Sorry to leave you with that elephant camp cliffhanger.....I'll pick up where I left off soon, I promise :)
I realize that I said it in my last blog entry, but I'll say it again with a little more gusto: March has by far been the best month that I've had in the last two years. Hell, it's been one of the best months of my life thus far!! And I KNEW that a month like this was always just around the corner. I endured loneliness and illness and injury and grief and locusts and plagues and holy crap IT WAS WORTH IT. Part of me feels bummed that I am now in a full-on sprint to the finish line--I'm at the three-and-a-half month mark now--but timing is a funny thing. Now that I'm finally meeting people (two of whom live in my building and I met them while power walking on two separate occasions!! Yay for power walking!!) and feeling happy and secure and after I truly found my stride at work it's time to pack up my boxes and head on home. However, it's also as a result of timing that everything has fallen into place. On the one hand, the things that I love will not be in my grasp for much longer, so it's time to absorb everything with complete and utter abandon. On the other hand, the things that are difficult are incredibly impermanent and will not have to be endured for much longer. The thing that I have come to realize, though, is that while my time out here is fleeting and impermanent, so is LIFE!!! Sometimes I get tunnel vision and define my life in small perspectives, in narrow horizons. I let small events and interactions and situations fill the entire atmosphere of my being until everything is clouded over and obscured and confusing and dramatic. I had to come to Asia to unlearn this. And I have.
On a less serious note, I am recovering from an eye infection because a piece of urban filth collided with my cornea while I was walking down the street the other day. I also have a random rash covering my neck and creeping up onto my face, and I have no idea what is causing it. Ah, Bangkok. What will I do without the random health woes that you impart upon me daily?
With this newfound peace and contentment that I am feeling right now I am finding that certain things I have been keeping at bay for a long time are starting to rise to the surface. I had sort of put my grief into mental file cabinets for a more convenient time when my entire emotional system was not solely focused on survival. And now these small balloons inside of me are filling, filling, filling.
The six month anniversary of Max's death came and went a few days ago, and I find myself surprised by how raw and stinging the pain of it still is. Max and I were not regularly in touch for about a year before his death (though we had recently gotten back in touch thanks to Facebook, and he posted a message on my wall the day he died), and yet I find myself thinking about him every day. We can never fully understand the ways in which we impact other people, for better or worse. And we can never anticipate how much we might miss people after they're gone.
This is going in a very rambly and inarticulate direction, so I'm going to borrow someone else's words for now. A reader of this blog sent me this Robert Frost poem awhile back, and I find myself reciting it (and getting chills because of its quiet power) whenever I think about Max. And so I will share it here as I remember a beloved friend, and allow it to serve as a reminder of the precious and fleeting impermanence of this life.
I wish you all the love and happiness your heart desires on this perfect, perfect day.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Maesa Elephant Camp, Day 3
Before I tie up yet another narrative thread that has been dangling for far too long, I must first say that March has probably been the best month that I’ve had in the last two years. Of course, the fact that I had two INCREDIBLE trips in March—one trip to Vietnam, the other to Siem Reap, Cambodia (and posts about that to follow)—hasn’t hurt matters, but it’s been so much more than that. It’s like all of the stuff that’s been simmering and cooking over the last few years has finally come together. Work has been going well, life has been going well, and it’s like I’m stretching my winter-weary joints out for the first time in a long time. All of the work that I’ve set out to do here—internal and external—is wrapping up exactly as I had hoped, even if the journey to get here has been nothing like I had hoped. It’s all been a roller coaster, but it’s all had its perfectly calculated purpose. The story of these two years has a happy ending ☺.
And so…..Maesa Elephant Camp, day three. When we last left our heroine, she was galloping (or, well, limping painfully) into the sunset on the head of an elephant (or, well, on a BED because I was in an insane amount of pain). I had sprained my foot badly the day before while attempting the “advanced dismount” off of my trusty steed’s raised hind leg. Note to all aspiring mahouts: It’s a LONG ASS WAY DOWN from an elephant’s hind leg to the ground. Be ye not so void of depth perception!!
Anyway….during the afternoon after I had sustained my injury I did a fabulous job of not freaking out. Sure, my foot was the size of a full-grown durian, and lookin’ just as sketchy. Sure, I was fairly certain that I had broken something in there, which would complicate my life in Bangkok (a.k.a. the LEAST CRUTCH/WHEELCHAIR/INJURY FRIENDLY CITY IN THE WORLD!!). Sure, I was extremely bummed that this had to happen during an experience that I had pretty much waited for my entire life. The fact that this mahout camp was something that existed in Thailand did play a part in my decision to choose Bangkok over Bogota as my site of overseas employment (albeit it was a small part, but a part nonetheless). I kept the freak out demons at bay all day, instead opting to curl up with my book, enjoy the lovely breeze that was drifting through my luxurious mahout hut (and I say that sans sarcasm….I was put up in some fabulous digs), and will myself to feel better in the morning.
Around midnight I woke up because the pain medication had worn off and the nerves in my foot were having a throbbing house party under my skin. The roosters that were pacing under my window had begun to crow (seriously, the idea that roosters crow only at dawn is a myth that has been fed to us by Sesame Street and other children’s programming that would lead us to believe that roosters are these heroic harbingers of the dawn. Hell no. They’re just effing annoying). The elephant camp employee who slept at the bottom of the hill below my hut had began to hack loudly (I eventually hobbled to the window to make sure that he was ok, because I thought what I was hearing was a death rattle. And there he was, happily puffing away on a tobacco pipe with one hand while holding bits of coughed up lung in the other), and I knew that I would get no more sleep. And that’s when the freak out demons crept in. They just love those early morning hours, when your boundaries are all blurry and your defenses are down, and they take full advantage of the watercolor haze of your consciousness and claim their territory.
I started sobbing uncontrollably. I cried because my foot hurt, I cried because I felt completely alone, I cried for Max, I cried for the fact that NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING seemed to go as I had planned. I had looked forward to this trip for well over a year, and of course, I had to be the first ever guest at the elephant camp to sustain an injury (the fact that I was one of three guests to ever attempt the advanced dismount was not something that had dawned on me at that point…..). I was this tiny pinprick in the universe, and it felt like all of the clouds in the sky were being funneled into me, their misleading lightness being converted into white wet weight. My caretakers had told me the day before that if I wasn’t better by morning, then I should skip the third and final day of the program and go straight to the hospital. I couldn’t envision myself getting dressed, getting home, and somehow resuming my life in Bangkok. I didn’t know how I would manage the stairs that I climb a gazillion times per day at work. I felt stagnant and inert and drained, and the sobs came in great, heaping waves—crashing and vibrating through veins and muscles and anything inside of me that would have them.
And then, well, I had enough. FUCK THIS. Y’know, life doesn’t always work out like how we dreamed it. In fact, if you are a wide-eyed dreamer with unrealistic expectations like myself, it rarely does. I was sick of this sniveling, snot-filled victim that I somehow found myself becoming. I couldn’t stand it anymore. My sheets and pillows couldn’t endure it anymore. I was going to finish this MOTHERFUCKING ELEPHANT CAMP if I had to be carried on piggyback or a stretcher or a palanquin.
I pulled on my mahout outfit, tied my checkered scarf around my waist, hobbled out to my patio, and waited. One of my caretakers came down the gravel path, took one look at my foot (which was spilling out of my shoe), and looked at me worriedly. I just smiled. “I want to finish the program today. I just might need a little help.” He laughed, did a low wai to me, and said, “You very strong!”
It had rained that morning and everything was wet and muddy. Wanpen, my elephant, hates the mud and shook her head like a prima donna as I rode her to where she would be getting her bath. Instead of bathing her in the river like we usually did, we brought her to one of the wash stalls where I could clean her with a hose. The camp employees all laughed as I hobbled around Wanpen, barely able to keep my balance, and scrubbed the mud out of her little baby wrinkles. She grabbed the hose from me and drank long gulps of water from it, then sprayed me with it. Cheeky little monster.
I could no longer mount her as I had before: She would bend her front leg, I would step on her foot, and then her thigh, and then swing my leg over her neck, nestling myself just behind her ears. I had gotten that mount down perfectly, and could do it three seconds or less. However, since it required me to put a lot of weight on my right foot, I would be unable to do it. Instead, Wanpen had to lie down so that I could scramble over her shoulder and onto her back. When she would stand up, I would experience a little earthquake. This huge mound would shudder and oomph upward under me, shoulder bones rippling under wet, tough skin as I steadied myself by pressing my palms against them.
We headed up to the elephant show grounds where I would ride in the elphant parade while Wanpen played her harmonica. Before the show we stood in a pen where the tourists could feed the elephants bananas as the elephants did endearing things like take off visitors’ hats, or hug them with their trunks while they squirmed and screamed. When the tourists would hand Wanpen 20 baht, she would bend her trunk over her head and pass it back to me. I was amazed at the show the elephants were putting on, though I’m not gonna lie….I wasn’t feeling as confident as I had the two days prior. While I had previously felt as though I was made for riding elephants, and that I could just go on ahead and conquer the world on the head of one, on the third day my foot was killing me, I had lost a lot of trust in Wanpen’s mahout (who had stood idly by as I injured myself), and I had a strange feeling of fear in the pit of my stomach. Something just didn’t feel quite right that day. I shook it off and told myself that I was just nervous because I had gotten hurt the day before, and I was just being a silly little Nervous Nelly.
We finally headed up to the show arena, and we all marched in in order of height. Wanpen wrapped her trunk around the elephant’s tail directly in front of her while a smaller elephant took position right behind her. There were at least a hundred people there, snapping all kinds of pictures, and I was waving like a freakin’ Miss America contestant. After the first little parade, I slid back from Wanpen’s neck onto her back and she rocked out on her harmonica, shaking her head and waving her front leg. The elephants were complete hams, and they fed off of the crowd’s applause.
After the parade, it was time for Wanpen and I to paint a picture together. She was one of the camp’s most talented elephant artists, and she had a particular flower that she liked to paint, which was dubbed “Wanpen’s flower.” I decided that I wanted a bonsai tree, so we mixed up the green and brown paints and started painting. I pointed on the canvas where I wanted her to paint while also giving vocal commands, and her mahout gently tugged her ear. I was standing right next to the beautiful dinner plates of her eyes, and they were blinking softly in concentration. She could barely paint because I started draping myself over her trunk, hugging it tightly and squealing because OMG SHE WAS TOTALLY PAINTING AND SHE LOOKED SO CUTE AND HAPPY WHILE SHE WAS DOING IT. After we finished the bonsai tree (which turned out BEAUTIFULLY and is one of the most unique pieces of art that I have gotten in Asia) she gave me a ton of trunk hugs, and playfully took off my hat, and patted me on the head, and I posed for pictures sitting on her knee. I fed her bananas and she wrapped her trunk around me to get to the ones that I was hiding behind my back. Her trunk felt like an arm in its structure and strength, and her eyes were so filled with presence and personality. She is a tremendous flirt and gave me trunk kisses and exhaled small trumpeting sounds to ask for more treats. I melted into a big, gooey puddle of elephant love. My elephant obsession reached pathological proportions.
It was time for me to rest and pack before going on one final trek. When I emerged from my hut, Wanpen was chilling in the painting area and snacking on some grass. I walked up to her, speaking to her in my gooey saccharine voice that animals and babies bring out in me, and patted her between the eyes as she sniffed me all over to see if I had brought her anything to eat. And then, out of nowhere, she stuck her trunk in her mouth, wetted the end of it, and USED HER TRUNK TO MASSAGE MY INJURED FOOT. It was almost eerie in how it felt like strong, gentle fingers. I looked at her mahout in total surprise, and he just laughed. “She knows!” he said.
We took her to get another bath at the wash stall before heading out on our trek. And, well, that’s when things got REALLY interesting……..
I’ve rambled on enough for one day. I’ll finish this story tomorrow!
And so…..Maesa Elephant Camp, day three. When we last left our heroine, she was galloping (or, well, limping painfully) into the sunset on the head of an elephant (or, well, on a BED because I was in an insane amount of pain). I had sprained my foot badly the day before while attempting the “advanced dismount” off of my trusty steed’s raised hind leg. Note to all aspiring mahouts: It’s a LONG ASS WAY DOWN from an elephant’s hind leg to the ground. Be ye not so void of depth perception!!
Anyway….during the afternoon after I had sustained my injury I did a fabulous job of not freaking out. Sure, my foot was the size of a full-grown durian, and lookin’ just as sketchy. Sure, I was fairly certain that I had broken something in there, which would complicate my life in Bangkok (a.k.a. the LEAST CRUTCH/WHEELCHAIR/INJURY FRIENDLY CITY IN THE WORLD!!). Sure, I was extremely bummed that this had to happen during an experience that I had pretty much waited for my entire life. The fact that this mahout camp was something that existed in Thailand did play a part in my decision to choose Bangkok over Bogota as my site of overseas employment (albeit it was a small part, but a part nonetheless). I kept the freak out demons at bay all day, instead opting to curl up with my book, enjoy the lovely breeze that was drifting through my luxurious mahout hut (and I say that sans sarcasm….I was put up in some fabulous digs), and will myself to feel better in the morning.
Around midnight I woke up because the pain medication had worn off and the nerves in my foot were having a throbbing house party under my skin. The roosters that were pacing under my window had begun to crow (seriously, the idea that roosters crow only at dawn is a myth that has been fed to us by Sesame Street and other children’s programming that would lead us to believe that roosters are these heroic harbingers of the dawn. Hell no. They’re just effing annoying). The elephant camp employee who slept at the bottom of the hill below my hut had began to hack loudly (I eventually hobbled to the window to make sure that he was ok, because I thought what I was hearing was a death rattle. And there he was, happily puffing away on a tobacco pipe with one hand while holding bits of coughed up lung in the other), and I knew that I would get no more sleep. And that’s when the freak out demons crept in. They just love those early morning hours, when your boundaries are all blurry and your defenses are down, and they take full advantage of the watercolor haze of your consciousness and claim their territory.
I started sobbing uncontrollably. I cried because my foot hurt, I cried because I felt completely alone, I cried for Max, I cried for the fact that NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING seemed to go as I had planned. I had looked forward to this trip for well over a year, and of course, I had to be the first ever guest at the elephant camp to sustain an injury (the fact that I was one of three guests to ever attempt the advanced dismount was not something that had dawned on me at that point…..). I was this tiny pinprick in the universe, and it felt like all of the clouds in the sky were being funneled into me, their misleading lightness being converted into white wet weight. My caretakers had told me the day before that if I wasn’t better by morning, then I should skip the third and final day of the program and go straight to the hospital. I couldn’t envision myself getting dressed, getting home, and somehow resuming my life in Bangkok. I didn’t know how I would manage the stairs that I climb a gazillion times per day at work. I felt stagnant and inert and drained, and the sobs came in great, heaping waves—crashing and vibrating through veins and muscles and anything inside of me that would have them.
And then, well, I had enough. FUCK THIS. Y’know, life doesn’t always work out like how we dreamed it. In fact, if you are a wide-eyed dreamer with unrealistic expectations like myself, it rarely does. I was sick of this sniveling, snot-filled victim that I somehow found myself becoming. I couldn’t stand it anymore. My sheets and pillows couldn’t endure it anymore. I was going to finish this MOTHERFUCKING ELEPHANT CAMP if I had to be carried on piggyback or a stretcher or a palanquin.
I pulled on my mahout outfit, tied my checkered scarf around my waist, hobbled out to my patio, and waited. One of my caretakers came down the gravel path, took one look at my foot (which was spilling out of my shoe), and looked at me worriedly. I just smiled. “I want to finish the program today. I just might need a little help.” He laughed, did a low wai to me, and said, “You very strong!”
It had rained that morning and everything was wet and muddy. Wanpen, my elephant, hates the mud and shook her head like a prima donna as I rode her to where she would be getting her bath. Instead of bathing her in the river like we usually did, we brought her to one of the wash stalls where I could clean her with a hose. The camp employees all laughed as I hobbled around Wanpen, barely able to keep my balance, and scrubbed the mud out of her little baby wrinkles. She grabbed the hose from me and drank long gulps of water from it, then sprayed me with it. Cheeky little monster.
I could no longer mount her as I had before: She would bend her front leg, I would step on her foot, and then her thigh, and then swing my leg over her neck, nestling myself just behind her ears. I had gotten that mount down perfectly, and could do it three seconds or less. However, since it required me to put a lot of weight on my right foot, I would be unable to do it. Instead, Wanpen had to lie down so that I could scramble over her shoulder and onto her back. When she would stand up, I would experience a little earthquake. This huge mound would shudder and oomph upward under me, shoulder bones rippling under wet, tough skin as I steadied myself by pressing my palms against them.
We headed up to the elephant show grounds where I would ride in the elphant parade while Wanpen played her harmonica. Before the show we stood in a pen where the tourists could feed the elephants bananas as the elephants did endearing things like take off visitors’ hats, or hug them with their trunks while they squirmed and screamed. When the tourists would hand Wanpen 20 baht, she would bend her trunk over her head and pass it back to me. I was amazed at the show the elephants were putting on, though I’m not gonna lie….I wasn’t feeling as confident as I had the two days prior. While I had previously felt as though I was made for riding elephants, and that I could just go on ahead and conquer the world on the head of one, on the third day my foot was killing me, I had lost a lot of trust in Wanpen’s mahout (who had stood idly by as I injured myself), and I had a strange feeling of fear in the pit of my stomach. Something just didn’t feel quite right that day. I shook it off and told myself that I was just nervous because I had gotten hurt the day before, and I was just being a silly little Nervous Nelly.
We finally headed up to the show arena, and we all marched in in order of height. Wanpen wrapped her trunk around the elephant’s tail directly in front of her while a smaller elephant took position right behind her. There were at least a hundred people there, snapping all kinds of pictures, and I was waving like a freakin’ Miss America contestant. After the first little parade, I slid back from Wanpen’s neck onto her back and she rocked out on her harmonica, shaking her head and waving her front leg. The elephants were complete hams, and they fed off of the crowd’s applause.
After the parade, it was time for Wanpen and I to paint a picture together. She was one of the camp’s most talented elephant artists, and she had a particular flower that she liked to paint, which was dubbed “Wanpen’s flower.” I decided that I wanted a bonsai tree, so we mixed up the green and brown paints and started painting. I pointed on the canvas where I wanted her to paint while also giving vocal commands, and her mahout gently tugged her ear. I was standing right next to the beautiful dinner plates of her eyes, and they were blinking softly in concentration. She could barely paint because I started draping myself over her trunk, hugging it tightly and squealing because OMG SHE WAS TOTALLY PAINTING AND SHE LOOKED SO CUTE AND HAPPY WHILE SHE WAS DOING IT. After we finished the bonsai tree (which turned out BEAUTIFULLY and is one of the most unique pieces of art that I have gotten in Asia) she gave me a ton of trunk hugs, and playfully took off my hat, and patted me on the head, and I posed for pictures sitting on her knee. I fed her bananas and she wrapped her trunk around me to get to the ones that I was hiding behind my back. Her trunk felt like an arm in its structure and strength, and her eyes were so filled with presence and personality. She is a tremendous flirt and gave me trunk kisses and exhaled small trumpeting sounds to ask for more treats. I melted into a big, gooey puddle of elephant love. My elephant obsession reached pathological proportions.
It was time for me to rest and pack before going on one final trek. When I emerged from my hut, Wanpen was chilling in the painting area and snacking on some grass. I walked up to her, speaking to her in my gooey saccharine voice that animals and babies bring out in me, and patted her between the eyes as she sniffed me all over to see if I had brought her anything to eat. And then, out of nowhere, she stuck her trunk in her mouth, wetted the end of it, and USED HER TRUNK TO MASSAGE MY INJURED FOOT. It was almost eerie in how it felt like strong, gentle fingers. I looked at her mahout in total surprise, and he just laughed. “She knows!” he said.
We took her to get another bath at the wash stall before heading out on our trek. And, well, that’s when things got REALLY interesting……..
I’ve rambled on enough for one day. I’ll finish this story tomorrow!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Puppy Love
Be Ye Warned: This is a heartbreaking tale, especially if you are an animal lover. I'm just sayin'.
So there I was in Hanoi, attempting to complete this Lonely Planet walking tour (which, as I mentioned previously, I did not), and the walk took me down this fabulous little alleyway where there there were all kinds of different numbers graffitied (is that a word??) onto pale yellow walls, below bright red shutters, under a tremendous tangle of power lines that had attached themselves to all available surfaces like weeds or ivy or scar tissue. The alleyway led to an absolutely insane intersection where the street names all blurred together and I suddenly found myself lost.
One thing that I need to mention before I continue this story is that it was absolutely FREEEEEEZING in Hanoi that weekend. Granted, it was nothing compared to what my friends in Massachussets had to endure during the same weekend with a blizzard and all, but still, I was in no way prepared for this cold, damp weather. I had not checked any weather reports before leaving, as I assumed that every other place in Southeast Asia would be a blazing inferno like Bangkok. And while I did remember that Vietnam had been somewhat cooler and more cloudy than Bangkok when I went there last April, it just didn't seem to make sense that two countries so close to one another could vary so extremely in temperature. So needless to say I did not pack a whole lot of warm clothing. I had only a thin hoodie and pashmina, both which I packed as an afterthought when contemplating the frigid temperatures of airplanes. I absolutely froze my ever-lovin' hiney off.
So....I was at this absolutely crazy intersection trying not to get run over by motorcycles and cyclos and desperately trying to find a street that did not appear to exist (was it a secret passageway, a la Diagon Alley??) when I passed a makeshift pet shop. And I say makeshift because it was essentially a hole in the wall with a bunch of crappy metal cages in front, all directly in the wind. In the cages were mice, birds, turtles, two kittens, and a tiny little puppy that I believe was a chihuahua. All of these animals were freezing, but they at least had other animal companions with which they could curl up into a ball, or onto which they could hogpile until each cage seemed to hold an unidentifiable mass of fur or feathers. However, not the puppy. The puppy was all by himself, shivering violently and whimpering, and he had nothing but a thin pair of boxer shorts to keep him warm.
"The puppy is freezing!" I said to the proprietor, who simply shrugged because he didn't understand a word I was saying. I tried to communicate in gestures that the puppy needed something warmer, but again, the response I received was a shrug. I could not take the sight of the puppy shivering, so I asked to hold him. The proprietor shook his head, only giving in after I put my hands together as if begging, and my eyes started to well up with tears. He finally nodded, and I reached into the cage and retrieved the shivering little bundle.
I wrapped him up in the end of my pashmina and squeezed him to me. His little nose was ice cold against my chin as he attempted to cover my face in puppy kisses. And then I proceeded to bawl. There I was, on a random corner on a street whose name I would never be able to pronounce, holding a shivering puppy, and crying. The other owners of the shop cautiously gathered around me and, seeing that I was not going anywhere for awhile, brought out a stool for me to sit on as I warmed the puppy and tried to avoid leaking tears and snot all over him, for that would not have helped matters much.
The shopkeepers and I were mutually puzzled by the other's behavior. I don't think they understood why I was making such a fuss over a puppy, and I didn't understand how they could let the puppy shiver like that. I felt so incredibly helpless as I held the little guy, stroking him and trying to get his heart rate down. I knew that there was ultimately nothing more I could do for him except keep him warm in that moment. I couldn't take him home with me, nor could I try to convince anyone else to buy him. I had to resist the encroaching feelings of rage and hatred that I could feel hovering at the edges of my emotional system, threatening to fuzz it all over like a swarm of bees.
I grew up in a place where dogs have their own winter wardrobes. I grew up in a place where people had children who were not starving, where survival and making ends meet was not a daunting and frightening task on a day to day basis. A friend of mine who used to live in Bangkok would make the same point whenever I would be near tears while looking at the stray dogs everywhere: when you live in a place where people are starving to death on the sidewalk, animals take a lower position on the totem pole of priorities. I realized that I really had no right to judge these shopkeepers, that I can't possibly understand what their lives have been like, that sometimes the differences among people--though mostly beautiful and fascinating--can be difficult to sit with. The puppy was a commodity to be sold so that they could feed their families. This does not make them bad people. I had just experienced a clash in that moment. And while usually I enjoy it when a cultural clash occurs, as it proves to be a tremendous learning experience, I found this one to be slightly uncomfortable.
After about ten minutes of holding the puppy he still hadn't stopped shivering completely, so I unzipped my sweatshirt and tucked him inside. He finally stopped shivering, tucked his nose into the crevice of my elbow, and fell fast asleep. I sat there for another ten minutes, rocking him like a baby and blubbering all over myself. I finally turned at looked up at the shopkeepers, and they smiled at me kindly. One of them picked up the puppy's cage and brought it inside. There was no heat in the shop and it was not significantly warmer than the outdoors, as it had no door, but at least it provided shelter from the wind.
The puppy was a little ball of warmth as I put him back in his cage. I then wandered around until I found a shop selling scarves. I bought a nice, warm scarf for him, brought it back to the shop, and wrapped him up in it. He had started shivering again, but when I set him back in his cage after wrapping him up he began biting at the scarf, playing with it, pouncing on it. The shopkeepers smiled again at me as I walked away--an expression that I was glad for because I was worried that I had offended them with this gesture, that I had caused them to lose face. And it's possible that I did--I'll never know. I do certainly hope not. In that moment, however, I was overpowered by my urge to keep the puppy warm.
I think about that puppy all the time now, and I hope that someone has fallen in love with him and taken him to a nice, warm house. I think about the inner clash that this created for me, and the realization that certain aspects of my cultural (and, hell, socioeconomic) lens are impossible to shed when interacting with another place, another culturally prescribed/socioeconomically dictated way of being, another lifestyle. And to be blinded by judgment and self-righteousness is a mistake. It is in these clashes that true learning happens, and the ground is primed for the growth of compassion and humility and understanding, even when it proves to be uncomfortable.
So there I was in Hanoi, attempting to complete this Lonely Planet walking tour (which, as I mentioned previously, I did not), and the walk took me down this fabulous little alleyway where there there were all kinds of different numbers graffitied (is that a word??) onto pale yellow walls, below bright red shutters, under a tremendous tangle of power lines that had attached themselves to all available surfaces like weeds or ivy or scar tissue. The alleyway led to an absolutely insane intersection where the street names all blurred together and I suddenly found myself lost.
One thing that I need to mention before I continue this story is that it was absolutely FREEEEEEZING in Hanoi that weekend. Granted, it was nothing compared to what my friends in Massachussets had to endure during the same weekend with a blizzard and all, but still, I was in no way prepared for this cold, damp weather. I had not checked any weather reports before leaving, as I assumed that every other place in Southeast Asia would be a blazing inferno like Bangkok. And while I did remember that Vietnam had been somewhat cooler and more cloudy than Bangkok when I went there last April, it just didn't seem to make sense that two countries so close to one another could vary so extremely in temperature. So needless to say I did not pack a whole lot of warm clothing. I had only a thin hoodie and pashmina, both which I packed as an afterthought when contemplating the frigid temperatures of airplanes. I absolutely froze my ever-lovin' hiney off.
So....I was at this absolutely crazy intersection trying not to get run over by motorcycles and cyclos and desperately trying to find a street that did not appear to exist (was it a secret passageway, a la Diagon Alley??) when I passed a makeshift pet shop. And I say makeshift because it was essentially a hole in the wall with a bunch of crappy metal cages in front, all directly in the wind. In the cages were mice, birds, turtles, two kittens, and a tiny little puppy that I believe was a chihuahua. All of these animals were freezing, but they at least had other animal companions with which they could curl up into a ball, or onto which they could hogpile until each cage seemed to hold an unidentifiable mass of fur or feathers. However, not the puppy. The puppy was all by himself, shivering violently and whimpering, and he had nothing but a thin pair of boxer shorts to keep him warm.
"The puppy is freezing!" I said to the proprietor, who simply shrugged because he didn't understand a word I was saying. I tried to communicate in gestures that the puppy needed something warmer, but again, the response I received was a shrug. I could not take the sight of the puppy shivering, so I asked to hold him. The proprietor shook his head, only giving in after I put my hands together as if begging, and my eyes started to well up with tears. He finally nodded, and I reached into the cage and retrieved the shivering little bundle.
I wrapped him up in the end of my pashmina and squeezed him to me. His little nose was ice cold against my chin as he attempted to cover my face in puppy kisses. And then I proceeded to bawl. There I was, on a random corner on a street whose name I would never be able to pronounce, holding a shivering puppy, and crying. The other owners of the shop cautiously gathered around me and, seeing that I was not going anywhere for awhile, brought out a stool for me to sit on as I warmed the puppy and tried to avoid leaking tears and snot all over him, for that would not have helped matters much.
The shopkeepers and I were mutually puzzled by the other's behavior. I don't think they understood why I was making such a fuss over a puppy, and I didn't understand how they could let the puppy shiver like that. I felt so incredibly helpless as I held the little guy, stroking him and trying to get his heart rate down. I knew that there was ultimately nothing more I could do for him except keep him warm in that moment. I couldn't take him home with me, nor could I try to convince anyone else to buy him. I had to resist the encroaching feelings of rage and hatred that I could feel hovering at the edges of my emotional system, threatening to fuzz it all over like a swarm of bees.
I grew up in a place where dogs have their own winter wardrobes. I grew up in a place where people had children who were not starving, where survival and making ends meet was not a daunting and frightening task on a day to day basis. A friend of mine who used to live in Bangkok would make the same point whenever I would be near tears while looking at the stray dogs everywhere: when you live in a place where people are starving to death on the sidewalk, animals take a lower position on the totem pole of priorities. I realized that I really had no right to judge these shopkeepers, that I can't possibly understand what their lives have been like, that sometimes the differences among people--though mostly beautiful and fascinating--can be difficult to sit with. The puppy was a commodity to be sold so that they could feed their families. This does not make them bad people. I had just experienced a clash in that moment. And while usually I enjoy it when a cultural clash occurs, as it proves to be a tremendous learning experience, I found this one to be slightly uncomfortable.
After about ten minutes of holding the puppy he still hadn't stopped shivering completely, so I unzipped my sweatshirt and tucked him inside. He finally stopped shivering, tucked his nose into the crevice of my elbow, and fell fast asleep. I sat there for another ten minutes, rocking him like a baby and blubbering all over myself. I finally turned at looked up at the shopkeepers, and they smiled at me kindly. One of them picked up the puppy's cage and brought it inside. There was no heat in the shop and it was not significantly warmer than the outdoors, as it had no door, but at least it provided shelter from the wind.
The puppy was a little ball of warmth as I put him back in his cage. I then wandered around until I found a shop selling scarves. I bought a nice, warm scarf for him, brought it back to the shop, and wrapped him up in it. He had started shivering again, but when I set him back in his cage after wrapping him up he began biting at the scarf, playing with it, pouncing on it. The shopkeepers smiled again at me as I walked away--an expression that I was glad for because I was worried that I had offended them with this gesture, that I had caused them to lose face. And it's possible that I did--I'll never know. I do certainly hope not. In that moment, however, I was overpowered by my urge to keep the puppy warm.
I think about that puppy all the time now, and I hope that someone has fallen in love with him and taken him to a nice, warm house. I think about the inner clash that this created for me, and the realization that certain aspects of my cultural (and, hell, socioeconomic) lens are impossible to shed when interacting with another place, another culturally prescribed/socioeconomically dictated way of being, another lifestyle. And to be blinded by judgment and self-righteousness is a mistake. It is in these clashes that true learning happens, and the ground is primed for the growth of compassion and humility and understanding, even when it proves to be uncomfortable.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Traveling on.....
I realize that on this here blog there are many narrative threads that I have left dangling. I will sort of start to write about a trip, and then not really follow through (e.g. my experience at Maesa Elephant Camp). This is just utterly unacceptable, as the entire purpose of this blog is to keep family, friends, and loved ones informed about my fabulous adventures, not necessarily to talk about my own personal struggles and growth experiences and experiences with grief. And while the growth experiences have been numerous, and I learn so much each and every day here about myself and the things that need to (and have!!) change(d), really, the travel experiences are much more interesting. I think the reason why I have not been as prolific in my travel writing here is because I document every little detail of every trip in my pen and paper journal (and I even glue in ticket stubs and receipts and postcards and business cards and everything!), and so I therefore tend to not feel like writing about it all over again. However, that is all about to change. Behold! The new and improved era of The Milkman's Daughter!
One benefit of the economic downturn that is happening all over this great wide world is the fact that travel is cheap as all get out. Mind you, this "pro" is definitely countered by the "con" that is the fact that the baht is getting its ever-lovin' butt kicked and, thanks to the godawful exchange rate between the baht and the dollar currently, my salary is now basically worthless. Moving on......
Let me also make it clear for any longtime readers (hi, Mom!) that during last school year I only had 1.5 days off during the weekend. However, this school year I have two full days off!! Woo hoo!! More time to travel!!
So, back to cheap travel.....two weekends ago there was a special promotion on flights AND hotels in Vietnam, and last weekend there was a special promotion on flights to Siem Reap, Cambodia. Even though visas and departure taxes in these countries are somewhat pricey, I figured that these expensive logistics were completely worth it. I've had a total bee in my bonnet lately about getting back to Vietnam--to Hanoi, specifically, otherwise known as the Most Charming Place on Earth, and I spent five days in and around there last time I went--and I also figured that it's a cryin' shame that I had been to my beloved, beloved Cambodia three times and had yet to visit Angkor Wat.
And so....I went. And it is truly remarkable how much you can do, see, and experience in only a weekend. People look at me strangely when I tell them that I'm going to these places for only a weekend (which usually works out to be one night), but you can live a lifetime in a weekend.
Hanoi. I stayed at the exact same hotel that I did last time, and ate at all the same places that I did last time. I even went to some of the same shops. But that was sort of the point of this visit: revisiting the familar, reliving all of the experiences that I relished the first time, and just taking this city in to the greatest extent possible. Unlike other places (especially Siem Reap!!), Hanoi is not a destination where I tend to run around, crossing tons of items off of a packed itinerary, and keeping my nose buried in my Lonely Planet as I read about the zillions of things that I want to see as I am en route from one destination to another. I do love that sort of frantic way of traveling, where you are completely absorbed in your surroundings but also excited to get to the next sight or restaurant or activity. You become a one-woman inferno, consuming absolutely everything in your path. And Hanoi is quite frantic, but I move at a complete snail's pace. The first time I visited Hanoi I started the Old Quarter walking tour that is outlined in the Lonely Planet, and never ended up finishing it. This time I booked my ticket and had one (and only one) agenda item: finish the freakin' walking tour.
I totally did not finish that walking tour.
Hanoi is a fabulous place for a Piscean like myself--for the fish whose soul and intellect are constantly swimming at odds with one another. It forces you to wake up, pay attention, and stay present. The sheer volume of motorcycles, and their relentless and brazen invasion of personal space requires you to stay alert, walk in a straight line, and make no sudden moves. There are, if you are lucky, about four inches of sidewalk that are available for pedestrian use. The other inches are devoured by parked motorcycles, squat stools where people sit and slurp their piping hot pho, makeshift barber shops where you can get a shave and a haircut (two bits), women resting their loads of pineapples and bananas, and narrow stores overflowing with colorful wares as they try to entice buyers. So if you do not pay attention, you are likely to be run down or lose your balance or trip. And even though everything is completely chaotic, and at first glance it can all be somewhat frightening, there is a perfect and flowing harmony to all of this motion and noise and metal and smoke and silk. When exiting the hotel and entering the street, one must simply take a deep breath and allow oneself to be utterly swept up in all of it. And mind you, while there is constant and blaring movement everywhere, none of it is fast. The energy of this city buzzes and vibrates, but it is slow and careful, picking its way around everything, taking care not to muss its delicate charms, its soft colors.
And while Hanoi DOES force you to focus and pay attention, on the other hand it also has countless ways of diverting your attention. The shops....THE SHOPS!!! You've never seen so many lovely things in one place. The silks that have been embroidered by hand (oh the lucky ladies in my life, have YOU got some beautiful gifts comin' your way!!), and the lacquer paintings with eggshell and gold leaf details, and the brightly painted vases, and the water puppets, and the gemstones that have been so expertly polished, and the bags and quilts that have been sewn by hilltribe people with rough threads and bright colors, and the satin sleep sacks, and the stone carvings of traditional Vietnamese musicians, and the conical hats....I put myself on a very tight budget this time, and it was hard to stay within it (though I did manage). Every two steps is another beautiful shop (and I mean two steps literally....the shops in Hanoi are extremely narrow, as households and businesses built in the colonial period had to pay taxes according to how much of the actual street they took up, so they took the "tube" approach and built narrow buildings with deep hallways). Every two steps I must divert myself from my walking tour and feel the lacquer, touch the silks, and do some quick budget calculations. As soon as I get myself refocused and on my way, BAM. I must stop and look at something, or take a picture of a random sign (I think Vietnamese looks really cool in writing), or contemplate how a family of five can fit so comfortably on a motorcycle, or watch a group of live snails in a bucket ooze all over each other before they become delicacies.
At first glance the Vietnamese are not perpetually smiling like the Thais (I must admit, I always get a little homesick for Thailand and its beautiful, smiling people whenever I go elsewhere...there's just nothing else like it), nor are they aggressively friendly like the Cambodians. They have a calm, centered core that just radiates, and they can be feisty when they need to be. I love their energy. I love how everything there seems so completely random, like there is no order to anything at all, but it all somehow makes sense (and again, this is simply a glance, my own humble observation, and certainly not intended to be a cultural generalization that encompasses all Vietnamese or Thais or Cambodians everywhere). This place has steeped in its own complex history, has been fortified by its own quiet faith, and it has its own distinctive fingerprint. I feel such a deep reverence and respect for this place. This beautiful warrior (the beautiful female warrior being an image that is replicated over and over again in Hanoi's Fine Arts Museum), this place of blinding green rice paddies and gray skies and abrupt silhouettes of limestone cliffs, this place where the air is filled with bellowing horns and clanging bicyclce bells and an unidentified (to me, at least) smoke that men inhale out of large bamboo stalks.
It was an altogether fabulous trip.
One benefit of the economic downturn that is happening all over this great wide world is the fact that travel is cheap as all get out. Mind you, this "pro" is definitely countered by the "con" that is the fact that the baht is getting its ever-lovin' butt kicked and, thanks to the godawful exchange rate between the baht and the dollar currently, my salary is now basically worthless. Moving on......
Let me also make it clear for any longtime readers (hi, Mom!) that during last school year I only had 1.5 days off during the weekend. However, this school year I have two full days off!! Woo hoo!! More time to travel!!
So, back to cheap travel.....two weekends ago there was a special promotion on flights AND hotels in Vietnam, and last weekend there was a special promotion on flights to Siem Reap, Cambodia. Even though visas and departure taxes in these countries are somewhat pricey, I figured that these expensive logistics were completely worth it. I've had a total bee in my bonnet lately about getting back to Vietnam--to Hanoi, specifically, otherwise known as the Most Charming Place on Earth, and I spent five days in and around there last time I went--and I also figured that it's a cryin' shame that I had been to my beloved, beloved Cambodia three times and had yet to visit Angkor Wat.
And so....I went. And it is truly remarkable how much you can do, see, and experience in only a weekend. People look at me strangely when I tell them that I'm going to these places for only a weekend (which usually works out to be one night), but you can live a lifetime in a weekend.
Hanoi. I stayed at the exact same hotel that I did last time, and ate at all the same places that I did last time. I even went to some of the same shops. But that was sort of the point of this visit: revisiting the familar, reliving all of the experiences that I relished the first time, and just taking this city in to the greatest extent possible. Unlike other places (especially Siem Reap!!), Hanoi is not a destination where I tend to run around, crossing tons of items off of a packed itinerary, and keeping my nose buried in my Lonely Planet as I read about the zillions of things that I want to see as I am en route from one destination to another. I do love that sort of frantic way of traveling, where you are completely absorbed in your surroundings but also excited to get to the next sight or restaurant or activity. You become a one-woman inferno, consuming absolutely everything in your path. And Hanoi is quite frantic, but I move at a complete snail's pace. The first time I visited Hanoi I started the Old Quarter walking tour that is outlined in the Lonely Planet, and never ended up finishing it. This time I booked my ticket and had one (and only one) agenda item: finish the freakin' walking tour.
I totally did not finish that walking tour.
Hanoi is a fabulous place for a Piscean like myself--for the fish whose soul and intellect are constantly swimming at odds with one another. It forces you to wake up, pay attention, and stay present. The sheer volume of motorcycles, and their relentless and brazen invasion of personal space requires you to stay alert, walk in a straight line, and make no sudden moves. There are, if you are lucky, about four inches of sidewalk that are available for pedestrian use. The other inches are devoured by parked motorcycles, squat stools where people sit and slurp their piping hot pho, makeshift barber shops where you can get a shave and a haircut (two bits), women resting their loads of pineapples and bananas, and narrow stores overflowing with colorful wares as they try to entice buyers. So if you do not pay attention, you are likely to be run down or lose your balance or trip. And even though everything is completely chaotic, and at first glance it can all be somewhat frightening, there is a perfect and flowing harmony to all of this motion and noise and metal and smoke and silk. When exiting the hotel and entering the street, one must simply take a deep breath and allow oneself to be utterly swept up in all of it. And mind you, while there is constant and blaring movement everywhere, none of it is fast. The energy of this city buzzes and vibrates, but it is slow and careful, picking its way around everything, taking care not to muss its delicate charms, its soft colors.
And while Hanoi DOES force you to focus and pay attention, on the other hand it also has countless ways of diverting your attention. The shops....THE SHOPS!!! You've never seen so many lovely things in one place. The silks that have been embroidered by hand (oh the lucky ladies in my life, have YOU got some beautiful gifts comin' your way!!), and the lacquer paintings with eggshell and gold leaf details, and the brightly painted vases, and the water puppets, and the gemstones that have been so expertly polished, and the bags and quilts that have been sewn by hilltribe people with rough threads and bright colors, and the satin sleep sacks, and the stone carvings of traditional Vietnamese musicians, and the conical hats....I put myself on a very tight budget this time, and it was hard to stay within it (though I did manage). Every two steps is another beautiful shop (and I mean two steps literally....the shops in Hanoi are extremely narrow, as households and businesses built in the colonial period had to pay taxes according to how much of the actual street they took up, so they took the "tube" approach and built narrow buildings with deep hallways). Every two steps I must divert myself from my walking tour and feel the lacquer, touch the silks, and do some quick budget calculations. As soon as I get myself refocused and on my way, BAM. I must stop and look at something, or take a picture of a random sign (I think Vietnamese looks really cool in writing), or contemplate how a family of five can fit so comfortably on a motorcycle, or watch a group of live snails in a bucket ooze all over each other before they become delicacies.
At first glance the Vietnamese are not perpetually smiling like the Thais (I must admit, I always get a little homesick for Thailand and its beautiful, smiling people whenever I go elsewhere...there's just nothing else like it), nor are they aggressively friendly like the Cambodians. They have a calm, centered core that just radiates, and they can be feisty when they need to be. I love their energy. I love how everything there seems so completely random, like there is no order to anything at all, but it all somehow makes sense (and again, this is simply a glance, my own humble observation, and certainly not intended to be a cultural generalization that encompasses all Vietnamese or Thais or Cambodians everywhere). This place has steeped in its own complex history, has been fortified by its own quiet faith, and it has its own distinctive fingerprint. I feel such a deep reverence and respect for this place. This beautiful warrior (the beautiful female warrior being an image that is replicated over and over again in Hanoi's Fine Arts Museum), this place of blinding green rice paddies and gray skies and abrupt silhouettes of limestone cliffs, this place where the air is filled with bellowing horns and clanging bicyclce bells and an unidentified (to me, at least) smoke that men inhale out of large bamboo stalks.
It was an altogether fabulous trip.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Usus--The long-distance version
I am reposting this meme (er, usus) from the fabulous Leah, who, unlike me, actually lives with her fiance (and they've even procreated and everything). So this should be interesting, seeing as how my boyfriend and I are going on our 20th month of long-distance love!
What are your middle names?
Mine is Stacy, and Peter's is Andrew. Stacy was almost my first name. I'm very happy it isn't.
How long have you been together?
Well, we met sometime between October 20th and 21st, 2006. We sorta use this date as our official anniversary. However, we didn't become serious for another, oh, seven or eight months. Just in time for me to get on a plane and move halfway around the world.
Who asked whom out?
Peter asked me out a few days after we met. We went to Grafton Street for some drinks and then played Scrabble. It was awesome.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
Over the last two years I've seen both my sister and Peter's brother once per year. So at the moment, it's neck and neck.
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Oh, y'know.....living halfway around the world from each other for two years. We can only talk when one person is getting ready for bed and the other person is getting ready for work, so it's difficult to find times when we're both in top form for having wonderful conversations. But we do make it work.
Did you go to the same school?
Peter is a professor at the university where I got my graduate degree. NOTE: He was not *my* professor, nor does he teach in the same SCHOOL of the university that I attended. Peter has never set foot on a campus that was NOT Ivy League (or the west coast version of the Ivy League). Sadly, that is not the case for me. I am the product of a fantastically radical, angst-ridden, artsy-fartsy liberal arts school. Though we did have an equestrian team. And I was totally captain from sophomore year on.
Are you from the same home town?
Almost! I'm from Minneapolis, he's from Milwaukee. Our mutual midwestern-ness was one of the (many many many) things that excited me about him.
Who is smarter?
HOLY LORD. Peter. Hands down. He's savant-like in his intelligence. It's absolutely remarkable and awesome and incredible. He got a perfect score on his SATs, and missed, like, one question on the GRE. And I realize that standardized test scores aren't everything, but he's not just a good test-taker. He's creative and fascinating and even artistic. I think a bit of a hang-up of mine is that I feel like a FREAKING BUMBLING IDIOT next to him! He's also got a head full of trivia that is rather astounding. And even with all of this intelligence he's also just really super cool and a phenomenally good human being. He's what you might call "the total package."
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
Anywhere that will have us. Eating out together is not something that we are able to do very often (obvs), but when I lived in Cambridge we spent a whole lot of time eating at a Thai restaurant called Nine Tastes.
Where is the farthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Well, I'm not sure which of these points is farthest from any sort of point of origin, but we have been to Cape Cod, Ko Samui (Thailand), Aspen, Eagle River (WI), Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Bali, Railei (Thailand), and San Francisco together.
Who has the craziest exes?
Sheesh. ME. Hands down.
Who has the worst temper?
We're both pretty excitable people. I've most definitely calmed down in my old age, as has Peter.
Who does the cooking?
Neither of us really cook, though the sentence "I used some brown sugar when I made apple crisp the other day" recently came out of Peter's mouth, so I think he's learning his way around the kitchen. I'm sort of a disaster in the kitchen, and I live in a city where it is just as cheap (if not cheaper!!) to eat out than to cook. However, last winter break I found myself feeling a strong desire to cook, and I made all kinds of things. I think cooking is something that Peter and I will do quite a bit of together when we are actually living in the same house. I'm looking forward to it.
Who is the neat-freak?
Neither of us. However, I must admit that lately I've become really compulsive about keeping a clean house. I think it's because my condo gets so dusty and dirty so easily, and everything in it is WHITE, so there's no hiding the dirt. I've recently taken to scrubbing my bathroom floor with a toothbrush. And I seem to not be able to sleep if there's clutter anywhere. BELIEVE ME when I say that this is a VERY recent development.
Who is more stubborn?
Oh man. We are BOTH extremely stubborn. I may one day give birth to actual bulls.
Who hogs the bed?
Neither of us. We KICK ASS at sharing a bed.
Who wakes up earlier?
When given a choice, neither of us. Left to our own devices we can sleep an entire day away. However, I have to wake up at the crack of dawn for work, whereas Peter can sleep however late he pleases. However, he tends to stay at the office until the crack of dawn, so he's allowed to sleep in in the morning!
Where was your first date?
We met at the Hong Kong, but our first official date was at Grafton Street.
How long did it take to get serious?
Well, we met in October of 2006, and it started to get serious in April of 2007. However, the first time that we actually referred to one another as "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" or said the L word was June of 2007. However, we still consider October to be our anniversary.
Who eats more?
Peter. DEFINITELY. I maybe get around to 1.5 meals per day (NOT on purpose....I inherited a meager appetite from my dad's side, and a sensitive stomach from my mom's side), though I do tend to eat more when I'm around him (which also is partially due to the fact that I am on vacation when I am with him, and therefore my appetite tends to kick in with a VENGEANCE).
Who does the laundry?
Peter used to have Brazilian cleaning ladies who did his laundry, but now he does his own. I find laundry to be very therapeutic, so I will probably do it when we are living together. Plus I am constantly spilling on myself and therefore need to pre-treat everything.
Who's better with the computer?
Peter. HANDS DOWN. I'm a little afraid of computers, and know embarrassingly little about them. I do so heart my Mac.....
Who drives when you are together?
Peter. I am what you might call a TERRIBLE DRIVER. I come from a long line of terrible drivers, so I blame genetics :)
What are your middle names?
Mine is Stacy, and Peter's is Andrew. Stacy was almost my first name. I'm very happy it isn't.
How long have you been together?
Well, we met sometime between October 20th and 21st, 2006. We sorta use this date as our official anniversary. However, we didn't become serious for another, oh, seven or eight months. Just in time for me to get on a plane and move halfway around the world.
Who asked whom out?
Peter asked me out a few days after we met. We went to Grafton Street for some drinks and then played Scrabble. It was awesome.
Whose siblings do you see the most?
Over the last two years I've seen both my sister and Peter's brother once per year. So at the moment, it's neck and neck.
Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Oh, y'know.....living halfway around the world from each other for two years. We can only talk when one person is getting ready for bed and the other person is getting ready for work, so it's difficult to find times when we're both in top form for having wonderful conversations. But we do make it work.
Did you go to the same school?
Peter is a professor at the university where I got my graduate degree. NOTE: He was not *my* professor, nor does he teach in the same SCHOOL of the university that I attended. Peter has never set foot on a campus that was NOT Ivy League (or the west coast version of the Ivy League). Sadly, that is not the case for me. I am the product of a fantastically radical, angst-ridden, artsy-fartsy liberal arts school. Though we did have an equestrian team. And I was totally captain from sophomore year on.
Are you from the same home town?
Almost! I'm from Minneapolis, he's from Milwaukee. Our mutual midwestern-ness was one of the (many many many) things that excited me about him.
Who is smarter?
HOLY LORD. Peter. Hands down. He's savant-like in his intelligence. It's absolutely remarkable and awesome and incredible. He got a perfect score on his SATs, and missed, like, one question on the GRE. And I realize that standardized test scores aren't everything, but he's not just a good test-taker. He's creative and fascinating and even artistic. I think a bit of a hang-up of mine is that I feel like a FREAKING BUMBLING IDIOT next to him! He's also got a head full of trivia that is rather astounding. And even with all of this intelligence he's also just really super cool and a phenomenally good human being. He's what you might call "the total package."
Where do you eat out most as a couple?
Anywhere that will have us. Eating out together is not something that we are able to do very often (obvs), but when I lived in Cambridge we spent a whole lot of time eating at a Thai restaurant called Nine Tastes.
Where is the farthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Well, I'm not sure which of these points is farthest from any sort of point of origin, but we have been to Cape Cod, Ko Samui (Thailand), Aspen, Eagle River (WI), Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Bali, Railei (Thailand), and San Francisco together.
Who has the craziest exes?
Sheesh. ME. Hands down.
Who has the worst temper?
We're both pretty excitable people. I've most definitely calmed down in my old age, as has Peter.
Who does the cooking?
Neither of us really cook, though the sentence "I used some brown sugar when I made apple crisp the other day" recently came out of Peter's mouth, so I think he's learning his way around the kitchen. I'm sort of a disaster in the kitchen, and I live in a city where it is just as cheap (if not cheaper!!) to eat out than to cook. However, last winter break I found myself feeling a strong desire to cook, and I made all kinds of things. I think cooking is something that Peter and I will do quite a bit of together when we are actually living in the same house. I'm looking forward to it.
Who is the neat-freak?
Neither of us. However, I must admit that lately I've become really compulsive about keeping a clean house. I think it's because my condo gets so dusty and dirty so easily, and everything in it is WHITE, so there's no hiding the dirt. I've recently taken to scrubbing my bathroom floor with a toothbrush. And I seem to not be able to sleep if there's clutter anywhere. BELIEVE ME when I say that this is a VERY recent development.
Who is more stubborn?
Oh man. We are BOTH extremely stubborn. I may one day give birth to actual bulls.
Who hogs the bed?
Neither of us. We KICK ASS at sharing a bed.
Who wakes up earlier?
When given a choice, neither of us. Left to our own devices we can sleep an entire day away. However, I have to wake up at the crack of dawn for work, whereas Peter can sleep however late he pleases. However, he tends to stay at the office until the crack of dawn, so he's allowed to sleep in in the morning!
Where was your first date?
We met at the Hong Kong, but our first official date was at Grafton Street.
How long did it take to get serious?
Well, we met in October of 2006, and it started to get serious in April of 2007. However, the first time that we actually referred to one another as "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" or said the L word was June of 2007. However, we still consider October to be our anniversary.
Who eats more?
Peter. DEFINITELY. I maybe get around to 1.5 meals per day (NOT on purpose....I inherited a meager appetite from my dad's side, and a sensitive stomach from my mom's side), though I do tend to eat more when I'm around him (which also is partially due to the fact that I am on vacation when I am with him, and therefore my appetite tends to kick in with a VENGEANCE).
Who does the laundry?
Peter used to have Brazilian cleaning ladies who did his laundry, but now he does his own. I find laundry to be very therapeutic, so I will probably do it when we are living together. Plus I am constantly spilling on myself and therefore need to pre-treat everything.
Who's better with the computer?
Peter. HANDS DOWN. I'm a little afraid of computers, and know embarrassingly little about them. I do so heart my Mac.....
Who drives when you are together?
Peter. I am what you might call a TERRIBLE DRIVER. I come from a long line of terrible drivers, so I blame genetics :)
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