stories of an awkward introvert

The POC (or Numbers Eight and Nine)

2012-01-02T18:47:00.000-06:00

Several years ago, I received an invitation to the Party of the Century: a New Year's Eve party in the Crossroads with friends, friends of friends, and their friends. At the time, I wasn't much for staying up all night with people who could drink more and dance better than I...in fact, it might just have been that I wasn't keen to spend the evening with that many people period, drunk, sober, or dancing. I opted for a more tranquil evening (that I don't regret).

Time, as they say, gives one perspective. This year, the perspective was way off. On the one side was a much too benign evening at my parents;' on the other was the opportunity to people-watch to my little heart's content. I am a sucker for observing other people's silliness; call it a vice, if you will, but I chose to attend the sixth annual POC (number 8), anyway.

The night started at the pre-POC, where I met a gal who was in the middle of a project to write and video record a song every day. As she only had a few hours left of the day, she wanted to record her song at this gathering, so I was able to be a back-up singer for her video about New Year's Eve. Let's just call that "number 9: be a back-up singer in a music video." Thankfully, no dancing was required.

Upon arriving at the POC, I began to wonder if I had made the right decision to attend. I am honestly not comfortable in those types of environments, but I was determined to enjoy myself. I just wanted to find a "quiet" spot where I didn't have to yell in an effort to make small talk with people who were unlikely to remember me in the morning. I spent some time scoping out the space but became a bit dismayed when there was no where to sit and munch on my olives and cheese. My feet became so desperate for relief that I twice found myself in the bathroom just for the opportunity to sit. My luck changed when I discovered the wooden folding chair, which I danced across the floor to a "quiet" nook and found great entertainment watching my friends dance. When midnight struck, I grabbed my champagne and fellow-wall-holder-upper, and we found ourselves busting some moves we never knew we had in us (sans shoes, of course). After a couple hours of watching people "dance," we realized that dancing requires very little more than a willingness to move in a quasi-rhythmic pattern. What the heck; it's a new year.

Only 7 of 30?!

2011-12-14T20:01:00.002-06:00

When I made the suggestion to myself last August that I should attempt to do 30 things this year in honor of turning 30, I thought that would be a piece of cake. It probably is to some people, but I found myself trying to come up with a list of things to do before doing them. At that rate, I'd be 43 before my 30 things were started. Oh, I have a working bucket list, but I decided to go easy on myself and count things as they come. As of tonight, my total is seven. Yes, seven things I'd never done have been accomplished in four months, and here they are:

I had my gallbladder removed. It seems it decided to stop functioning, so I paid a guy to cut it out. I'm much happier being able to eat again.

A month and a half later, I was attending a Navy Ball with a guy I hardly knew. It seems that the friend (my date) of the sister of a friend of a friend of my mom's (yes, I'm serious) was in need of a last minute date. I don't normally agree to situations like that, but he came highly recommended; I needed an item for my bucket list; and what gal who loves sea stories can resist a whole room full of men in dress blues? Interestingly, we didn't dance at all, but it was a lovely evening.

The evening was so fun, two weeks later, we decided to attend an opera at the new Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts.

In the midst of Navy Ball-ing, I took a two-Saturday class on making yeast breads because until now, yeast was beating me in the face. Now, however, I can show it who's boss and make my own sandwich bread.

Food is one of my favorite pastimes, so when I had the opportunity to go to the Nelson-Atkins with a friend a few weeks ago, I decided we should eat at Rozelle Court, mostly because I had always wanted to do so.

One thing I never really thought I'd ever want to do was attend a KU women's basketball game. However, I was convinced to go a few weeks ago because of the half-time show: Russian acrobats. In fact, the game was a lot of fun, so I went the next week, too, and learned the secret KU "hand clap."

I also discovered the secret of trouser socks this week. My sock stock is rather measly, and I noticed that the socks I was wearing the other day were just awkward. So I scrounged around at the store the other night and found the appropriate type of socks to wear with long pants. I feel my life has changed.

Hopefully, I'll fill the other 23 spots on the empty list by next August. If anyone knows how I can do any of the following, let me know:

Go ice fishing.

Visit a state I've never visited.

Attend an opera at the Met in NYC.

Go sailing (tentatively planning a trip in late spring/early summer).

Learn to like beets (got any good recipes?)

Read Jane Jacob's The Death and Life of Great American Cities (I know; I know; I can't believe I haven't read it either.)

Learn how to play the piano at a very basic level.

Take French lessons.

Yard Progress

2011-06-07T21:52:00.001-05:00

The house, as it looked in March.

APRIL 2011

First order of business was to remove part of the ag fence, in order to let my "tractor" through. I also cut back a bunch of trumpet vine.

MAY 2011

There were four living 80+ year old spirea right next to the house. We (and by we, I mean mostly my dad) divided two of them into seven individual shrubs and moved them to the crest of the hill next to the crown vetch. They were cut back too much by previous tenants, and they were either going to die in place, die in transplantation, or maybe they'll live.

We also removed the weeds and grass from a portion of the yard and replaced with layers of cardboard, newspaper, and mulch (which the guys at Lawrence Tree Service donated to my efforts). This mulch will eventually be covered with dark finish mulch, but that may not be until next year.

The south side of the house needed to be regraded a bit, have stones relocated, and the remaining spirea shrubs removed. The hay, which was sold to me as straw, was one of two bales I bought before I knew how to get free mulch. My roundup is now taking care of the hay sprouts.

On the north side was a lot of random concrete with no rhyme or reason and the stepping stones were misaligned, so we mulched over the random concrete to create a path and aligned the stones with the concrete path we created.

JUNE 2011

My day laborer working on the south side of the house.

The remaining (live) two spirea shrubs were divided into six new shrubs and transplanted in front of the propane tank, with the intention that they will eventually hide the submarine. We used soil from the regrading to fill in a large hole in the yard (where the hay is).

Ta-da! The smooth, clean, south side.

Dad taking a mojito break after all the work.

The yard between the spirea and the house on the east side. Eventually, the area around the spirea will also be mulch instead of the cocktail of clover, poison ivy, and trumpet vine now growing.

My archeological finds from the yard.

Anyone Want to Buy a Maniacal Router?

2011-03-05T13:01:00.002-06:00

Basic telephone etiquette was out of the question the day "Bob" called me. By the time I was able to extricate myself from the confusion, I was convinced that the sheriff's posse was ready to haul me away for inadvertent mayhem. When I calmed down, I became suspicious that the call was a prank. How could I be personally responsible for taking down the internet tower? I wouldn't know where to even begin if I had even the slightest inkling to try it. In the carpool on the way home, my techy coworkers also thought the technician who called me was full of it. My computer wasn't even on, and it would seem that they would have better safety nets on the tower to prevent this from happening.

I called Knology as soon as I got home to verify that I wasn't about to be arrested. The woman I spoke with was perplexed how the problem could be my fault and couldn't find any record that I had been contacted. That is, until she spoke to the dispatcher, who hadn't put the record in my file yet. I wondered if there is a manila folder with my name on it filed in a black cabinet with "Malcontents, Hackers, and Tower Taker-Downers." She scheduled a technician to come have a look the following day, and I still wasn't wholly convinced that I wasn't being taken. No matter.

The following evening, armed with all the logic and skepticism I could muster, I faced-off with the technician. When I asked what was going on, Mr. Supervisor laughed and said, "Well that's what we want to know." I just stared at him, willing my fists to stay at my sides. I then told him that I was happy he didn't feel it necessary to bring the sheriff after all, that I don't understand how I could be personally responsible for this, and that he wasn't allowed in my house until he apologized for the way the situation was handled over the phone the previous day. To my relief, there was no more laughing.

As he was playing at being a technician, I asked how long this was going on since I hadn't experienced any interruption in service. Apparently it had started the night before I got the call and only around 100 people were affected. While I pondered my disappointment over so few being affected, he pointed at the router, and said, "Well, there's the problem; you've set it up wrong!" (The antenna on my roof connects directly to my router, and it was plugged into an "out" port.)

My turn to scoff. "You set it up."

"Well, the "in" port on the router didn't work."
"Mm, hmm. So how exactly does a 4"x6" black box take out an internet tower?"
Silence. Thinking. Then, "Uh, well, see: since the antenna was plugged into the wrong port, the router was sending out its own IP addresses back to the tower at the same time as someone else's router who was sending the same IP address, and POOF! And the antenna is supposed to filter that kind of communication, and it didn't! So, Outage?"
"Mm, hmm, right. So then if you set up someone else's router the same way, why aren't you at their house, too?"
"Uh..."
"It seems to me that if your tower isn't very secure and that the antenna you installed on my house isn't working properly."
"Well, this is a very rare occurrence."
"Can you guarantee it'll never happen again?"
"Oh, it won't."
"Uh, huh. Well, where do we go from here?"
"You have to get a new router."
"Which I will then plug into a faulty antenna? No, that's not really going to work for me."
"I'll replace the antenna."
"That's a start. I would also like your company to investigate the problem more thoroughly and get back to me on what happened since you're just speculating at this point."
"Well, here's my card."

A week of internet fasting went by before I wrote the company. In response to my letter, "Bob" called me and asked if I needed help setting up the new router. No, I don't really think I do.

What I Love About Snow Days

2011-02-01T21:48:00.000-06:00


01 February 2011

no alarms

sleeping late

breakfast for lunch

finishing a book

watching the snow

cat naps with napping cat

pajamas 'til 3

no makeup or hair doing

baking cookies

bundling up to go out to play

no bills in the mail

animal tracks in the snow

starting a new book

simple hearty dinners

finishing a movie

darning a sock

early to bed to do it all over again.

Survey Coordinating

2010-11-23T21:16:00.001-06:00

I celebrated my two month anniversary as a state employee last Saturday. Within my first week, I was in Prairie Village investigating ruts that were formed by the Oregon Trail.

See that depressed area? That's a rut.

The next day, I headed up to Marshall County to investigate more trail ruts at Alcove Spring. This was a stop along the Oregon Trail because of its natural water source. While travelers waited for an appropriate time to cross the Blue River to the west, some carved their names in rocks around the spring.

"Alcove Spring" carved into rock by Oregon Trail traveler.

We went to Marysville for lunch that afternoon, and drove by their old Spanish Revival Union Pacific Depot (did you know that Marysville is a huge U.P. hub?) with its fabulous tile:


The medallion says Union Pacific System, Overland.

A few days later, I drove out to Scott State Park in Western Kansas for the dedication of Kansas's first Historic Byway, Western Vistas Historic Byway. Driving down to the park was similar to a video game where the scenery doesn't change, the road doesn't turn, and no one is around. Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, these appear:


Monument Rocks.

We spent the night in Mountain-time Goodland, only 10 miles from Golden Colorado. We considered taking a detour to the Rockies, but I had to get back for such an insignificant event as moving. Not knowing it was an hour earlier than we thought, we ate dinner on Main Street at Buddy's BBQ (where don't even think about wanting white meat), and strolled down the street for the traditional site visit treat, ice cream. Being the last day of September, The Vault Creamery was closing for the season October 1. This meant homemade ice cream for $1.


Home of the $1 ice cream.

The next day, we headed home, and made a pit stop in Cawker City, home of the world's largest ball of twine (yes, it is a National Register object).

He stopped twining in the 1950s.
Guess he figured it was big enough.

Just last week I found my favorite little house in a tiny little town called Beattie. According to the date on the front of the house, it dates to 1878. Isn't it precious?

James Fitzgerald House, Beattie, Kansas.

Hard to believe all of this is in Kansas, isn't it. More hard for me to believe is that I am paid to go hiking and looking for historic places in Kansas. What a hard life.

The Old House

2010-08-05T16:08:00.001-05:00

She wishes she could remember his name, what he looked like. All there is to remember is how she felt around him, yet they were hardly five or six years old at the time. He spent some unspecifiable length of time impressing himself on her heart the summer he visited his grandmother – she believes it was his grandmother, anyway. Then he was gone. Or was that the year she moved? She cannot remember.

As a child she measured time by the intensity of her experiences not by something as uncreative as the measureable hours, days, weeks that have come to rule her life now. She smiles to herself as she wonders whether her penchant for tardiness is simply her child-self, asserting, "I am still here!" Indeed the days are few that she forces herself to stop daydreaming about the little house in which she spent her happy first few years.

In the neighborhood today, she impulsively decides to drive by the small house, which she does three times before recognizing the ash tree out front. Ironic, she thinks, to remember the type of tree but not the name of the boy.

For a moment, she considers walking up to find the concrete patch where her father encouraged all the neighborhood children to imprint their tiny hands. Maybe their names were still there; was he there that day? She lets her hand fall from the door handle as she remembers her mother telling her a few years ago that the now-dilapidated garage replaced the patio and handprints made so long ago.

The patio. Yes, she can remember that. And the white trellised fence that separated it from the driveway. Her old cat used to pace on top of it after tussling with the snakes in the honeysuckle shrubs. All are gone now: the honeysuckle, the snakes, the cat, the trellis, the names. She stares at the garage, and it is suddenly replaced by the trellis again. There she is, small enough to stand on the bottom of the little gate while he swings her gently. What do they talk about? She is too far away to hear, but she can once again feel the breeze on her face.

She regrets not remembering much of what she said, though to be honest, that is a trait she still shares with her younger self. Her memories are as silent as her photographs; in fact, they are photographs. As her eyes move to the front door, she sees the small wooden front porch. Violets used to bloom in the crack between the porch step and the concrete sidewalk. He would pick them and offer them to her as if offering her a slice of an apple. She never felt the need to keep them. They would spend the hot afternoons lying on the porch, side by side, knees hanging over the step, faces upturned toward the shade of the ash tree, holding his right hand in her left hand and the violets in her right. She cannot remember speaking, but she remembers being.

Sometimes, they would walk down to the backyard and sit in the shade there. The backyard was immense and full of trees. She recalls the giant cottonwood in the center of the lower portion of the yard. Her father always thought it strange that the tornado plucked the small cherry trees out of the ground but only stole a few branches from the cottonwood. She looks to the small area between her house and the neighbor's. She strains to see into the backyard, but her view is blocked by weeds reaching to the eaves of her small house. There is her old bedroom window. Central air must have been installed; the old window unit is gone. She remembers lying on her bed for afternoon naps. Her head at the foot of the bed, she would let herself become drowsy watching the roof vents turn in the wind on her neighbor's house.

She cannot see the vents now. She sees the curtain slightly move in her front window. Afraid she has stayed too long, she shifts her car into drive and slowly coasts home, remembering to say goodbye to the boy without a name.

Ice Cream 101

2010-06-30T12:33:00.001-05:00

Real Questions Asked / Comments by Customers:	Answers I would LIKE to give but am too nice to do so:	My actual response:
"What does [enter name of ice cream here] taste like?"	"Generally, when we list the name of the ice cream, we are lying. Sweet corn tastes like mint; mint tastes like balsamic strawberries. We love to wreak havoc on your taste buds and make you hate us because of it. Go Yelp! us now!"	I chuckle to give myself time to compose a proper response, then " [name of ice cream]."
"I just want peanut butter, even though you only have peanut butter and jelly. You'll try."	"I don't care how old you are, that's impossible. And even if it wasn't impossible (which it is), I'm still intentionally giving you two huge globs of jam just for being silly."	"You know that's impossible, right?" And I still give a glob of jam out of spite. But it's done with a smile, I assure you.
"There isn't real rum in that…right?"	"No. Your child isn't screaming because you are poisoning her, I'm sure."	"Yes; yes there is in fact real alcohol in the flavors which have the names of alcohol in their title. How about some raspberry sorbet, Child?"
"I bet that is disgusting."	"You're right! We live to displease."	"You're trying it. Don't argue with me, even though you are a cop! Put it in your mouth! Now see, it's not as bad as you thought, is it? What's that? You want a scoop of that? Well, that's more like it!"
"That doesn't taste like goat cheese at all."	"Have you ever had goat cheese, fool?"	crickets
"I think he should make crunchy onion ice cream!"	"You are insane. That is disgusting, and I'm not passing that recommendation along."	"You are insane. That is disgusting, and I'm not passing that recommendation along. I love you, Dad!"

Mummy Art?

2010-05-19T17:31:00.001-05:00

At what point do human remains stop being sacred and become art? Can they be both? I was shocked and fascinated to see a wrapped body laying in a display case in the new Egyptian gallery at the Nelson-Atkins. That was a real person a few thousands of years ago, and now it has been reduced to "human remains, linen, and wool." I stared at the mummy for fifteen minutes trying to understand why I was so transfixed. At first, I reasoned that photographs and paintings of corpses are classifiable as art, so why not the primary objects? But while a painting of an apple is art, fewer would argue that the apple itself is. The human body is necessary in performance art, and the skin is colored by tattoos. In a sense, then the body is already considered a medium. But then there are the Bodies exhibits. For me, those cross some inner line of decency, especially if the subjects are nonconsensual. This may be the root of my uneasiness: the man who now rests in our museum never consented to be displayed in this fashion. To my way of thinking, mummification was not an artistic expression as much as it was a solemn religious ritual. The Nelson-Atkins even seems to acknowledge this with a plaque next to its mummy explaining (and encouraging the viewer's participation in) the ritual chanting of certain phrases for the ka's nourishment.

If I am to observe the mummy as art, is it any different that considering Christian relics as art, too? How many saints' various body parts are enshrined in elaborate reliquaries to be displayed for the pious to look upon; how many of those have found their ways into art museums? The display box for the saintly fingers are what are considered art, though; surely not the actual finger. Likewise, the elaborate coffins for the deceased Egyptian are exquisitely decorated and unarguably an art form. I can't say that I agree with a corpse being classified as art, though I can't help but be fascinated by the object, however sad I may be for the poor soul's current resting place.

Of course, I may be being too sympathetic. His ka might think it's comical that hundreds of people stand gawking at the old body. I wonder if there's a ritual chant we could use to find out?

Finally…

2010-05-01T17:55:00.001-05:00

I finally broke out of my months-long stagnancy. It's like a fever that finally broke. I have direction now. I've been stuck between disappointment in myself for not being where I thought I should be and my sensible side, which kept telling me to get any job in order to pay my bills. I've been called an idealist because I tend to dream big and am not willing to settle for those things in life I didn't plan, but I knew that I was at a critical point in my career where if I didn't somehow develop a compromise between what I want and reality, I would end up settling.

When I got back from Romania, Dad and I had a conversation over our morning coffee about what was next for me. I jokingly said that if I could spend my life volunteering at all the places I love, I would be a happy lady. It took me five months to take myself seriously.

So my decision is this: spend my 9-5 days volunteering with local preservation groups and working on any kind of preservation project that comes along, whether it's paid or not. Then, in my spare time (nights and weekends), get a job to pay the bills. I think my priorities are now properly arranged. Why should I give up what I love just because of a little thing like money? My goal is to spend the next fifteen months volunteering, building contacts, and making money on the side. If I can't make a good enough go of my idealistic life by the time I'm thirty, I'll reconsider the whole settling thing.

But I have a feeling things will go my way. Already, I: have given a presentation on historic landscapes; have been asked to be an advisor to the newly formed Penn Valley Park Conservancy; work at the Kansas City Parks and Rec archives twice a week; am giving a tour of Union Cemetery on Tuesday; am part of a group that will start surveying antebellum architecture in Independence; and have an interview sometime next week at a place where I would love to work. All this in the month since I made my decision.

I think I might be on the right track. Finally.

Nominating the Nelson-Atkins

2010-01-19T15:50:00.001-06:00

It's offically printed, bound, and in the hands of the Nelson-Atkins. Can I get a woot-woot?

Moldavia

2009-12-21T20:50:00.001-06:00

Okay, okay, okay; so it's been a few weeks since I visited the painted monasteries in Moldavia. Since then, I spent an evening in Munich (where we ate roasted duck, potato dumplings, red cabbage, and homebrewed beer; thanks Wallis!); almost missed my plane home due to an ironically late German train; and celebrated Thanksgiving with most of my family and all of my kitty. Currently, I'm trying to get my life back into some state of "normal" and trying to remember the last three months as more than a dream. The week before I left Romania, my cousin, Katharine, came to visit. She arrived on Monday, and Tuesday morning, we were on our road trip to northeastern Romania. I had planned for us to take the train and walk to see a few of the churches, but when I was casually mentioning this, three coworkers adamantly told me not to take the train if I wanted to have a good time. So, upon a recommendation, we hired a driver, Attila. The drive out took us through the Carpathians' winding roads that Attila treated with little thought to brakes and slow speeds, but we got to Moldavia about three hours before we were anticipating, which was impressive. And so were the monasteries. They are all Eastern Orthodox from the 15^th to 16^th centuries, and the forms are similar: central church surrounded by stone walls along which were ancillary buildings like dormitories and small chapels. Every square inch of the churches were painted, both inside and outside.

I could spend forever talking about the churches, but I don't feel like it. The week I was home, I had breakfast with some friends, and Moe asked me what was the most memorable experience of my trip. That's hard to pinpoint, but I had to say it was the day I bought a husband for 2Lei (the Romanian currency, approximately equivalent to 75 cents. Attila had driven back to Cluj through amazing scenery, and at one point, we had to take a pee break at a petrol station. As Katharine and I were leaving the disgusting facilities, I noticed Attila in the car, laughing and a Romania guy with a window squeegee approaching us, saying, "Doi lei." Figuring we had to pay for the use of the hole in the floor and wet toilet paper, I protested slightly, but the squeegee wielding attendant kissed my and Katharine's feet. I tipped him. As we were pulling away, I asked Attila what was so funny. Here is the conversation as I remember it:

Me: What's so funny?
Attila: He thinks you are my wives (yes, plural).
Me: *Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: And he said that since I have two wives, I should share and give him one.
Me: *Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: Then I asked which one, and he said, ehhh, it doesn't matter. Either one.
Me: *Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: Then I asked if it was forever, and he said, no, an hour would do.
Me: *GASP! Chuckle, chuckle.*
Attila: Then I asked if he would pay me, and he said, no, wait, she'll pay me.
Me: *Busting a gut.* AND I DID! *Guffaw all the way home.*

Brasov

2009-11-09T04:15:00.003-06:00

Why is it that when I actually have a relaxing weekend, there seems to be nothing to write about? When things go smoothly, it's a nice experience, but when things don't go as planned, it's a better story. My weekend was incredibly relaxing – more so than my "relaxing" weekend in Gyula. Such is life, and such is a lesson I should learn: planning a time to relax is asking for trouble and anticipating trouble more often than not leads to exceeded expectations. I left for Braşov, Romania on Saturday morning. The train was supposed to leave at 10:10, but true to form, it was about 30 minutes late. I didn't mind so much this time because I didn't have a connection. It is a straight 5.5 hour shot from Cluj to the southern Transylvanian town, and I was pleasantly surprised to find a very clean and comfortable train car to take me there. Trains are hit or miss; my car to Salonta last weekend was rather dirty, and to be honest, I think I'd rather have had a kidney stone than be forced to use the WC. Friday night I even dreamed about how much I was dreading the reality that I'd probably have to use the bathroom and consoled myself that 5 minutes of discomfort out of 24 hours really isn't a horrible statistic. Oh the things I worry about. Lucky for me, since this train was new, the bathrooms weren't trashed yet (but it's a good thing I always pack a roll of tp!).

I had just finished listening to my latest Car Talk podcast when a Dutch guy sat down in the same row, but I pretended to be intent on my music. However, after listening to the conversation he and the Romanian gal opposite to us were having, I decided they weren't schmucks. I had to be careful, you see because, call me a snob, I'm not particularly keen on making small talk with strangers. I mean, I could have been stuck in that awkward situation of painfully superficial conversation for 4.5 more hours. I wanted to relax not spend hours in agony at the start of my weekend. But we had a good chat; so good in fact, that the Dutch kid missed his station. Luckily, though, he was meeting friends who would be able to come retrieve him. Dora, the Romanian student, and I were relieved that wasn't us and agreed that missing our station is something we both dread. She and I got on so well, that we made tentative plans to go to the pharmacy museum here in Cluj on Saturday (she's a pharmacy student). Look at me making friends with strangers; I'm growing up.

Braşov is a quaint town in the Carpathian Mountains. It was settled by the Saxons back in the 13^th or 14^th century, and is there really anything more impressive than historic buildings set against the backdrop of a mountain? I was slightly disappointed to not find any snow, even on the mountain tops, but I couldn't complain about the sunny 60 degree weather I had all weekend. When I got to town, it was twilight, but people were out in droves. After checking in to my hotel (Bella Muzica - in the picture above - is located right on the main square and is inside a 400 year old building; it was great), I spent the next few hours wandering the small streets. I had one of those perfect moments that evening when I was walking down the pedestrian Strada Republicii. The sky was a brilliant dark blue with darker blue clouds; there were the mountains; there were elegantly lit historic buildings with people inside and outside; the weather was warm with a beautifully fresh breeze; and a man playing a guitar as the crowds meandered. I felt like I was in my own movie. Later that evening, I stumbled upon a Baroque church that was built between 1776-1782. I loved thinking that during the construction of this place, people halfway around the world were fighting for independence. I went in and was just in time for mass. It was in Hungarian, but the music was beautiful, so I stayed.

That night I ate dinner at the hotel. Their restaurant is in the cellar, and there was even a non-smoking room. Ironically, it was the least charming room of the restaurant, but it was still a wonderful atmosphere and I wasn't forced to ingest noxious fumes with my dinner. When it was time to order, I pushed the little red button next to the table and the waiter appeared. Brilliant. I had their goulash, cabbage salad, and an Ursus (a Romanian beer). I admit that I'm becoming quite a fan of the variations of this meal. Each chef makes it differently, so it's never true that if you've had it once, you've had it all. This version was the spiciest I've had and came with a side of traditional corn polenta instead of potatoes. Before the meal was brought, I was given chips and salsa (the restaurant specializes in traditional Transylvanian dishes and Mexican food) and a complimentary shot of palinka. This traditional Romanian drink is plum brandy, and with an alcohol content of about 40588%, it's strong enough to kill a cow. However, it's strangely tasty. I slept very well that night.

After a hearty complimentary breakfast Sunday, I walked around some more, finding a trail in the mountain to follow and another underground Romanian restaurant to try. I will be eating salad and oatmeal for the next month to make up for this meal. First course: Transylvanian sour soup = sour cream and butter with fatty pieces of smoked ham and some veggies. Main course: on the menu it read "pancakes stuffed with meat and mushrooms – A traditional Braşov recipe." It failed to mention it was fried, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't eat it all. It was also at this restaurant that I figured out why so many people smell like onions here (let's be honest, there are worse scents). As an appetizer, I was given a plate of what I can only assume was deep fried fat and raw red onions. I refrained from eating it, but the ladies at the table next to me were eating the sliced onions like they were bread slices (Dad, you're jealous, aren't you). I waddled around after that meal and found myself at St. Nicholas Church. My guidebook said it was here that in the 15^th century, Vlad Ţepeş ate his dinner while walking around the victims he had just impaled. Luckily, my traditional Romanian meals never included that entertainment.

Photos here: http://amandakloughlin.shutterfly.com/

Next Stop. . . Salonta?

2009-11-02T04:14:00.002-06:00

When showing the border guard my passport, the last thing I expected him to do is run away with it, but there he went. I watched him jump from the train and run between the buildings, and then I panicked. My "relaxing" weekend in Gyula, Hungary ended up being more of a "try to relax between adventures and awkward moments" weekend. My train on Friday was scheduled to depart around 3pm, and by 4pm, I was still sitting on the bench in Cluj, thinking perhaps I was waiting on the wrong platform. I knew when I finally boarded the train, on a different platform than was scheduled, around 4:30 that I would be missing my connection to Gyula; the familiar sense of dread that I had felt when trying to get to Cluj back in August started creeping back into my stomach. I consoled myself that surely there would be another train that night; I mean it's not that far from Salonta to Gyula, in theory. The scenery was at least pretty for the first hour of the trip: mountains, streams, trees, and the two people in my compartment were friendly. One even shared his Snickers bars with us. About two hours into the journey, they were scheduled to get off and became concerned that I wasn't departing too. Needless to say that made me nervous. I asked if this was the right train to Salonta, and they both were not sure that it was – it might be, but they weren't certain. Crap. Before they left, I had the thought that I should look at their tickets to make sure the same train number was on theirs as on mine. Thankfully, it was, and in celebration, he gave me his last Snickers. Crisis averted with chocolate.

I arrived in Salonta around 7:30, and discovered that my connection was gone; I wouldn't be able to get to my hotel in Gyula until the next morning. I confess that I started crying. Here I was, in a tiny little town, in the dark, uncertain what I could even do. There were no hotels or pensions near the train station, and I wasn't too keen on walking around in the dark, looking for one. On the other hand, staying in the train station was impossible. Did I try to take a taxi? I decided to call Iulia to see what she thought would be best. Within 10 minutes, she had found me a hotel, and they were on their way to pick me up at the station. Then my phone ran out of minutes, and I was grateful that I'd had enough to call Iulia. But I still needed to call the hotel in Gyula to tell them I wouldn't be there until tomorrow. Iulia had given me the license plate number of the car sent to fetch me, and when it arrived, I was elated to find a young gal who spoke perfect English and her father. They laughed because they thought it was all a joke; they were happy it was not, and I was ecstatic they had a bed for me. I was even able to use their phone to call Gyula, so crisis three and four were taken care of.

The four star Hotel Slavia is located in a great classical building, and the 40 euro price I was quoted included a full suite with a wonderfully luxurious double bed (with a massaging mattress!) and a humongous shower. Everything looked new; it was clean and quiet and had a huge breakfast buffet in the morning. The waitress even made me an omelet. When I checked out, the price for all of this came to 35 euro, and they even took me to the train station without letting me pay for the ride.

The one-car 9am train to Gyula was on time, and it was on this one car that I surrendered my passport to the border guard. My experience with border guards had been that they asked for the passport, compared my horrible picture to the reality, smirked, stamped it, and gave it back, all within one minute. If there is anything I dread about traveling, it's the loss of my passport, and when I saw the man running away with mine, I sensed that's what just happened. It was too easy: pose as a policeman, demand passport, run away, and laugh at stupid tourist. I grabbed my backpack, and ran to the train conductor, trying to explain, "Politizia! Passport! He ran away with it! Nu stiu; nu inteleg [I don't know; I don't understand]!" He was a very jovial man, and when he saw my panicked face and tears I could not keep from welling up, he laughed at me. "OK! Stamp!" he said while making the gesture of stamping the passport with his hands. He patted me on the shoulder, and led me back to my seat, chuckling. The "gypsy" policeman, who was in fact, legitimate, ran back to the train with my passport, and I almost kissed him with glee. Instead, I kissed my passport as the conductor walked by me. When we crossed the border, the Hungarian guard was wise to me, and asked me very kindly to come with him. The conductor was explaining my anxiety to everyone, and everyone was laughing. By this time, I found it funny, so I stuck out my tongue at them and laughed too. The guard let me accompany my passport to the stamping process; he even wished me an enjoyable trip. I arrived to Gyula unscathed, and found the town very peaceful as I walked to my hotel: lots of trees and birds. When I reached my room, I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself, so I went for a walk. I found a coffee shop and had a cup o' joe for less than $1. Nice. The town is really pedestrian- and bike-friendly. Clearly delineated paths that the people use appropriately; I almost got run over by a biker until I realized I was in the wrong "lane." A small trick-or-treat stand was open in one of the square, so I sat and watched the kiddies for a bit. Then I found a castle to go explore.

Now, Gyula is known for its thermal baths, and by 3pm, I had talked myself into attempting to enjoy them. I sensed that this experience would be awkward, and after the past 24 hours, I was recharging my courage. The baths are part of a huge park, and there was an entrance to the park conveniently located right across from my hotel. I paid the 2000HUF entrance fee, and stood there unsure of where to go. I went inside the first building I found, and was disappointed to find a swimming pool and a sauna. Confused, I went down to the changing rooms, where I found a cleaning lady. She gestured me out of the building, and said, "Thermal baths; park," and she motioned me to follow the tree-lined path (the trees had identification tags!) into the park. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood. I soon found another building and two outdoor thermal pools, but though people were everywhere, I could not find out how to enter the building. I must have walked back and forth between the pools and the building about 10 times before finding a bench to sit and cry some tears of frustration. I couldn't read the signs; there was no one to ask; and all I had wanted to do is relax in some warm coffee-colored water for a few hours. [I must say that, in general, I don't cry very often, but my tear ducts got a great workout this weekend.] An hour later, I spied a couple walking toward the building, so I followed them. They found the door, and I felt a bit justified in my frustration because it was completely hidden; there wasn't even a sign indicating this was where to go.

When I got to the changing room, I realized I had forgotten a towel. The building is sprawling, so instead of allowing myself to be frustrated again, I just went exploring, eventually finding one of the big pools. This one was circular, and had different areas where you could just sit and soak with Jacuzzi bubbles or be caught in a tide that circled around the Jacuzzi part. This was my favorite part; it smelled like eucalyptus, and I laughed with the kids who also in this part of the pool as the water pushed me around and around. This water wasn't the same as the pools I had passed earlier, so I decided to go see what it was like to soak in brown water: it was great. Really warm and only slightly disturbing that the water was so dark I couldn't see my toes. It was then I was really able relax. I thought back to the time I had spent with Sandy's family in the spa at Budapest. I must have looked funny sitting there by myself laughing, but I kept remembering the funny things about that trip: the shock of seeing very large naked women, having a massage and getting smacked on the rear when it was finished, trying to find a place to eat and being led to an Italian restaurant by a very nice local. I looked around and was grateful that everyone was mostly covered.

Dinner that night was splendid: cream of garlic soup, pork and mushrooms cooked in butter, cabbage salad, and a Hungarian beer. It was so good that I forgot to tip the waiter. At breakfast the next morning, I realized this fact when I saw the same waiter. I asked the lady at the front desk how much of a tip is appropriate, and she said 50%! I pretended to hear wrong. I went back into the restaurant to give the waiter his tip, but I couldn't find him. I tried to ask the other guy, but he didn't understand. The front-desk lady came to interpret, and after 20 awkward minutes, my waiter came back. I apologized and gave him his tip. He just smiled awkwardly, and then said he didn't remember. My face was bright red as I left, but I brightened up a bit that he didn't remember because if that were so, he wouldn't remember how much tip he should have received. I found solace that morning by sitting in the park, reading and listening to the various birds. It was a cold but sunny day, and I decided to spend some more time just walking around. I had another wonderful lunch: tenderloin stuffed with Gyula sausage and roasted potatoes on the side. This time, I remembered the tip.

My trains home were on time; I didn't worry too much when my passport was removed from the trains, and when I got back to Cluj, I had enough courage to take a taxi home. He didn't know the street I gave him, but I was confident enough that I could get us there with the little bit of Romanian I knew, and I did.

Weekend Fun

2009-10-26T06:33:00.003-05:00

One month from today, I will be eating turkey with my family. It's not really hard to believe that two of my three months have gone; the pace seems to be just right, actually: not flying and not dragging. What is hard to believe is that I have only three more weekends in Romania, and that reality spurred me to start planning. Next weekend I'm heading to Gyula, Hungary for a bit of R&R (and a much-needed stamp in my passport). The weekend after that I'll bite the bullet and take the six hour train ride to Brasov, even though I'll be leaving at five in the morning. This weekend, I just decided to stay in Cluj. I had traveled down to Sibiu again on Friday with a group of Romanian students. The tour was in Romanian, but I just took more pictures.* Saturday was absolutely beautiful: upper 60s and sunshine, so I went in search of the Botanical Gardens' 10' diameter African lily pads. (On my walk, I decided to get lost, and ended up finding a fairly large remnant of the second medieval city wall.) Apparently I went in the wrong season to view the large lily pads, but the trip wasn't a total bust. I enjoyed hiking around the grounds. The terrain is very steep in parts, and at one hill, I realized too late that I would have to slide down the muddy embankment. Amazingly I didn't fall down, but it was quite embarrassing when the lady in the high heels behind me (where'd she come from?) made it down before I did. To be fair, she walked down the steep, slippery, moss-laden rocks while I opted for the more stable mud, and my foot got stuck just as a group of smooching teenagers passed on the path below me. I stood there, looking around, pretending that it was perfectly normal for a person with a submerged foot to take photographs with a camera that she later realized was not turned on. Ah, well; nothing hurt but my pride.

Sunday had me walking to the post office in town to mail some postcards. The postal system here is very interesting. The only mailboxes I've found in the city are at the post office and in one of the main squares, and I wonder, how do people mail letters? Maybe they don't; as my coworker, Karola, asked one afternoon when handing me some mail, "Why don't they just email you? It'd be easier." True, true, but not as fun. Two and a half weeks ago, my mom mailed me a package, which I was informed today, was waiting at the other post office on the other side of town. When I said that I'd go pick it up, I was told that I could not. Though it is addressed to me, it has the Foundation's address, so poor Karola has to make a special trip to pick it up, with forms, stamps, and proof that it's okay for her to do so. She also informed me that I will be paying the taxi fair for her to perform this task; it's so embarrassing, and all told, this package will cost 10 times what the contents are worth to receive. All I wanted was a sweatshirt I forgot to pack…and a new stash of Roasterie coffee because I ran out and have been forced to drink ground dirt for the last three weeks.

As I was walking out of my apartment this morning, I was met by the landlord who came to change the hot water supply line under my kitchen sink. I have a two-week-running Sunday routine of knocking at his door with a water-related problem. Last weekend, my hot water didn't exist, and my heat wouldn't turn on. After pantomiming and resetting the water heater, I realized that when I was washing the dishes or taking a bath, I should turn off the heat; this prevents the water heater from freaking out, "Tub or radiator?! Tub or radiator!? I can't handle it! I'm just going to stop trying and make all my lights blink!" Yesterday, I had just finished washing my dinner dishes, when I heard a very loud gushing/spraying sound. Since I had just turned the water off, I was a bit confused until I looked down to see the waterfall flowing out from under the cabinet. When I opened the cabinet doors, I was blasted by a warm spray of water from who knows where. I couldn't figure out how to turn the water off, so soaking, I ran back to the landlord's door. I frantically motioned for him to follow me, saying, "Apa! Apa! [Water! Water!]." He saw my dripping figure, and ran back to the apartment with me where he found the right nozzle to stop the flow. By this time there was a lake in the kitchen, so his wife mopped it up for me, all the while, we're all three laughing because I'm sopping wet and can't explain what happened except by pointing to words in my dictionary. He asked the gal next door to me to come interpret, and I'm happy to say, that I had understood what he was trying to tell me through the few words I know and pantomiming. True to his word, he was at my door before 8:30 with the new parts. It seems a hole developed in the supply line. As I was leaving, I saw him removing the sink, and I thought it best not to watch.

*I've uploaded more photographs of Sibiu and added some of Cluj to my Shutterfly site.

Mall Rat

2009-10-19T01:59:00.003-05:00

I was told before coming to Cluj that it was less westernized than Prague, a city in which I spent the first few months of 2003. Prague was my only real reference to Eastern Europe, so I was interested to see what a less westernized city was like. Not that I really felt Prague was much like the US; I mean, we don't have 15^th century anything where I'm from…unless you count dirt, maybe. But one night while trying to find an underground bar that someone had recommended, my friends and I ended up in a hole-in-the-wall café, asking directions (which in itself is comical when considering that I, a female, was the one who was the least insistent on direction-getting). While in the wall's hole, Dan ate some funny tasting brownies, Brian tried asking directions, and I was yelled at by the drunken Czech about how it is my fault that KFC is the demise of Prague. Please. You're telling me that after hundreds of years of various attacking peoples, Nazi occupation, and Communism, an American food chain is the worst thing that ever happened to the city? Whatever. I couldn't reason with him; since I was (am) American, it must be my fault. (And, in case you're wondering, no, they don't have biscuits at Czech KFCs, right Sandy?) We eventually found the bar, no thanks to any directions received. Dan was happy the rest of the evening; I contemplated exit strategies out of an underground cave, and Brian, well, Brian just had some pivo. I don't pass a KFC now without remembering that evening.

This afternoon I passed not only a KFC but a Pizza Hut, McDonald's, and a Starbucks (and I'd be willing to argue with anyone who will listen that Starbucks is the demise of all cities they enter. Bluck.). No, I'm not back in the US; I went to the mall, and holy crap; that's one of the nicest malls I've ever been inside. Talk about American, though. FREE toilets (even the malls in Prague made you pay) that were sparkling; a hypermarket; store after store after store; and a cinema, which was the purpose of my visit. That and curiosity. The food court puts to shame most in the US (and, as an aside, Happy Meals here still come in the cute little paperboard boxes that we children of the 80s loved; no stupid paper sacks); I bought a piece of chocolate cake from a local bakery. It wasn't very good, but the people-watching was amazing. There were areas where people sat on their laptops using free internet or using the provided internet kiosk. I swear I heard more English spoken here than anywhere else, as if just being in the mall brought out the Western in everyone. And the movie experience: reserved seating, expensive drinks (my small Fanta cost more than my chocolate cake), and comfortable, clean seating. (I saw Julie & Julia, Elli!) I left in a daze, half thinking that I was no longer in Europe.

While I was walking around before the movie, I noticed a shoe store that had newly opened here. On my walk through the city to catch the right bus to shuttle me aaallll the way out to the mall, I passed the old building in which this store was located up to the last few days. I was struck by a sense of sadness that I feel so often in American downtowns. I have become aware of a number of stores here in Cluj that seem to be closing in the historic areas of town, leaving too many vacant buildings. Like people, the malls draw the stores out of the core of the city. This is what preservationists fight in the US; we lament the degradation of our downtowns, but cannot deny the allurement of the new boxes on the outskirts of our towns. I am at this moment contemplating if this trend is an American legacy, and if it is, it makes me slightly ill and majorly embarrassed. It's not that I necessarily hate malls; it's that I hate the implications of them. We're desperately trying to salvage the hearts of our cities and bring people back to them, but how do you compete with newness?* In fairness, there are areas of the historic town that are full of life and revitalization; I just became more cognizant of the effects of the mall this afternoon. One of the things I loved about Prague was how mixed everything was: shopping, groceries, historic sites, people, parks. I feel that cohesion slipping away here, and in that sense, Cluj is more westernized than Prague. I realize it's probably unjust to compare the two cities; they're very different in many ways, but one thing they do have in common is KFC.

*Radio Lab did a great show about malls last year. Check it out here.

A Day in the Life of an Intern

2009-10-14T07:10:00.002-05:00

Monday was fine. We went driving around the county looking for the last few structures to survey on our inventory form. We found some neat walls, but some of the other stuff we couldn't find at all (we even tried asking at the mayor's office, but they were like, what?). I'm not too surprised when the address simply says "Nerveghiu," and no one even knows what that means. I find it a wee bit strange that there is a national monument list that gives dates, addresses (even if they are wrong), general descriptions, and very long codes to each property, but there is no other information to understand why the asset is on the list or why some assets are grade A while the others are only grade B. Someone, somewhere along the way just came up with a list and gave no documentation? I cannot fathom that, but that's what we're dealing with. My co-worker, Bogi, has had the mind-numbing task of trying to find the histories of these properties, but there isn't much information. But oh well. We've seen some neat stuff, and we even had a bit of an adventure or two. One of Monday's buildings was abandoned, but a "tour guide" found us and happily showed us where to hop the rusted wire fence between the trees. My body and wire fences do not get along too well, so I wasn't too keen on doing that; I survived, though. He wants a postcard from the US, and I'd be happy to oblige, but he never gave a name. The village was so small that if I just put his name and the name of the village, it would get to him. I wonder if I simply wrote "To the guy who helped us trespass on that property back in October / Rascruci, Romania" it would get to him… He must have been 70, and he rode a moped in a fishing hat. After this escapade, we went in search of a ruined hunting tower (it's only 19^th century). We were out in the middle of nowhere, and as we're getting back in the car, I smelled gasoline, looked down, and saw it dripping from the car to the ground. Needless to say I got a bit freaked out. Iuliana (oh yeah; she happily carted us around because I am a chicken and don't want to drive here) called the Trust's mechanic who decided not to believe us. Men. Apparently, he knows about the leak and had "fixed it" by putting "glue" on that spot (it's not the gas tank that's leaking; it's the part that goes from the part where you put in the gas nozzle to the tank). If it was leaking, which of course he doubts because he obviously fixed it didn't we know, the "glue" was probably dislodged when we filled up that morning. He said it was safe, and we had no choice but to believe him. Men. (I thought about what Click and Clack would say, and had half a mind to bake the brownies.) We then went to find the old walls. These were up a hill with pot holes larger than Idaho. Luckily, we had a 4 wheel drive; unluckily, none of us knew how to use it. We didn't puncture a muffler or gas tank, though, and the walls were pretty freakin' awesome (they date to "Cetate" – another phrase no one understands. I do, though. They're old.). Our last building is now being used as a state-run psychiatric hospital. We had to go into the compound (not inside the building), and it was incredibly uncomfortable; there were the "nice" people who all wanted their pictures taken; and then the "not-so-nice(?)" people that were behind a very high fence and who kept glaring at us. This house once belonged to a prominent family, and the heiress is fighting to regain ownership. Maybe I'm just superstitious, but I think I'd let it go; it's too much like the Vaile Mansion. I then went home and made an omelet. And that was my day; the end.

Shocked by Culture Shock

2009-10-11T10:07:00.003-05:00

I went to the store on Friday night (I know; exciting), and let me tell you, the store has become the biggest culture shock to me. It's not that I can't find what I want; it's that I absolutely dread going. If it wasn't for the necessity of food in my life, I'd never go again, but each week, the necessity drags me back. At first, I was excited. I get to take the tram from my house to the megabox store on a hill (the 21^st century's white temple on a hill?), and inside is a gigantic selection of fresh produce, bread, toilet paper, and televisions. Fantastic. What's the problem, then? People. People are what is wrong with this world. Where I was raised, we tend to value personal space and respect the "you were here first" rule almost vehemently. Not so here. Oh-ho-ho, no. The produce is measured and tagged for you by a woman at a counter, so there is always a queue. I started giving "American" space to the people around me, but that led to five individuals filling that space without even a questioning "are you in line?" glance. And then people behind you act like you have a giant magnet attached to your rump that attracts their basket; and then they start pushing you. It's degrading how much I feel like a heifer when I'm just trying to buy apples. And then, of course, there is the danger of buying absolutely the wrong vegetable when, in a normal state of mind, this would simply not happen. I mean, who confuses fennel bulbs with celery root? WHO? Me. My dictionary didn't have "fennel" in it, so I just guessed that the familiar aroma was what I was needed for my salad.
This is fennel:

And this is what I bought:

I was home and preparing said salad before my mind woke up, and I stood there staring at the root and asking myself what exactly does one do with the root of celery? Plant it? But I digress. After the rudeness of the produce queue, it is time to shop the aisles. Did I mention that whenever I go, everyone and their dogs (literally) are there as well? They just know. I go down an aisle, trying to read labels and figure out what I'm buying. I'm standing 3 feet away from the shelf to take it all in, and someone swoops in and stands there in front of me, face plastered to the shelf as they try to find what they want. No matter the item, it happens. And then there is the issue of the carts. I try to be polite and allow the people with the cart to come through so I can go into the aisle. Usually, they just stay there, blocking the aisle, and talking to their neighbors, as if this is perfectly acceptable. And you know what? It is, to everyone but me. The carts themselves are a nightmare I avoid. All the wheels swivel 360 degrees, so you can try to go straight, but you really move more at a diagonal, the heavier the cart gets. I leave this place disheveled and pissed every time, and I think to myself, if these people are this bad at the grocery store, there's no way I'm driving here.

Ugh.

2009-10-07T05:03:00.001-05:00

I have nothing exciting to write this week, as the last week was rather difficult emotionally and physically. It began with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, not for myself, but for people I know are suffering. Tragedy of acquaintances in the States and the perpetual Doom that is hovering over the poor, small countries in SE Asia made me heartsick. I found myself continuously asking God how much a person is supposed to endure in one life and then feeling guilty for the overwhelming blessings of my life. Then I was struck with a mild case of salmonella poisoning from that blasted meal last Saturday (see previous post). I vaguely remember waking up Saturday night, crying because I was scared, weak, and sick (I didn't even know how to call an ambulance if I needed one). It was a very dark weekend. But. Apart from the colony of cold sores now taking up residence on my lower lip, I have almost recovered my health and strength. I am realizing that there is no real and comforting explanation for who has to deal with tragedy, just as there is no real way to explain the blessings we receive. I do know that good comes in the midst of bad. There are stories of children thought dead that have been reunited with their families; there are communities helping each other survive. For me, my pants that were getting a bit tight after all these hearty Romanian meals are now a bit loose.

Date Night

2009-09-28T01:31:00.005-05:00

I enjoyed a wonderful evening Saturday: I went on a date with myself. Okay, so that sounds pathetic, but if you're the kind of person who sometimes just needs to not talk to people, then you'll understand the joy of personal date nights. I also decided that "not having anyone to go with me" was a lame excuse for not going to dinner and the theater. My guidebook had recommended a restaurant that it called the "most refined dining in Cluj." When I walked in the building, there were three doors from which to choose. After peeking through each glass door numerous times trying to spy the "hostess stand," I swallowed my pride and went in the bar and admitted to the bartender that I wanted to eat but had no idea where to go. He told me the outside patio was full. I said I didn't care. He then asked if I wanted to sit in a smoking or non-smoking area. I chose the latter and had the entire room to myself. I even got to choose where to sit. The English-version menu was brought, and I decided on one of the chef's specialties. Chicken breast (boneless) stuffed with pressed cheese (huh?), mushrooms, and peppers, and topped with poppy seeds. It came with mixed vegetables, white bread (of course), and cabbage salad (dang that stuff is good). This is what I ordered:

Yes, that's ketchup (Romanians love the condiment). And okay, it was called Chicken Breast Dracula, but being "the most refined dining in Cluj," I just thought the chef might have been using a recipe from the area Vlad haunted in life (man, I'm funny). I actually laughed out loud when the waitress sat it down in front of me. Being within a few last bites of the vampire, I realized the chicken really was not done. No, that's not accurate, as it was still raw in parts; the lighting was so dim that I had convinced myself that it was just the pressed cheese shining back at me. How ironic it would have been if I had developed a case of the vampires myself; luckily, no poisoning occurred, and I enjoyed the meal before the rawness factor ended it. The face was of eggplant, and I sent it back to the kitchen with one eye missing, just for fun. I honestly think that the number of poppy seeds consumed in that one meal was equivalent to, if not in excess of, the number I have eaten in my life, and I admit to wondering if there would be a slight opium buzz accompanying me to the theater.

There was not. It was an opium nightmare (a la Wilkie Collins). I chose to attend Cluj's Hungarian State Theater's production of Shakespeare's Richard III. Being an English play, there were bound to at least be subtitles. There were…in Romanian. I think I got the gist of the story, though: murder, cell phones, intrigue, cocaine snorting, betrayal, exotic dancing, War of the Roses, and televisions. Three hours of it too. Half-way through the play's television news broadcast (I had no idea England was so advanced at that time), the lights suddenly went out and the televisions switched to "The History of the Hungarian State Theater." This was in English, and if I wasn't already confused and high on poppy seeds, I might be able to remember more than the ninety images a minute that were flashing. Did English castles have hydraulic elevators back in the day? And did assassins carry syringes in violin cases and wear hats not at all unlike those worn by the Oompah-Loompahs? And speaking of small men, the most frightening part was when the little munchkin clown comes lolloping across the stage and tears the shirt off one of the actresses with his teeth. I mean, what was that? Some say it was art; I say that I'll never eat poppy seeds again.

Buna Ziua

2009-09-20T04:41:00.002-05:00

Bogi and I spent last week wandering around Cluj, assessing the condition of historic properties. I felt quite proud of myself that of the thirty buildings on my list, I was able to find most by reading my guidebook map (it may be helpful to note that, here in Cluj, I have no problem understanding which direction is north). The remainder of the properties was found by Bogi and me perusing on-line maps. Most of the streets are named after people or events important to the history of Cluj and Transylvania. For instance, there is Blvd. 21 Decemberie 1989: the date communism fell in Cluj (interestingly, every town seems to have a road with a similar name but the day of the month differs. Must have been quite a week); Str. Baba Novac: a Hungarian king or knight; Str. Matei Corvin: the great Hungarian king, who was born in Cluj; Str. Franklin Delano Roosevelt (which simply baffles me because the US and Romania/Hungary were not allies during WWII. In fact, I recently discovered that the last time a country officially declared war on another country, was when the US declared war on Romania during WWII); and Str. Doja Gheorghe. This last street was one of our last to survey because it was the furthest away from the city center. The center is located in the "valley" between hills. Our office is up a steep hill (a 10% incline, according to the sign) to the north; Str. Doja Gheorghe is located near the top of the steep southerly hill. After lunch Friday (did I mention that we have lunch provided to us?), one of our co-workers kindly drove us, and needless to say, we were grateful to give up the opportunity of walking.

The purpose of our survey is to determine not only the condition of the building or archaeological element but also to assess the degree of risk to these assets: is there a risk of development; has the asset been built over (as in the case of one of the 15^th century city wall fragments). Str. Doja Gheorghe is residential, and I immediately became concerned when I saw a Transylvanian version of a McMansion located at the address of what was supposed to be a 16^th-18^th century Baroque house. The second address didn't even exist, and the last two properties seemed to have been demolished in the beginning of the 20^th century because there was a house at the address that didn't fit any of our descriptions. I was distressed, but I must admit to also being slightly excited. I mean, here was something about which we could write! We had a cause to champion! The "tear-down" phenomenon has reached Cluj! Here was an opportunity for discussion of real international preservation issues!

After Bogi and I had finished our notes, picture-taking, and vehement discussion of people without vision, I saw an elderly gentleman walking towards us. I don't pretend to know Romanian, but if I pass a non-threatening person (aka: someone at least 50 years older than I am) in a neighborhood I happen to be walking, I feel it proper to practice saying "good day." "Bună ziua," I offered in my best Romanian accent. He responded with a flow of kindly-spoken Romanian conversation. Dang it. "Bogi?" Interpreting their sign language, I eventually stated, "We're on the wrong street, aren't we." He nodded; she nodded. I sighed. What we didn't count on was that the authorities-that-be had decided – at some point – to rename some of the streets in Cluj. The street we were on used to be called Lupin; the street that used to be called Doja Gheorghe had been renamed Regele Ferdinand (Queen Marie's hubby), located smack-dab in the middle of the city. We had, in fact, walked that street numerous times in the last few days. Apparently we failed to realize that Mr. Doja (Hungarians write their last names first) was less important than King Ferdinand. After walking back into the city, we found our buildings. No tear-down dilemmas, just the same old "the landlord should take better care of his building" assessments. I was a bit disappointed.

This was not the first time in the week that my saying good day to elderly people has led to interesting situations. The first time, in response to my hello, I received a handful of dead-heads the woman had collected from her garden bed. I said thank you; she said, most appreciatively, that I was welcome. I threw them away at the office. Later that same day, I was walking down the 10% incline when I came upon the cutest little old woman. Dressed all in black, with a typical head scarf, a cane, the brightest blue eyes, she smiled so widely when I said hello. She then stopped me and started talking. She kept pointing up the hill, and all I could do was shake my head and apologize that I only spoke English. At that point, she smiled again and took my hand. After a few more words, she squeezed my hand, and I bid her farewell. It wasn't until I reached the train station at the bottom of the hill that I let go of my preoccupation with the fact that I don't speak Romanian and embarrassedly admitted that the poor old woman was probably asking me to help her up the hill. Oh well, bună ziua.

Day Trips

2009-09-15T04:15:00.002-05:00

Goodness. There's a lot of this country to see, and I've made only a small dent. We all must start somewhere, so I started by visiting Sibiu, Alba Iulia, Sighişoara, Maramureş County, and other small towns along the way. Sibiu (first photo) was the EU's Cultural Capital for 2007, and the town really embraced that prestige. In the two years leading up to their year in the spotlight, the leaders of the city completed a major restoration of the main square, upgraded the infrastructure to make it more friendly, installed way-finding signs, and generally created an inviting atmosphere for tourists (even if some might call it a bit sterile due to the fact that the center was really "cleaned up" in the name of tourism). We enjoyed coffee in the square, which enabled us to people-watch (a favorite guilty pleasure of mine). I must return. Later that same day, we visited the small town of Alba Iulia. I must confess that it wasn't my favorite place, and I think that's likely due to the fact that the major interesting part of the town seemed so devoid of people; there wasn't much life. That and I had a cold. However, I did manage to connect this town with Kansas City (stop your groaning!). Queen Marie (and her husband, Ferdinand) were coroneted at the Orthodox cathedral in the center of the old town; in 1926, Queen Marie visited Kansas City to participate in the opening of Liberty Memorial. I took a picture.

The next day, we visited Sighişoara. Ah, charming! Loved it, even if I saw more annoying Americans here than anywhere else so far (taking pictures in front of the building that someone through the years decided was the birthplace of Vlad Ţepeş, even though that's not true). There were a lot of people enjoying the cafes and charming buildings. Even if the buildings are cool, people give a place its life. Sadly, the town has been working on its infrastructure for five years, and there is no end in sight. Apart from the inconvenience of uneven walkways (second photo), I still enjoyed the narrow streets and interesting architecture that are built on a steep hill. At the top of this hill (we climbed the 17^th century covered steps) is an incredibly restored cathedral. The basement has the remnants of a medieval chapel and crypt! In the 1930s, a little boy used to enjoy playing with the bones in this crypt. His memories of this place were so fond that a few years ago, he was instrumental in getting the Messerschmitt Foundation to back the restoration. No expense was too great. The bones were removed to a new tomb where little boys won't find them.

Saturday, we visited some of the famous wooden churches of Maramureş County. There are seven on the UNESCO World Heritage List; we saw three, and all of them took us into remote areas. We hiked 1km up a hill to one of them, and along the way, Arpad (the tour guide and one of my supervisors at the Trust) commented that he hoped the church was open. For his sake, I did too; there were tired and thirsty people behind us. On that hike, though, we gleaned from the apple and plum trees and grape vines, and villagers allowed some of the group to use their wells for water (did I mention how nice people are here?). These churches are true Transylvanian architecture. Maramureş is full of trees, and the people here are known for their carpentry skills. Interestingly, in their home compounds (for lack of a better word) the most decorated feature is the barn door, which is intricately carved, but the county's crowns are their Orthodox churches. The joinery! Wow. Exquisite. And all the churches are unique. The first church we visited was the most amazing to me. It was rebuilt in the late 1600s after a fire destroyed the first one; in the late 1700s (or was it early 1800s?), the entire interior was painted – not a square millimeter was left untouched. The priest was a bit too much for all of us; we think he must not have many visitors. He wrote a 400+ page history of his church; it includes information on a Celtic tomb in the area. Arpad had a hard time concealing his shock – not shock at a Celtic tomb, rather that someone would believe that. He's pretty certain the Celts didn't get this far, but who knows. Obviously the priest does.

Now to the real meat of the story: the rural life! The bus ride to Sibiu took five hours. In that time, I saw the most impressive scenery – impressive in the sense that it was the most memorable part of the entire three day trips. We took an hour detour (on purpose) so that Arpad could show us the most archaic (as he calls it) area of Transylvania. It is in the area between the rivers, and because there are no major rivers, the area is undeveloped. Where to start…well, first, it is really hilly; not mountainous, just hilly. Think the Kansas Flint Hills on steroids, and you might come close. A few hundred years ago, these hills were covered with oak and larch; today, there's maybe a tree here and there. All the wood was used to build houses for feudal lords and their serfs. Tthe landscape was drastically changed by human intervention, and what did these humans do with the leftover land? They started farming, so there are many independent farms all over the area. Here's the incredible thing (to me, anyway): there are no boundary demarcations between crop fields. No hedges, no trees (obviously), no fences, no walls. The farmers just know where their land starts and stops. Arpad told us a local legend that talks about when a child was in need of a good beating, he was marched to the edge of the farmer's property to have the sentence carried out. The idea was that the child would always remember the property lines were. And the fields aren't in tidy little squares, either. They are in strips maybe 20 corn rows across and running from the road straight up a hill meters away. Or sometimes, the crop bed was placed in the area between a railroad track and the road; they plant wherever they can, always leaving one patch of land unplanted (crop rotation). Also, since there are no boundaries to keep the livestock out of the road, the livestock are leashed. That was bizarre: open fields for roaming, but the cows were tethered.

While I was observing all these differences, I noticed a man plowing a field with a hand plow while another led a horse or ox in front. A little further down the road, men were harvesting corn by hand, putting the husks in baskets on their backs; further still, an old man barely vertical, was cutting weeds with a sickle, and a group of women were hoeing a field. We even passed a thatch-roofed house. I felt transported back into a different century in the luxury of an air conditioned bus. It was more surreal than seeing the man with the ox-cart in Rimetea. To see people "toiling" in the land in such ways struck me as both charming and pitiable, but they survive this way, and they were smiling as they watched this bus from the future pass by.

Rimetea

2009-09-06T11:15:00.009-05:00

I fell in love with Transylvania yesterday while visiting the village (town?) of Rimetea (Torocko in Hungarian). I am involved in a two-week field school at my castle that has us trying our hand at carpentry and rendering and visiting neighboring villages to see how preservation really enhances community. Here in Rimetea, the Transylvania Trust has been instrumental is getting the entire place protected as a heritage area, so any demolition/addition must go through review before it is accomplished (or I should say that they are supposed to go through the process). It's the only heritage area listed in Romania (and I suspect that's equivalent to a National Register district). In order to get the community to save its heritage, the Transylvania Trust worked out a deal with the Hungarian government (yes, it's complicated, but this part of Romania used to be a part of Hungary) to give the property owners some money as incentive for restoration. Some people were really skeptical of being handed money, but over the last 10 years, the village has been restored both physically and spiritually.

One thing that was very apparent from the journey to the village was the juxtaposition of progress and tradition. The trip was about 1.5 hours, but it should have only taken us maybe half that time. A motorway is in the process of being constructed in Romania, but for now, the tiny roads between villages are full of potholes and barely seemed wide enough for our bus, pedestrians, horse-drawn carts, and herds of wandering cattle. It's as if the amount of tourism has been steadily increasing more than the infrastructure is able to handle; good for the economy but potentially bad for the landscape. There are debates abounding about how to handle it. Some want the roads to stay small in order not to ruin the landscape, both in the villages and along the route; others see tourism as the current way to survive, and better, wider roads are key. Towns like Rimetea, which was the largest iron producing area in the country from the 14th-19th century, rely on tourism to survive. As a visitor, I would hate that idyllic journey to be turned into the equivalent of I-70: a means to an end, something to endure not to enjoy. But I also have to remember that I am an observer; I don't understand the difficulty of living here and relying on such roads, and I don't believe it's wise to consider the tourist more important than the local. My hope is that countries like Romania can learn from the mistakes of countries who are now asking what to do to combat the effects of the interstates.

This week has been really great. I don't quite understand what's going on as far as my internship is concerned, but I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. That's enough for now. I may have mentioned it, but in case I didn't, I will be conducting a "Heritage Asset Survey" of about 70 properties around Cluj to determine which historic places are at risk of being lost. This project is headed by the Transylvania Trust, but it is in conjunction with the Butrint Foundation (Albania), Cultural Heritage Without Borders (Kosovo/Serbia), and a foundation in Dubrovnik, Croatia that I cannot recall the name of. The idea is to begin to understand the cultural heritage at risk in SE Europe due to other cultures destroying the built heritage of other cultures. It's really a fascinating project, and the field school I am attending is part of the project. All of these countries have sent craftspeople and site managers to the castle to start cross-cultural training; I will be a part of the next facet of this project, and my time at the castle has been eye-opening in terms of the people I've met and their enthusiasm for their heritage. Tomorrow I go back to working on some carpentry joints; Tuesday and Wednesday I'll be rendering, and the rest of the week will give me more chance to day-trip.
End of week two summary: content and expectant.

Bontida Days and Other Things

2009-08-31T03:56:00.004-05:00

I sit here at my office desk all ready to write about the weekend's events, but I find it difficult to know what to write. I'm torn between writing only about the good things and writing about the other, less positive but still real, things that I am experiencing (aka: learning to let go).
The Transylvania Trust has put together a festival for the village of Bontida (where the castle I am living in is located) for the last 8 years, and it happened to fall this past weekend. That meant that Friday was the scheduled day for transforming peaceful Banffy Castle into an event space where Romanian, Hungarian, and Rroma cultures would be celebrated. Needless to say, it was hectic and hot. It was also my birthday: a fact that I had forgotten until I was talking with one of my co-workers who asked my age. Her "happy birthday" was really the only celebrating I did, which I didn't mind so much. I spent the majority of the day trying to help where I could but finding my greatest form of assistance was staying out of the way. I did this by spending the afternoon and evening reading and eating the rest of my Christopher Elbow chocolates I had brought with me.
It is difficult to know my place here at the moment. On the one hand, I know that I have been given the opportunity this first week to watch and observe what is going on around me, but I'm of the disposition that finds I cannot relax when I know (or feel) I'm supposed to be working. On the other hand, I have felt like they are not quite sure what to do with me right now (though I am convinced this will change now that the festival is finished). I have slept in 5 different beds in the week I've been here. I've quickly learned that I am not in charge of my time, my meals, my life: learning to let go. That's not to say that I'm not enjoying myself; I'm just learning how it all works, and there is naturally a bit of pain in the process. I am thankful for provided meals (which have all been tasty), a bed (even if it's not the same one), warm showers, and the luck of befriending the cooks (who now boil water for me in the mornings, so I can make my coffee).
There are also many kind and interesting people here; I am convinced that SE Europeans are the most hospitable and friendly people in Europe, if not the world. Bogi (a co-worker and roommate) and I went out one night last week when I was staying in Cluj. She showed me all around the city (I didn't take any pictures of it yet) and in the process, we met up with some Kosovars we had met at the castle during the last field school. We spent the evening at a cafe laughing and teaching each other non-sensical phrases in English, Romanian, Hungarian, and Albanian. During the weekend festival, Bogi, Aldi (an Albanian here for the summer who is an interpreter), and some gals from the Transylvania Trust spent the weekend sitting at a table, talking, eating mici ("meetch" - like a sausage), drinking beer, and again, laughing (oftentimes at the performers on the stage).
The festival itself was fantastic to witness because it was a celebration of the cultures comprising Bontida: Hungarian, Romanian, and Rroma (Gypsy). There was a lot of dancing and singing. Iulia (Julia), who works for the Transy Trust, asked me yesterday if I miss home yet, and after contemplating for a few seconds, I could honestly answer "no."

Banffy Castle

2009-08-27T06:03:00.003-05:00

Banffy Castle in Bontida, Romania, was built starting in the 14th century. The majority of built work still extant dates to the 17th to 19th centuries. It was still lived in up to the 1940s, at which time the Nazis took it over. On their way out of town in 1944, they set fire to the place, leaving the castle a ruin. During the Communist Era, the castle was used for housing various agricultural functions and was subsequently "restored" (albeit very poorly). After the Communists left, the castle reverted to the family, at which time they contacted the Transylvania Trust about restoration. The TT has been working on Banffy Castle in Bontida, Romania for over 10 years, through the Built Heritage Conservation Centre. They hold a number of field schools at the castle for students to come and learn the craft of restoration, and slowly, the place is being rebuilt.
I was able to witness the last few days of the most recent module (as they call them) where students and professionals from Albania, Romania, Crotia, Serbia, Hungary, and Kosovo were involved in rendering the exterior, carving stones for the cornice and window sills, rebuilding barrel vaults, and creating new trusses for the roof of the main building. It was incredible to witness the skill and excitement exhibited by all these nations. One of the most interesting parts was yesterday when each team presented their work. In the above photo, a Romanian gal is explaining her work in English, while the Albanian guy next to her translates. Further around the circle, Hungarian was also translated. English is spoken so well by most everyone that it became the way the separate countries communicated (lucky me!).
Next week, I will be attending the next module, but I don't have a clue what I'll be doing...

Hoodlum in Harlem

2009-08-25T02:15:00.004-05:00

I sat next to a ten-year old Romanian gal on the flight to Bucharest. When she found out that I was American, she was all for talking. Apparently, she has 4...no 6, passports; stayed at Neverland; is Michael Jackson's biggest fan (she quizzed me); has an i-phone; has a house in New Jersey, Chicago, Miami, Los Angeles, and New York; and does tatooes with markers (see her arm at left). She also, apparently, snuck out of her house in New York to go hang with some hoodlums in Harlem so that she could learn how to GRAffitti (emphasis on first syllable). While with them, she says, they robbed and killed some people. Her favorite movie is Next Friday (did I mention she is 10?), and she was convinced that all Americans know the recipe for making Kool-Aid powder and was upset that I wouldn't share it with her. I'm such a meanie.

I've also uploaded some photos of Banffy Castle, especially for you, Jeroen! Click here.

Delays

2009-08-22T04:55:00.002-05:00

Normally I adore thunderstorms. Yesterday, however, I did not. The one that hovered over Dulles had me sitting on the runway for three hours. Consequently, I missed my connecting flight to Cluj this morning by an hour. It is now noon, and I am sitting in the nice Munich airport waiting for a flight to Bucharest where I will then catch a flight to Cluj to arrvive 10hrs15mins past my original time, thunderstorms permitting. Luckily, I have a ride from the airport tonight, so I feel a lot less on-edge.
Once the flight got on its way, all was well. I sat next to an Albanian-American who was a great seat-mate: not too chatty or too aloof; currently reading Freud and journaling. We shared my almonds and cranberries while talking about Europe. Never got his name, so thanks, Mr. Albania. I also met a gal who was taking her first flight ever; she was so nervous that she was shaking. Gave her some chamomile tea for the flight, but I don't know how she faired during the flight; I hope Ms. 26D is okay. There was also the screaming baby on the flight - the one who knows when you've dozed off and screams. I've never wanted to throw a living thing out the window before. Thank God I was not sitting in a seat that permitted it, the little brat.
So, here I am in Munich. I have food from yesterday that I intended to eat on the flight, but I didn't. This will calm my tummy.

Almost There

2009-08-19T22:32:00.003-05:00

I've been in DC for the past few days before leaving the country. For the returning ICOMOS interns, this has been a time of sharing and debriefing. (I am actually munching on some Swedish candies that look like tiny monkeys and taste like lots of sugar that Kate gave us all. Mmm.) For me, since I am the only intern going in the fall, I'm feeling the urge to just get that flight over with. I have, however, discovered that I do have a place to stay for the month of September (and there was much rejoicing). Csaba says it's a beautiful house designed by a famous Transylvanian architect and that it's in the city. No address yet, but he's working on it. I just perused the Cluj-Napoca International Airport Web site for information on getting into the city, and it seems that there are taxis and buses (number 8 to be exact) that will do the trick. In my perusal, I came across this interesting tidbit: It is forbidden to enter Romanian territory with products of animal origin. Better hide my belt and shoes, then, eh?
Csaba also informed me that he will be in charge of my entertainment while in his city. This is likely due to the list I emailed him a few weeks ago. I'm very interested in going to a Romanian wedding, so I also gave him the task of making friends with someone who's getting hitched. He came through for me. It's not a Romanian wedding, actually, it's Hungarian, but I told him that didn't matter. He knows a friend of the priest who thinks it's okay if we go. I also get to go to a grape-stomping-celebration-type festival in his father's hometown the first weekend in October. And a beer festival where he says there is going to be beer and music. And beer. And music. And beer. And do I eat meat? Then I'll be okay.
Here's hoping someone with a key to the place I'm staying for a month will pick me up at the airport...

Stories from the Archives: Amanda the Bullfighter

2009-08-09T22:44:00.003-05:00

My favorite memory of my time in Kentucky happened last fall. We "had " to go hiking through Lower Howard's Creek for class; no trails at all but lots of scenery and old ruins of mills, stone houses, and old roads.
On the way back, I was trailing behind because I'm slow - looking at trees and making sure I didn't fall on my rear on the uneven terrain. One of my classmates was helping me, and we were just chatting about the area. At one point, we reached a part where we needed to scale the side of the creek to reach the "path." I was clambering up when I grabbed a rock that wasn't secure and sliced my finger open. No problem; we made a tiny tourniquet out of a handkerchief and went on...
...right into a bull paddock. I looked up, and said, "Well, hello bull!" Matt, my guide, said, "Oh crap." "What do we do?" I asked. We had spent a bit of effort scaling a barbed wire fence, which we did a lot on the hike, so going back didn't seem like a good option, especially because we landed in a mud pit. Matt decided we'd just give the bull a large berth, making certain not to look it in the eye. Our large berth took us through some ironweed, and at one point, I looked up to see yet another bull staring at me. I whispered to Matt, "I just looked another one in the eye." By now, the bulls were getting a bit annoyed at our attempts to ignore them. One started snorting and pawing the dirt; the other took off on a sprint right in front of us. Matt had us back up a bit, putting us nearer the creek. We were looking for a good place to cross where our feet wouldn't get too wet, and as I'm walking and looking for just such a nice spot, Matt says, "We're crossing here, and we're doing it right now." The slight panic in his voice along with more intense bull noises seemed to confirm this was a good idea. I jumped into the creek. We were fording the deepest portion of the water, which, okay, was only about shin-deep, but there was mud sucking at my feet while I was ever-anticipating a goring. It was like those dreams where I'm running away from something, and my feet won't move, only I couldn't start flying like I do in my dreams.
I got to the emergency room about 4:30 and was admitted about 5 minutes after signing in. "What excellent service!" I though. When I went into triage, the nurse looked at me puzzled and asked if I was the patient. "Yes, why?" "What's your birth date?" I told her, and she said, "So, you're not a baby." "No, ma'am?" Then I looked down and saw that I had written 2008 instead of my birth year. I think that's why I got in so quickly; I mean, after all, I was slightly embarrassed that I went in for a sliced-open finger. It had stopped bleeding about the time we made our escape from the bull ring, but I just wanted to make sure I got a tetanus shot. An hour later, I was shot and excused.

Five Things

2009-08-03T12:39:00.007-05:00

I sit here with my thesis edits waiting to be finished, looking out over the lawn that needs to be mowed, and thinking how glad I am that in one week, I will be packing a moving van to leave this town. I promised Alison C. that I would try to focus on the positive things that the last two years have brought instead of just rejoicing that I get to leave a place that at times has felt like a prison. So, Alison, this is for you. I've been mulling over the things I will genuinely miss from Lexington and the things that made good memories. Today, I will start by listing the five things I will miss:
1. Alison C. She's kept me sane in the times that I felt like going crazy. Always there with a joke or a story to make me laugh (at times at myself), she's empathized better than anyone could. I will miss her insistence on celebrating every holiday: learning how to blow the guts out of Easter eggs (see her demonstration in the photo at left) and then decorating them with Ruth B.; carving pumpkins in the Big House; giving me way too much sugar for Valentine's Day (for which I was grateful) to remind me that she loves me. I will miss her commentaries as we people-watched certain events we worked. I will miss her frankness. I will miss her!
2. My brother. Two years ago, I took John out for sushi, with the expressed intention of convincing him that he should move to Lexington with me. After the third cup of saki, he was planning his move. It was easier than I thought. He's looked out for me, including helping me get a summer job this year. My only regret is that my promise of finding him a Kentucky woman came true, and he's decided that Lexington is his favorite place now. I can't convince him to move again.
3. The church bells. Once, these bells were out of sync, but they've since been fixed. I like to pretend I lived back in the time period where people relied on the bells.
4. Free rent. 'Nough said.
5. The burgers. Stella's lamb burgers are dream-worthy; Wallace Station's burgers are out of this world (whoever would have thought that olive tapenade, roasted red peppers, goat cheese, and spring greens would create such a yummy burger?); and even Harry's mini burgers are too cute.

Living History

2009-07-29T20:12:00.005-05:00

I had one of those moments today where I knew I was living a very historic personal moment. On the time line of my life that my 23 grandchildren will write for their class projects, this is a node. It will have "29 July 2009" and will say "passed her master's project defense." I am very proud of that node.

Romania Update

2009-07-13T15:28:00.005-05:00

Well, it's officially 29 days until I depart Lexington [pause for a happy dance], so I'm starting to consider my forthcoming Romanian adventure. In order to answer some questions, here's a list of things I know:
-I will be arriving in the Transylvanian town, Cluj-Napoca (Cluj for short; pronounced Cluzh - like the French "j"), on August 22.
-I have a plane ticket out of the same city on November 21 and will be staying one night in Munich before the flight home.
-I will be working with the Transylvanian Trust.
-I will be taking my fellow ICOMOS intern, Csaba, up on his invitation to attend a Romanian festival in his father's town.
-I will have to cross a border somewhere in the trip, in order to not be in Romania more than 90 consecutive days.
-My attempts to familiarize myself with Romanian is almost futile because I think most people speak Hungarian there.
-There are more Roma (aka Gypsies) in Romania that anywhere else.
And here is the list of things I don't know:
-If I have a place to live, where said place is.
-What I will be doing, exactly.
-What books to bring with me. In my free time, I plan to spend time in a cafe with a book (wow am I boring), so I can covertly people-watch. I'm taking novel suggestions (that word has a double meaning). Trying to decide if I want my comfort-books; or if I want to finally read some Henri Nouwen; or if I want to start on some of those on my never-ending list of books-to-read.

Funny that I'm spending more energy thinking about books than I am on my [lack of] housing situation...I have been told to turn off the Midwestern planning/organizing part of my brain. Good advice, Kelly. Where's the switch?

Honest People Rock

2009-07-07T09:29:00.006-05:00

Working retail again. Promised myself...no, pretty much swore to the stars...that I'd never work retail again, but we all know what happens when we claim that we'll never do something. It's really not too bad. My body aches more from standing around for 8 hours on concrete than any other job I've ever had, but other than that, I can't complain.
A few days ago, I was assisting a customer during a transaction at the register. Naturally, he did not want to spend $65 on a piece of lexan, so I advised him to retrieve a sheet of acrylic instead. I had already rung up a couple small tools he wanted and placed them in a bag. While he went to exchange his merchandise, I started ringing-up other customers. When the gentleman came back to finish his purchase, I couldn't find the tools he had left with me. I knew in an instant that I had left them in a bag that had walked out the door with an unsuspecting customer. The gentleman laughed, went back to get more tools, and I went home that night upset that I had made someone's evening brighter by giving away free tools.
Yesterday, a lady came through my line who looked familiar. She said she had been through my line a few days ago and got home with some tools that she didn't purchase. She called the store to inquire if we were giving away free stuff for the Fourth, and when she found out we in fact were not, (on purpose, anyway) she decided to bring the tools back the next time she came. I wanted to hug her and cry. It's not every day that you have such closure on something that is out of your control. I'm grateful for honest people.

Cat Lady

2009-06-29T08:44:00.002-05:00

I suddenly figured out why the lady was speaking to me in endearments yesterday. She's a genuine cat lady, my dear, and, honey, she just can't help speaking like that, my love. I am suddenly reminded of an episode of My Name is Earl...I would post it here, but I can't find it. The end.

RIP Sally (aka the fish formerly known as Lord Byron the Second)

2009-06-13T08:35:00.000-05:00

The little goldfish who lightened so many hearts with her out-going personality and charm, sucked her last gill-full of water yesterday morning. Sally was born to unknown parents in the summer of 2008 (she never knew when her birthday was) and was adopted by a certain redhead we all know. At first, this new fish parent called her Lord Byron the Second and had grand plans for the goldfish to become a great poet. However, this fish rebelled by laying some eggs. Her name was forthwith changed to Sally, and all hopes of a creative-writing future were forever abandoned. Sally then lived happily among the people of her acquaintance, always taking time to express her happiness is seeing a new face. Near the end of her life, she showed signs of depression: hiding from her friends, attempting suicide, and not eating. Though a necropsy will not be performed, the cause of Sally's death is most likely attributed to a broken heart. The attention she had received from her adopted mother was lavished on a four-legged puffball whom Sally resented. Sally is succeeded by an unknown quantity of siblings, one adopted mother (who should be ashamed of herself), and a pet plastic frog, Mary Shelly the Second. Services were held in the upstairs bathroom at 9:00PM last evening, with only her adopted mother and loathed puffball present. Kind words were spoken before the flush.

DC, Baby!

2009-05-30T19:01:00.006-05:00

It is 8:03PM on Saturday night, and do you know where I am? Sitting on my rumpus in the Charlotte airport, during my 4 hour layover back to Lexington from DC, that's where! I know. Jealousy is the obvious reaction. Since I have my thesis with me (and a computer with stupendous wireless internet connections!), I thought I would take this opportunity to write about the last week.*
There are seven interns with US/ICOMOS this year, and while I am waiting to go home, the majority is on their way to their destination for the next 10 weeks. This photo is us interns in front of the White House (photo courtesy of Don Jones) Left to right is Gareth (Jamaica), me (Romania this fall), Kate (Sweden), Jessica (Jamaica), Barbara (Ireland), Csaba (pronounced Chaba. He's here from Romania, and randomly, working with Annie K. this summer!), and Bob (India this fall). Don't let the sunglasses fool you, it pretty much rained the entire time we were there, but we still had a great time meeting with representatives from the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation, Preservation Ac tion, and the National Trus t. Great opp to discuss current issues related to historic preservation. When we weren't meeting with pres peeps, we got to eat. A lot. And a lot of fabulous food. For instance, I had a Moroccan tangine at Hotel Tabard Inn that had goat, kumquats (I'd never had those, so had to try it), Asian pears, and carrots. Fan.tas.tic. I asked Csaba what kind of food I might expect in Romania. He chuckled with an unsettling twinkle in his eye, and said,"Ah! You'll see! Yes; you'll see!" Hm. Bring it. I also told him that I want to go to a Romanian wedding while I'm there. He said he didn't know anyone getting married. I told him he had 10 weeks to work on that. And really, I'm pretty flexible. I'll be there 3 months, so there's plenty of time. He just laughed. I'm pretty certain that meant he didn't take me seriously. Dang it. He did, however, offer to take me to a festival in his father's village the second week of October. I'm so there.
While I do have my flights booked (August 21-November 22), no word yet on housing, other than the advice from last year's intern to Romania: be patient. *sigh. All I really require when I travel is the guarantee of a bed, warm shower, good coffee and food. I'm really not too picky. I also still haven't any idea what my job will be. Csaba said there's a castle the Transylvania Trust is working on (SWEET) that I might get to work on too. There was mention of driving, too, so I think I might be needing to borrow a manual transmission this summer. Any offers?? Despite (or is it in spite?) of the unknowns, I'm comforted by knowing that last year's intern a) returned in one piece; b) didn't return in a body bag; c) said it was an incredible experience. Oh well, there are 10 weeks to work all of that out...and finish a thesis...and some drawings from last summer, and...
*defiant look to all you who are shaking your heads at my procrastination.

Stir and Refrigerate

2009-05-02T15:33:00.007-05:00

I love peanut butter, yes I do (I love peanut butter how 'bout you?). I've pretty much been living on it these last two years. But I'm quite particular about the kind I buy. I don't necessarily have a preferred brand (well, that's not true...I really like Kettle because the jar is cool and the pb is extra creamy, but for some reason, I can't find that brand here in Lexington). Crunchy is fantastic, but for pb&j's, it's just too irritating to try to spread on the bread. Creamy all the way, baby. I made the switch to natural pb a few years ago because I have this expectation that when I go to buy it, peanuts should be the main ingredient. Some brands think that the poor little peanut is too lonely by itself, so they add sugar, corn syrup (high fructose or no), and preservatives. Silly peanut butter people; don't you know that the sugar comes from the jelly on the pb&j? Anyway, so creamy, natural (my kitten just tooted while sitting on my lap. It stinks.) peanut butter. I kinda always hate opening a new jar, though. There's that layer of peanut oil that is so hard to mix in with the butter. (Thanks to Julie C. I now know that draining the oil is a bad idea. Leaves a tacky paste that is more difficult to spread than crunchy pb.) The last trip to the store, I had to get some more, and when I picked up this jar, I swore the top was made just for me. "Stir and refrigerate." A-ha! All these years, I have been putting the jar in the fridge before stirring. I followed the directions, and voila: extra creamy pb like I haven't had in forever! Amazing! So, now you know something that is probably very obvious that wasn't so much to me.

More Nellie Pics

2009-04-24T13:22:00.006-05:00

More proof of my kitty's cuteness (the black one is Wrigley, my friend Alison's kitty I'm watching for a week; she and Nellie are sisters):

Nellie

2009-04-19T10:53:00.005-05:00

I may not have a fully working computer yet, but I will have a kitten by the end of the week! Meet my little Nellie, and tell me if she's not the cutest thing EVER...actually, no, I don't want to hear it if you don't think she's the cutest thing ever. She's named for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in KC (topic of my yet-to-be-finished-but-so-close thesis) and for one of KC's first (and most prolific) female architects, Nelle (Nellie) Peters.

[fuming]

2009-04-13T11:15:00.009-05:00

I may not be a rat, but i have a mug of coffee and a fuming cloud above my head, so two out of three isn't bad. I am feeling that my instincts about the evils of technology are spot-on. I received my first laptop computer last Tuesday - NOT EVEN A WEEK AGO. This is the first computer I have purchased since my third year of college 7.5 years ago. All you people (PATRICK!) who made fun of my 40GB, 256MB RAM desktop? Yeah, I blame you entirely for this. That poor old thing STILL works and is faster and more reliable than my less-than-one-week-old new fangled laptop that I really want to love....*sigh, sniff, sniff

So, what's the problem, you ask? Well, after spending three hours on the phone Saturday between my ISP and Dell in Hyderabad, India (I asked; he was friendly enough, and we talked about the palace there that was recently restored, Slumdog Millionaire, and how hot 40 degrees really is), we came to the conclusion that the reason I have painfully slow internet service is because my freaking motherboard is bad. Kaput, as they say in the German. I started crying; it was my last card to play, and I never play it on purpose. He quickly scheduled (I'm talking Monday at 11AM) a Dell technician to come to my little house with a brand new motherboard and the ability to fix the problem. Great.

After waiting for twenty minutes this morning, I decided to call Dell to inquire where this phantom technician and motherboard might in fact be. Ten minutes later, I am again talking to someone in India (she had a "wery" good accent; she reminded me of Adi, so that made me feel better), who informs me my motherboard is still "in transit," so I will need to call the technician myself to determine the status. Okay; fine; whatever; enjoy your chai. [hitting head against wall multiple times while screaming] [laying on floor unconscious because of reaction to frustration] [waking up and realizing I'm still frustrated, so laying on stomach hitting fists on pillow and kicking legs while screaming like a little kid throwing a tantrum because she didn't get her way...which I never did, oh no, not me....] Soooooooooo, tell me this. Why in heaven's name would you ask a person when she would like a Dell technician to come service her computer, and then NOT send someone to service or have technician call to give an order status? Huh; huh; why???? Stupid &(&#(&$%%&*.

So after my tantrum, I call the technician peeps, who also happen to be in India, but this guy is a schmuck - a REAL load of enthusiasm oozing customer-service-representative-of the-year mojo all over the place (that was "wery" heavy on the sarcasm) - and tells me, in between yawns and scoffing snorts, that the Dell distribution number I gave him is not correct. I retorted with a snorting scoff; figured I'd try speaking his language. He then, most condescendingly, looked it up via my zip code and told me that my distribution number was different. Thanks, jerk; we've established that fact. When I asked him to repeat it so I could write it down, he laughed and said, "Why not?"

I'll tell you "why not" you scoffing Indian punk [more yelling and throwing of objects within reach]. He finally looks up what's going on with my order and said the same thing Dell said, telling me that I have to call THEM back at the end of the day to figure out when a new technician can come fix my computer. I scoffed again, and I asked most sarcastically, knowing the answer, "Wouldn't it make more sense for YOU to call ME back when in fact you actually have said new motherboard and technician all ready to go??" "Oh, no. YOU have to call US. Anything else?" Oh yeah, there's a lot more, but I'd be arrested. "No, I just want my computer fixed." "Have a [YAWNING] good da...[click]." So, welcome to the 21st century, Amanda: where technology is great but unusable.

(all Pearls Before Swine cartoons are property of Stephan Pastis, who is a freaking genius.)

Guess I'll Stay Put...For Now

2009-04-06T09:38:00.006-05:00

After much thought and sleepless nights, I decided to postpone my running away from Lexington until August. I know; I know. It's shocking, but I'm so close to finishing my thesis [at least it looks that way on paper - I'm at 61 pages! - even if I still feel like it's never-ending] that if I left, I'd be 50 before it was finished. So, I'm staying here and hopefully working at a mindless job to help my brain and wallet recover from the last two years before heading to Romania in the Fall. I had planned an elaborate sandal-shaking ceremony on my way out of town, but I've had a change of heart. This summer, I plan to actually try enjoying myself. Perhaps I will even learn judo in order to threaten any creeps that the warm weather decides to produce this year. A few jabs in the eye and some pepper spray in the throat ought to teach 'em a lesson, I'd think. In the meantime, I will sit by my window, looking at the budding trees and...oh wait, it's raining and cold right now...never mind.

Update: ROMANIA!

2009-03-26T17:41:00.004-05:00

I'm glad that I wrote yesterday because now I have some REAL news to share: I'm going to Romania next Fall with ICOMOS (see link in yesterday's entry).!! I'll know soon when I will be leaving and coming back, but my best guesses are mid-late August through beginning-mid December. I'll be in Cluj-Napoca in Transylvania (northern Romania), tucked north of the Transylvania Alps and west of the Carpathian Mountains, and I'll be working with the Transylvania Trust Foundation. I don't know what my exact job will be, but I do know it will be preservation related.
The CIA Factbook has everything you need to know about the country! I did find out that this November/December is their big election, and as of 2007, they are EU members. 2.5 lei = $1.
As far as offers go to give me old jeans and American cigarettes to sell, I think I'll pass, and if the water fountains really flow with vodka, I'll be sure not to fall in after drinking from one...

Waiting, waiting, kitty?

2009-03-25T18:37:00.005-05:00

I finally figured out why I've been so anxious lately. While trying to focus on writing the rest of my master's project (I'm at 23 pages!), I'm also waiting to find out where the next 6 months will find me. Since the economy took a nose dive, my job prospects did too, but not to worry. I'm still okay with temporary jobs in my field.

I reapplied to the Historic American Buildings Survey (HABS) for this summer. I had the chance to work for them the summer after graduating Kansas State, and it was pretty much the most awesome job description ever: measuring and drawing an old structure. I find out any day now whether or not I've been rehired. This means that soon, I'll find out where I'll be living the summer months. Could anything be more exhilarating than the thought of crawling around an old building with a tape measure, a pencil, and some graph paper?! I think not...

Well, maybe if that job involved a trip overseas! This is another job I'm waiting to hear back about. I found out a few weeks ago that I was short-listed for the Fall internship. I don't have a clue where it would take place, but I imagine somewhere warm and not in the US or Antarctica. They told me I'd know by March 31...only...six days from today! I'd be working with The International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) in some preservation-related field.

In the meantime, I'm waiting to find out if I'm going to be the new owner of this adorable little creature!**

It's about 2 weeks old (too young to know its gender); a friend is needing to find homes for the kittens, and I'm a sucker. I'm taking name suggestions. So far, I've gotten Sparrow (after Captain Jack, which itself then became another name idea), Prague Metro station names (Staromeska, Mustek, Malostranska), Artemis, Willie (after Willie the Wildcat). Suggestions?

I'm also waiting for my master's project to write itself, but I don't think that's likely to happen. I suddenly feel like Calvin...maybe I'll name the kitten Hobbes.

**sheepish grin heh, heh. Hi Parents. I know what you're thinking; yes I'm crazy, and not if I can find someone else to cat-sit for a few months next Fall. ;)

Plants

2009-03-16T18:38:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, I made an Indian dish that required lentils. It was quite tasty. A few mornings later, I noticed that one of the uncooked lentils had ended up in the sink strainer, and it had sprouted. Not wanting to kill any life it may have, I put the sprouted seed in a pint-sized Shatto milk bottle. That thing GREW, so today, I decided to continue the experiment. I dug out some old pots, put in some organic potting soil, and planted that sucker. I then planted some seeds I harvested from an heirloom tomato last summer (in a separate pot). I'm scared to put these outside just yet - don't want the frost or the hoards of squirrels to damage my goods, so they are sitting in my kitchen window. Here's a picture of my lentil plant! I named it Lennie. Heh heh heh. Funny thing is that anytime I try to get something to grow, it dies. That's why I like weeds. They grow without any effort from me.

One Good Thing About Daylight Savings Time

2009-03-08T10:05:00.003-05:00

The bells in the church tower down the street miraculously reset themselves at 2:00am this morning. I almost cried. Instead, I did a happy dance. I feel slightly less annoyed today because of those bells. Usually I'm pretty grumpy at being forced to give up the hour I was given in the fall, but this annoyance has been mitigated by the taming of the bells. Now I can stop doing math in the middle of the night to figure out the time. (For anyone who is counting, that was 39 days of out-of-sync bells.)

Random Thoughts for the Day

2009-03-03T21:01:00.008-06:00

- "I really should be working on my thesis."
- "Crap! I've killed my fish! No....wait, she turned back over; wait, there she goes again! Op, she's trying to stay alive. Maybe I should leave."
- "I can't wait to have a normal life again."
- "What are you talking about?"
- "I didn't know robins flocked! Do robins flock or do they gaggle? What do you call a hoard of robins?"
- "Should I get the pecan pancakes or the omelet of the day when I'm eating at Blue Bird in a few weeks? The pancakes....but that omelet! But the pecans! Yeah, but the omelet - with a biscuit and homemade jam! But that syrup on the pancakes! I wonder if I should give up caffeine."
- After laughing hysterically watching last week's Kath&Kim episode, "I sure have been laughing uncontrollably a lot lately; is that bad?"
- "Why are my smile wrinkles more prominent on the left? Do I have a crooked smile?!?!"
- "I bet he sits down with the text book and a glass of red wine - maybe with a stogie - the evening before class and practices his Groucho Marxisms on his wife. I bet that's really what's written in his 'journal' there..." (This is when I realized the prof was looking at me looking at him, and the only thing I heard was, "You're staring at me with a glazed-over look..." heh heh)
- "Does anyone who listens to this classical station really care about EKU basketball? I think not."
- "My tap water smells like feet."
- "So, that thesis...."
- "IS THAT A SPIDER?!?!" After staring for 20 minutes at the silhouette of peeling paint behind the stack in my bathroom (see the legs?! Right there, to the left of the knuckle of the stack. See them?), I determined that it was indeed peeling paint and not the tarantula who built a web right there last summer while I showered. A call to my brother and half of a 1970s can of Raid later, the only thing I was certain was dead were brain cells. Needless to say, I live in perpetual fear of her return....

Speeches

2009-02-24T21:40:00.001-06:00

"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him."

How Painting is like Writing a Thesis

2009-02-21T21:11:00.003-06:00

I should be writing my thesis right now, but I procrastinate. This project has been like painting a house - a house that has more additions than Roland Burris has excuses. This isn't one of those McMansions, either. It's a House of Seven Gables, with nooks and crannies, centuries of wallpaper and doors hidden behind new walls. New as in added after the house was built in the 1600s but before we were free of the Brits. And the windows in the house are so old and small that light barely penetrates into the depths of the dark manse. It is in this dark inner room that I start preparing the house for fresh paint. I can't see well; I don't know where to begin taking off non-historic wallpaper; I have to worry about lead powder from the layers of paint; where there is plaster, I have to figure out how to repair it; oh, and the floor? Yes. That's gone in half of the room, so I need to fix that too. All I want to do is paint; however, in order to paint, I need to prepare the house for the new paint, but I'm unsure how to do that.

All I want to do is write this monster, but I'm still fumbling with the plaster, as it were.

Poor Jane

2009-02-18T18:16:00.003-06:00

What's next? First, I heard there was a book recently written entitled Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. This book is "authored" by Seth Grahame-Smith, who had the audacity to put Jane Austen's name as a co-author, as if she intended zombies to be part of the plot. THEN! Today, I heard NPR's story that there will soon be a movie out with the title Pride and Predator. Looking closer, I found this article in the New York Times that explains that yet another travesty is out called Jane Bites Back!
Have we really reached a point in our "culture" where 11 year old boys are allowed to ruin literature? It's book slander! If some people think Austen's novels have been done to death, it doesn't mean they need to come back as zombies. This is doing Austen's work to death.
Of course, I'm pretty sure that Elizabeth Bennet is more than capable of kicking some alien/zombie rear as well as she did Lady Catherine's, but some things should never be tried.

Digital Camera

2009-02-17T21:08:00.009-06:00

I am a hypocrite. I claimed more than once over the past 10 years that I would not buy a digital camera. I proved myself wrong yesterday. Class projects are much easier this way. However, I have not discontinued my support of the dying film industry. Did you know that Best Buy no longer even sells real cameras? Sad times we live in when children will never know the smell of film. It was bad enough when blue printing went out of style. *sigh. I'll keep taking film photos as long as I can afford the film, but here are some photos I took today with my new camera! Click here to see more.

Oh the Bells, Bells, Bells!

2009-02-09T19:19:00.004-06:00

One of the (five) things I actually like about Lexington has now become quite unbearable to my simply-ordered life. I live near a late 19th century church whose bells rang (please note the past tense) precisely on the hour. I smiled every time I heard them, whether at night or day because the regularity was comforting. All of this tranquility ended abruptly at 9:26AM January 28th, to be exact. That was the day God (aka: ice) shut-off the power to the entire state of Kentucky. Until January 28th, I liked pretending that there was a deaf, lovable, if a bit eccentric, hunchback who rang the bells religiously (pun slightly intended) and lived in the tower of the church. However, unless this hunchback is precisely off by 5 hours and 11 minutes every hour, my dream world just fell apart. Alas, there is no hunchback. For that matter, there aren't even any bells, just an electronic historical reproduction. Cheap. The hourly pleasure of exact time-keeping has been exchanged for an hourly disorientation. Am I the only one who notices? Thirteen days, people; THIRTEEN! This has now become like a whole drawer full of wrongly-folded underwear. My consolation is that, like the underwear, which will eventually be refolded, the "bells" will eventually be reset. The only question is when.

Percentages

2009-02-04T22:24:00.003-06:00

I spent an amount of time this morning (an amount that I am not comfortable disclosing) trying to figure out how to manually "de-tax" prices in the shop. Pages of notepads were filled with increasingly ridiculous formulae until I finally gave up. While eating lunch, it suddenly came to me:

example 1.1
$5.30 = x(tax) + x
If tax is equal to 6%, which it is, then: $5.30 = x(.06) + x or $5.30 = 1.06x, so when I divide 5.30 by 1.06, I get $5.00! Bingo!

All this is to illustrate that I tend to over analyze everything. It also confirms that I really was a nerd in middle school.

Go Car! San Francisco

2009-01-26T09:38:00.006-06:00

Oh the Go Car! We totally did it. Elli had wanted to try them out since she first saw them, but since Chris thought they were too dangerous, I agreed to go with her. These little three-wheeled, 55cc (what does that even mean?), 35mph-governed, fiberglass cars are actually street legal! Needless to say, there were a few screams as I tried to figure out to drive without pedals or mirrors. The mirror on Elli's side was broken, and mine reminded me of the mirrors in rest stops: a piece of reflective metal that shows a vague shadow.
San Francisco is hilly, and there were a couple times I thought Elli might have to get out and push, but we mastered it...well, until we got lost. Our GPS tour guide stopped talking to us, so we drove by the Painted Ladies three times to see if it would reset. It did not. Elli then pulled out the map and brilliantly directed us back to the garage. We only had to use one busy street. Buses almost ran over us; cars were honking, and we were intermittently screaming and laughing, but we made it.
I think we should do it again; you know, complete the tour. We were only in it for three hours.

Curbed Toilet

2009-01-17T23:48:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, I called Handyman to see if he would remove the toilet from our garbage can. To me, a porcelain toilet is a “bulky item,” so I called the city to figure out how best to dispose of it, thinking it would require special removal. They said to just set it on the curb, and the trash guys would get it, but to make sure it was out of the Herbie (I don’t get why, but whatever). The lady I talked to told me to check the new city Web site to see when our next trash day was, and it said that we had trash service every day but Sunday. I should have known this wasn’t true because I don’t ever remember seeing a trash truck on Saturday. Anyway, after the call to the city, I called Handyman and asked if he’d take care of it. He came this morning, put it on the curb, and the trash truck never came. My neighbors nicely covered up the throne with old Christmas decorations in an attempt to help it blend in with the surroundings. It didn't do anything for it. So now there is a toilet sprouting evergreen sprigs sitting at the entrance to my house. The best part is that since Monday is a holiday, it will be out there until Tuesday night. I'm debating whether or not to try to move it. If I move it, I might injure myself, and Handyman's work was in vain. Calling Handyman back would be too embarrassing, but so is leaving it. Evergreen sprigs or not, one cannot really ignore a curbed toilet. Silly me for thinking the new city Web site would be accurate. Lovely.

Squirrelsicle

2009-01-16T16:35:00.004-06:00

There once was a short-tail'd squirrel
who ran and screamed and buried
walnuts. But what in the world
is this? It seems he froze during
the cold last night. Poor squirrel.

Smiles

2009-01-15T19:12:00.003-06:00

I like smiles. Usually, that is. I like smiling; I like songs about smiles; I like experimenting with various types of smiles. There's the "you really must be an idiot" smile; the "golly, I'm really happy right now" smile; the "please. stop. you are embarrassing me" smile; the "gee officer, was I really going that fast?" smile; the "you know you want to give me a free coffee" smile... (You know you just practiced).
What I don't like are the lecherous smiles of smarmy humans or the impenetrable-meaning smiles of strangers. This last category started all of this because twice today I received the smiles of people I really don't know. Let's just say for the record that I know maybe 20 faces in this little town. I know who I know, and I know I don't know you even if you think you know me.
Classes started today (really just one). I glanced through the glass as I was opening a door on campus and watched a person who I guar-an-tee I do not know, smiling, "Oh wow! I haven't seen you all semester! Welcome back!" I returned the overly excited smile with a smirking "you really don't know me, but I'll humor you anyway, poor chap." He looked confused; I tried my best to make it easy for him to realize his error, and felt a tinge - just a tinge - of pity at the falling face as I kept walking.
This evening, I was in line at the store, and as I was paying, I happened to look at the lady behind me. She was beaming. At me. I always assumed that smile type was reserved for the recipient of a parent's effervescent pride. You get them at major embarrassing life moments: first poo, first day of school, graduation, release from prison for good behavior. However, I'm fairly certain this woman is not my mother, but she was showering me with a bit too much pride for my comfort all the same. I think I even turned red, and returned her Beam with a shrugged "thanks, but really, it's only two reams of paper and a notebook." All the while, the cashier keep glancing between me and the woman with a raised left upper lift and squinched-up eyebrows. Maybe she works for the paper company? Maybe she invented the packaging of the reams? Maybe she had plastic surgery or Botox and is now unable to ever look anything but proud of everyone? Now that I think of it, would that be such a bad thing - to smile "I'm so proud of you!" beams to every stranger you see? Well, yes, I think it would, actually. I mean, let's say you actually saw someone steal candy from a baby. Think about it. Some actions do not merit the Beam of Pride.
When I got home, I checked in the mirror to make sure I was "in order." With the exception of a few scatic-y hairs, I looked like my normal self, so I just smiled, "some people are weirder than I am" at the reflection.

Chris tmas Ornaments

2008-11-30T18:28:00.012-06:00

I spent last Friday night tree-trimming. I must stress the fact that I have never, to the best of my recollection, bought a single ornament for myself in my life. One of the best things about decorating the tree is remembering the people who gave the ornaments. I especially adore the handmade ones. Here are a few:

Grandma cross-stitched the tree and made that tree skirt too; one of my former co-workers made the little birdhouse. A few years ago, I bribed some friends with dinner if they'd come over and make me some ornaments. It was easier than I imagined. Annie made the lovely Kansas State University inspired one, using masking tape, foil, and purple construction paper. Chris made the tree. He said something about being inspired by his art students.

Tales from the Archives: Scrabble in Prague

2008-11-19T08:42:00.008-06:00

My roommate, Erica, and I started playing Scrabble almost every night before bed when we were in Prague. That sentence right there may seem to prove that my study-abroad experience wasn't exactly typical, whatever typical means. Erica creamed me every time we played, but I just kept going back for more.

At the end of May, one of the Scottish gals decided to have an 80s party before having 80s parties were cool (we Americans are so far behind). This party was to take place around 10PM, just about the time Erica and I settled in for our nightly Scrabble-fest, but we decided it sounded like a good time. We scavenged around for 80s attire: too-big sweatshirts, torn up jeans, and of course, the side pony tail. Annie, Erica, and I not being too high-maintenance were ready to go in about 20 minutes, but our roommates took hours to get fixed-up. By the time we left the dorm, it was close to 11PM, and my enthusiasm for being surrounded by ridiculously dressed college students listening to the Bengals was waning fast.

The party was in one of the dorms that required extensive public transportation to reach. When we reached the bus stop, we had to wait for another 20 minutes for another bus, and in that amount of time, a few in our group were solicited by drunk Czechs. They declined, of course. For whatever reason, the bus we finally boarded was insanely crowded for so late at night, and my side pony tail kept getting in the way of the people standing next to me. I didn't understand much Czech, but I think looks are universal. They seemed to say, "There's a reason the 80s went out of style." I couldn't agree more. Side pony-tails give your head an uneven balance, making me wonder if that's where the "dumb blonde" stance originated: the weight of the hair pulling the head to one side. Add in the obnoxious gum chewing, and a new stereotype is born. Lucky for me, my hair wasn't blonde, and I wasn't chewing gum. All of this I was thinking when we finally reached our destination.

Annie, Erica, and I, along with our respective flat mates, descended to the dorm en masse. After a few minutes hall-wandering, we finally found the right room by following the music. When the door opened, a plume of purple smoke smacked us in the face. Erica and I just looked at each other. Annie went to get a drink in the vending machine down the hall; Erica and I went with her, only we didn't go back. As we were leaving the dorm, still attired in our 80s gear, I took down my pony tail, turned to Erica and asked, "So, you wanna play some Scrabble?" She beat me again.

Lord Byron the Second

2008-11-13T08:36:00.005-06:00

This is my goldfish, Lord Byron the Second, who shall not be confused with the romantic, nineteenth century poet; even though, he had a portrait done in imitation of Lord Byron the First. While Lord Byron the Second occasionally gives kisses, he has yet to produce any written work. I think the wet paper might be an issue. Well, and the fact that he doesn't have opposable thumbs. Or hands, really. What he does have, though, is gas. Bubbles from both ends; it's quite cute.

Michigan J Frog and Gas

2008-11-06T21:44:00.005-06:00

One embarrassing aspect of my life is what I like to call my "Michigan J. Frogs." Take, for example, the problem of the flooding bathtub this summer. Each time I would turn on the shower, my bathroom would flood. The evidence was all around, but it took three separate visits by the repairman to convince him I wasn't dumping pails of water on the floor for fun.

Tonight, instead of homework, I decided to do a bunch of cooking. I heated up leftover chicken and roasted sweet potatoes and squash; put the chicken bones in the stock pot to boil down for stock; put more squash in the oven to bake for squash soup; and began making a dark chocolate orange torte. At one point, I opened the oven door to check the doneness of the squash, and while I stabbed the chunks, I heard a pop that sounded like my dish exploded. Only my dish didn't explode. Holding my fork, I stared at the stove to see orange flames licking the bottom of my stock pot. It was then that I decided I should probably turn off the gas. I called the gas company, and within 20 minutes, Wayne was poking around in my oven. I explained what had happened, and that I didn't smell any gas. He stared at it for a long time too. Then he played with the knobs, shook his head, and gave me that look I am too familiar with that said, "Lady, you're crazy." I laughed awkwardly and shrugged my shoulders.

To humor me and because it was time for his break, he sat in his van and told me that if it happened again, to come get him immediately. He had just dozed off when I tapped on his window with an apologetic smile. He jumped out of the van, ran two steps, and fell flat on his face. I forgot to warn him that the curb likes to trip people. Poor Wayne. I'm not only crazy, but I must be trying to kill him. He played with the oven some more while I grabbed the medicine bag. And of course, nothing happened. After the Neosporin and half a box of band-aids were applied quite liberally by me to his hand, he wished me luck and fled. I shrugged my shoulders again, and went to open the oven door, which fell out of my hand this time. It wasn't a gas line break; the springs on my 1960s Franklin apparently decided they didn't want to be springs anymore.

Poor Wayne. I can't decide if it was a good thing to tell him that this was the second time this week I've called his company. I had smelled gas on Saturday, and since it had gotten worse around four, I decided I should probably have someone come inspect. I smelled it by my furnace and water heater. I figured a pilot light had gone out, and Amanda doesn't do that. Stoves I can handle, but not those things. An hour after calling the gas company, a very kind yet obviously frazzled lady showed up to inspect my problem. Her gas detector went crazy, and all I could think was, "I'm not the only one!" She inspected the pilots on the water heater and furnace, but they were lit. She stared at them for a while, then said she would just check the stove in the other room. One minute later I heard an exasperated sigh, and when I went in to console her, I found her lighting a match. She had left a gas emergency a few blocks away to relight my stove's pilot light.

I just didn't know what to say, so I offered her my leftover Halloween candy. She just stared at me.

Halloween

2008-11-03T22:17:00.010-06:00

Fridays are my days to play in the yard. We have lots of trees, though, and that means lots of leaves. This year, it also means lots of black walnuts. When I moved down here a little over a year ago, Kentucky was in the midst of a drought, which everyone blamed for the poor walnut crop. Oh for another drought. Our tree decided to be extra generous this year. Last week, I collected 1-50 gallon bin + 3 yard waste bags full of mostly walnuts. This week, I collected 1-50 gallon bin + 6 yard waste bags. I would bake something with them if it wasn't for the fact that they taste like mold. If I want mold, I eat cheese.

Here are pictures taken by one of my neighbors of my four hours in the yard. You'll notice the lack of a hard hat on my head. This was something I thought about after the squirrel barrage. One squirrel had particularly good aim. He not only beaned me in the head, but would throw the walnuts down into the yard waste bag I had set up. I thought that was helpful.

If you want to know what the yard looked like Saturday morning, look at the preceding pictures again, and pretend I'm not in them. I wonder if They make a walnut picker-upper that works like the golf ball picker-uppers. If They don't, They need to.

I was supposed to go to a Halloween party after walnut harvesting, but I was too exhausted. Instead, I had heard a rumor that there was supposed to be a Thriller parade, and I decided to see what that was all about. I was expecting a few people on a sidewalk, dancing like Michael Jackson, but when I walked downtown, Main Street was closed, and everyone and their dogs (literally) were down there dressed up. Over 200 people had practiced for who knows how long to be a zombie in the parade. I felt so under dressed.