers are our constant companions. Additionally, we are deep in the heart of the most ethnic section of the capital city. Renown as a low-rent district, it attracts a vast array of immigrants; over 50% of the population is estimated to be of foreign origin. Popular amongst squatters, drug dealers, socialist youth, and newly arrived immigrants, the area bears an eclectic aura, the "buenos dias"s laced with heavy accents. Our neighbors are Moroccan, Senegalese, Sri Lankan, and Bangladeshi, though countless other languages, dialects, and traditional dress frequent our narrow streets. I adore it.

Our apartment

El Metropolis

Guitarist outside the Prado Museum (who has an amazing CD)


Street musicians at El Rastro

And in the metro

Goofing around with a blue balloon outside the Reina Sophia Modern Art Musuem



Friday, July 19, 2013

Reach for the Skies


After a 10-hour work day, my feet are swollen, my hands bruised and my back sore...but I'm settled in bed with my favorite celtic band, a bowl of colorful fruit salad, surrounded by wrinkled papers with handwritten notes scrawled across them in countless flurries of ideas and thoughts. I'm trying to create my own major and the effort is both invigorating and daunting. I love the freedom I'm allowing myself, the ability to customize my studies into a perfect culmination of passion, knowledge, interest, and challenge. It's difficult and I'm not guaranteed the faculty committee will approve my proposal - a major like this has never been done before. The unprecedented nature of my idea adds pressure to be perfect, so the late night moon has caught me many times with steaming Turkish coffee (from last year's bedouins), tired eyes, pencil in hand, and pages upon pages of an evolving rough draft proposal.




Each morning I tell my tours to dream big. Wide-eyed highschoolers with astronomical GPAs and SAT scores stare at me when I tell them to look past the stats and percentages of a university...go somewhere you can thrive, I tell them. Go somewhere you can grow. Somewhere that allows you to dream big. Not just allows, but encourages....supports....partners with your dreams. I'm lucky to be in a place that lets me try new things, invent my own curriculum, propose my own education. We'll see if it gets accepted though...for now it's more coffee, polishing rhetoric, and daydreaming at the sky. 

If all goes well, I'll graduate with a:

B.A. in Global Development Studies: Public Health & Social Justice



Monday, July 15, 2013

Trayvon


This video is beautiful and incredibly important. At the end of the day, equal rights are being eroded and racism allowed to endure. And where are our political leaders? Where are the social, moral leaders demanding better of our systems? This shouldn't be allowed to remain another tragic incident in the annals of a tragic legacy.

"We must be concerned not merely about who murdered them, but about the system, the way of life, the philosophy which produced the murderers." -Martin Luther King Jr. (Eulogy for Martyred Children)

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

"Their own volition"

"Don't give chances. Or pose ultimatums. Or set rules.
Just let people go, and see what they do of their own volition...

If their free will doesn't lead to you,
why try to force it?
What good is a love
That you have to ask for?"


Tonight I ran across old messages from last summer sent from continents away. He was trekking through the Peruvian andes and I was working in Jordanian refugee camps. Sounds like a NatGeo couple doesn't it? Amidst faulty internet connections, exhaustion and sickness, and the expanse of half a globe, we detailed our experiences, our hopes, fears, frustrations, and stupid little nothingnesses that made us smile. And I rediscovered them tonight and all my victorious emotional courage and strength went swirling down the drain. The nostalgia is overwhelming, my face smiles at the memories, and my heart tears at the loss. Again. Damnit.


 Why did you let me go? Why didn't you fight for me? Why didn't you call me, text me, drive to me in the middle of the night when we were both a wreck? Why didn't you hunt me down and tell me you couldn't bear to lose me? My heart screamed as I put the ball in your court, left it up to you...and you...you never called.

Why can't I stop missing you?


Saturday, June 22, 2013

Musings


She stood outside VONS quietly; her dark eyes scanning the faces of entering customers. Her hands were callused and worn and, though still young, her eyes were crowned with countless wrinkles. A lanky boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen, stood beside her distracting the sniffling toddler in the broken stroller. His arms and legs had grown faster than his eyes; he had the stature of a man, but the youthful awkwardness of a curious, confused kid. The little family stood outside of the grocery store humbled and penniless, but strangely dignified. 

Walking up, hurried and checking my bank account balance on my phone, I immediately noticed them. My intuition exploded with an unexplainable sense of compassion and urgency. They had said nothing, but something was wrong. There was pain behind those eyes. Her eyes were strong. Achingly resolute. I’d seen that too many times in an all too personal past. 

“Are you okay?” I said softly, walking closer. 

“No.” She bluntly responded, waiting for the familiar distancing and apathetic retreat into blithe god blesses and well-wishing. Her eyes relaxed just slightly when I didn’t leave. “My kids haven’t eaten and I have no money. Do you think you could get us some bread? Maybe some tuna?” 

I brought her out two bags of incredibly basic groceries. Bread, tuna, bottled water, apples, grapes, and a couple protein bars...all I could afford and still afford gas on the way home.

As I handed them to her, she looked up with those strong, resolute eyes. “I said a prayer this morning”, she stated. “A prayer of HU”. She continued, in a few short words, to explain that in her religion - Eckankar - the prayer helps believers draw closer to the Divine Being, help them experience divine love, offer solace in times of grief, and bring peace in overwhelming situations. She had prayed for food, and here I was with two bags of groceries in tow. 

“God answers prayer” she said, staring into my eyes. 

I’ve heard that my whole life, but today my conversation with this unnamed hungry, struggling, devout woman shook my theology anew. Christians claim this all the time. Tithe and god will reward your sacrifice. Honor Him and He will bless you. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and he will make your path straight. If His eye is on the sparrow, how much more on the believer? God answers prayers. 

But this is not singular to Christians or the Protestant/Catholic faith. The Palestinian refugees in Baqa’a refugee camp in Jordan looked me in the eye and told me how Allah continued to provide for them. How good and just and patient he was. The witch doctor in Jamaica who stood outside our clinic and rattled crow bones spoke of the mysterious love of her god. My burmese refugees at the IRC prayed before each meal, thanking their god for the continued blessing of food to eat and a roof over their head...eyes often filled with grateful tears. And now here was this Eckankari believer reassuring me that I was being used by her god to answer her prayers. These religions have incredibly different, and usually maintain conflicting doctrines. They ask different things, require different faiths, and promise different rewards. But whether you believe in Jesus, Allah, a Divine Being, or a multi-armed goddess... “god provides”. Interesting.

I believe there is a god. I do. I believe there is transcendent, supreme being that exists beyond human imagination and understanding who created the world and set it into motion. I believe that this god resides somewhere out there, watchful and omniscient. 
Given that, 1) I don’t believe this god has a real name or a real “truth” held by an select, informed percentage of the globe...whoever or wherever that may be. I think that all of humanity recognizes a deep, innate need for an omnipotent source of justice and explanation, and that this source is manifested in the unexplainable, all-present divine spirit that is, at once, the fount of love and wrath. The colorful corners of the world has their own explanation, their own spiritual history and narrative, their own justification of history, their own interpretation of right, wrong, morality, and truth. And depending on who I buy groceries for, I’m being used by Jesus, Allah, Krishna or any number of other divine beings. It’s relative, but in my mind, I just want to make sure this family is less hungry at the end of the day. 

Which brings me to my second point, 2) how much is “god” and how much is “man”? If I have equal chance of being used by whichever god the recipient of my good-will chooses to believe in, how much of my benevolence springs just from the simple fact that I want to help? Your kids didn’t eat today. Here are some groceries. Perhaps that’s whatever god you’d like to call him/her/it working through me, or perhaps it’s just that I’m a person with a heart. 

This isn’t a “yay me, I’m a saint” rant. It's a confession of someone who can talk the talk, who's done the apologetics, highlighted her bible, memorized the verses, but who finds the whole experience rather hollow in the grand scheme of things. In my own, limited, experience...I've been cared for, loved by, and survived because of individual people who have gone out of their way to provide. 

Monday, June 10, 2013