Archives: June 2004
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Kara and I are lame. We took a bus to Savannakhet, Laos in hopes of gradually making our way to the Vietnamese border over the next two days. The buses in Laos are... um... interesting, and we thought that cutting up at 12 hour journey into two six-hour journeys could be a better way of going about things.
The trouble is that the bus system here is minimal. Upon arrival, we went to our lovely guesthouse (literally a bedroom in this nice family's home... at the equivalent of $2.50 a night) and enjoyed the small town of where we're staying by walking along the Mekong river and having a beer on a patio.
The next day - yesterday - we went to inquire about leaving on a bus to head towards Vietnam. It turns out that those buses only leave every even-numbered day of the month at 8 am. This means we has missed the bus that morning. So, instead of leaving as planned, we are leaving tomorrow - a whole two days longer than we planned on staying in town.
This means we've gotten to know this place pretty well. The people are absurdly friendly... they yell hellos and how are yous from their front stoops whenever we walk by. For all their niceness, though, we're ready to motor. There's not much by way of dining (we've frequented the same two restaurants on numerous occasions) and we're covered the entire place on foot several times over.
Although we are both big fans of Laos - and especially of the people who live here - we're ready to move on to the Vietnamese portion of our trip. There's only so much small-town Laos fun to be had.
Our first stop in Vietnam: the beach.
Just a quick note. Kara and I arrived safe and sound, with as little difficulty as can be expected when one flies for over 20 hours. We actually found one another at the baggage claim before going through customs, more or less stumbling into one another. It was handy, and a great way to start the journey.
Kara and I have spent the last day and a half wandering around Bangkok... a city we enjoy (great shopping, it's insane) but feel ready to leave. I had been told by several people that Bangkok is dirty and scummy, but we have both marveled at how clean it is here. The people are friendly and this has been the perfect place to transition into travel mode. Nonetheless, it dawned on both of us that we don't feel that the city life is what we're after, so we are taking the night train to Laos this evening. After we cross the border in the morning, we'll most likely spend a day or so in the capital (Vientiane) and then head up to the surrounding villages for the days following.
That means, probably, no internet. But we may be able to stop in the northern town of Luang Prabang, where we think we'll spend Saturday.
We slept (poorly) in our first guesthouse. Our verdict: don't take the guesthouses next to blasting rap music, and we're going to need our own bed sheets. Still, we've both managed to recover from our excessive jet lag in one evening. We're thankful that we're young and can bounce back so quickly... we managed to stay up until 10:00 last night (even though neither of us slept on the plane) and, although we both spent two hours in the middle of the night wide awake (not the same two hours, unfortunately), we slept from 4-10 am without any difficulty.
We're feeling good today and are looking forward to what tomorrow brings.
Well, I'm as ready as I'm going to be.
I'm excited, but I have to admit that I'm a lot bit sad about leaving The Boy. His normal bravado has disappeared and he's become truly glum. I've gotten tears in my eyes on two or three occasions at the thought of a five-week span without him. This is pathetic. I can't believe I've become that girl. Anyway, we're off to dinner this evening to spend my last remaining hours in Europe together before the long flight.
I think I've just got a bit of the jitters. I'd be lying if I said I didn't. I'm just worried about missing my bed, my shower, my friends, and my man. I'm also really hoping I won't be entirely cut off from the news, because that's one habit I just can't crack. But, missing things comes with the territory when you travel, and I suppose it just means that things are good enough back home to be worth pining over when away. That can't be a bad thing.
I'm all packed. My backpack - already considerably smaller than my previous bag brought to Europe - is only half full. Kdogg's bag is even smaller than mine, so I figure we'll have some communal spillover space on my side. I'm fine with that. For right now, the bag is ultra-light and certainly manageable. I'm impressed with my ability to streamline. I've somehow mastered the skill over the years, one of the few things I can honestly say I'm good at.
I believe I've closed up shop in Paris to the best of my abilities. Last night was a lovely dinner with The Girls to say farewell for now. Kathypath and I won't see one another for over two months, due to poor planning and general stupidity on our part. Omar is fortunately still going to be in Paris when I get back, so we'll get to spend more quality time together. And Beccarah should be back in Paris before I get home at the end of July.
This morning, my flight company informed me of a change in schedule via email. Apparently this is normal with Vietnam Airlines. I'm only getting in an hour later than expected, which isn't tragic. On the return flight, however, a two-hour layover has turned into a ten-hour one. I'm not too thrilled about that. Ten hours in the Hanoi airport? Jaysis.
In the end, I've got my journal, books, glasses, and Tylenol PM ready for the flight over. This will be the first time I fly without music, and I can't believe I'm attempting such a feat on such a long flight. Still, I've gotten in a lot of practice flying since graduating high school, so I'm not too worried. Just like my mama raised me, I have a fair amount of literature to keep me occupied. For 20 hours.
Tomorrow morning, I know I am going to be a babbling idiot when it's time to say goodbye to The Boy. In the interest of self-protection, he usually makes some asshole comment before my departures like, "It's not a big deal. You won't be gone long." This usually has the reverse effect of comforting him but upsetting me. I know he's just trying to play cool when he says it, but it makes me feel that my leaving is of little importance to him. This time, however, his cool has already started fraying. That makes leaving a bit more miserable. I have to admit to a fair amount of guilt: I hate to think of him tinkering around the house and sleeping alone. I guess that just means I love him.
There you have it. To all my friends and family: I LOVE YOU! I'll be thinking of everyone and sending along updates as much as possible. Have a great couple of weeks and I'll be in touch!
Hugs and kisses all around,
L
When I took Omar to the Sorbonne today, I heard a man unsuccessfully trying to get a French girl to tell him where to find a good classroom.
"Where can find teacher... lecture... for photo?"
She blinked at him. Omar and I were several steps beyond, and I slowed down the pace.
"Do you think I should intervene?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"You can find some good ones this way," I called out, motioning to him to follow us.
He quickly abandoned the conversation with the Frenchie and called his friend along, "Come Monsieur, c'mon. This way. Thank you! Thank you!" he said.
We led him to a beautiful room with very ornate walls. I learned later that this is where French people go in front of the jury for their doctorate. Great minds have passed through. We just wanted to help these guys take a picture.
"Where are you from?" he asked us, in what was better English than he had been using in the hallway.
"We're American," I answered.
"Oh! American. An interesting country. Our country has 130,000 Americans in it now. Can you guess where we are from?"
...
"IRAQ!" he said, and his friend nodded his head. They weren't kidding.
So we spent the next ten minutes talking about the war, taking pictures of Sammi and Carlosh (no idea if those are spelled right). Carlosh took a picture with Omar at the podium in the center of the amphitheater, shaking her hand and declaring "To the end of the occupation!"
Interestingly, they were both happy that the Americans had come in. In sum, they felt that it was great Saddam was gone, but that Americans had since made some poor decisions. Still, they are glad to see change in their country and are looking forward to the day when full control will be handed over. They asked what Americans think about the war, and without getting into details, Omar wisely responded, "They're worried."
They nodded solemnly in agreement. "Yes, it's very difficult. But Iraqis were glad to see the Americans arrive. They just don't want them to stay."
It was surreal. What were we doing - two Americans and two Iraqis - discussing the war in one of France's greatest intellectual landmarks? I actually felt better about what is going on there, now that I have spoken to them. Granted, the two of them are obviously rather elite: they speak great English and are away in France on holiday. Perhaps the opinion of the "war" would be different elsewhere. But still, it was interesting to get their perspective, and I was glad I had decided to give them a hand. Plus, they were really, really nice guys. They're going to send copies of the pictures via email.
Last night I did a crazy thing: I started writing again. Not the kind of writing I would post here. No. The kind I try to write well for, the kind I actually edit.
I don't know what came over me, but I had this sudden urge. I typed and typed, then I revised. It's still only mediocre, and I'm slightly obsessed with it. I stayed up until four am typing away, and when I actually realized what time it was, I thought, Shit. I really have to go to bed now. Just write for ten more minutes. I finally gave myself one more revision, and then had to stop the madness.
I went to bed at five. I tossed and turned, mainly because I was tossing and turning sentences over in my mind. I tried to rewrite the ending. I don't like it, and it's irking me.
Sleeping wasn't going to happen. I got up at eight again and started re-revising. I worked until 11.00 at which time I realized, Shit, I have stuff I have to do today!
So I did. I went and exchanged money, coming out with over 300 euros more than I thought I would. So I bought myself a camera. And a new pair of pants. And I still have 50 euros left. I checked three stores before buying myself the camera. Had to get the best deal. I also picked up a crappy, 8-euro one-piece swimsuit (don't feel like the Cambodians will appreciate my flabby ass... Lonely Planet suggested a one-piece so I went with it). I rode a metro, walked at least an hour, took two different buses, and spent a lot of time in the mall.
In all that, I never got tired. Omar came over and we talked. Afterwards, we walked to the Gardens, to the Sorbonne, to Montparnasse, and then took the bus to St Paul for dinner. I've covered all of Paris in a day, and only slept two hours last night.
The craziest thing? It's 12.33 and I'm just going to revise one. More. Time. I promise.
Ok. Maybe two.
Maybe it's the age. Maybe it's the place. Maybe it's just the people I know. Whatever it is, I feel as if I'm always saying goodbye. And pretty much, I am.
Last week I wished Pennsylvania Boy bon voyage, after four years of friendship. In a rare moment of closeness, we looked at each other all goofy-like when I said, "Damn. Do you realize I've known you since you were 18?" He was straight out of a catholic high school for boys, young and a little naive, but determined and quick to learn. And now here is, twenty-two, world-travelled, and one of the most respectable people I've had the pleasure of knowing in France. I know we'll stay friends. I know we'll talk. But I'll miss him.
Today I said goodbye to BrooklynBabe. She's been working past her assistant job while waiting on word for another. Deadlines kept getting pushed back and the starting date looked like it wouldn't be for another few months. I secretly kept my fingers crossed that she'd still be here in October, even though I knew there was a risk she would leave in July. Last week, the July date was looking more promising, and tonight she told me that she'd be leaving in a few weeks. I'll still be in Asia, and she'll be gone. She thought of me and lent me a book and slipped me a job possibility. Hopefully I'll be able to give her back a little something when I see her - for a mere afternoon - in New York this August.
It gets old really fast, constantly saying goodbye. My dad tells me it happens everywhere in life, but I look at my sister, for example, and to a lesser extent my brother, and they are still surrounded by college friends. Yes, it's my "fault" for living abroad, but my "college friends" are from here. But now they're always somewhere else.
I just miss everyone, and hate saying goodbye. I've had to do it so many times in the last few years that you would think I would get used to it. But I never do. It sucks, every single time.
The doctor told me to start taking the Larium ahead of time. This way, if I experience any negative side effects, I could come in and change my prescription. So last night I started taking it.
Common side effects are: nausea, dizziness, headaches, depression, fatigue, hallucinations, and nightmares.
Thus far, I haven't puked or fainted, and it's been almost 12 hours. I figure I will wait and see for the next 24, and call my doctor tomorrow if anything seems suspicious. I bought the Larium because it's only taken once a week and is far cheaper than the daily pill I took in Senegal. But in Senegal, I was only there for one week and was able to pay for fifteen pills (you have to take them for a few days afterwards, too). Since I'll be in southeast Asia for almost 40 days, the price would have been outrageous. So Larium it was.
I feel ok but holy moly! The dreams I had last night were so insane. I remember Andy saying something about his dreams getting all whacked up, and now I believe him. They weren't really nightmares, per se, but they were strange and disconnected, very bizarre dreams.
For example, in my last dream before waking up this morning, I was in a bar with a bunch of people from high school. We were on the third floor of a three-story bar. I needed to use the restroom, so I went downstairs to the second floor where the toilets were. Oddly, when I got there, there was no music and there was a hazy stillness in the air. Nobody moved. In fact, everyone on the second floor had cut off their fingers at the knuckle, and they were silently writhing around on the floor in pain, bloody finger stubs strewn about haphazardly. Shocked, I tried to ask them what had happened, and they just looked at me, dazed. One girl held up her hand, chopped at the thumb, index, and ring finger. Horrified, I ran downstairs to the main floor and told them that we needed first aid people immediately. Britney Spears was there (I don't know why celebrities always find their way into dreams) and said something to the effect of, "I just don't get this cult of finger-cutters." I was surprised to see Britney there, but in the dream I knew that she had been the one to incite them into massacring their own hands. The varsity volleyball coach was the first aid lady, and, upon inspection, she sadly proclaimed that nobody would ever be able to sew back on their fingers.
I had other, just as wacky dreams. Also, at one point, I felt my legs disconnecting from my body. They felt lightweight and super energized, and I seriously considered going for a run (I think this happened in the middle of the night). Later, I put my arms over my head, and felt them lifting, lifting... as if they were resting on something very bouyant in the air. I don't know if that qualifies as hallucinations.
This is going to be a strange, strange month.
Last night I had such twisted sleep that I hardly felt rested when I woke up this morning. My dentist told me last year that I obviously clench or grind my teeth at night. I woke up this morning with a splitting headache and what felt like a broken jaw, and I concluded, for the seven hundredth time, that she's right.
But none of that matters now. Exams are over. I finished. Not in glory, but finished nonetheless. And I feel ok now.
Of course, I walked out of the last exam and thought, Ok, now you can make a list of things you need to do. I always get mad at my dad for not being able to just relax sometimes. It's becoming more and more obvious that I am so my father's daughter.
My celebration of the end of finals will include:
- Getting my shots
- Dealing with banking issues
- Finishing paperwork I have set aside fot the last two weeks
- Spending quality time with The Boy on café terraces
- Catching up with friends before the long break
- Buying books for the flight
- Packing my bags
- TAKING A PLANE!
I can't believe at this point next week I'll be somewhere in Asia. And I don't even know what country yet. Flying by the seat of my pants. I think it will be good for my soul.
I didn't have very many teachers I liked in high school. Most were ok, some were truly terrible. In fact, I think The Gymnast might have been the only one I wouldn't mind being stuck having coffee with today.
He was small - short and tiny-wristed, almost dainty, but fairly strong. I never thought much about it until he told us he put himself through college as a gymnast. Suddenly, his compact body made perfect sense. He was sarcastic and witty; his humor would often escape my classmates. When it did, he would curl up the right side of his lip, and I was never sure if he was mocking them or genuinely amused by their confusion.
I took two classes with him: British Litterature my junior year and then film my senior year. Both classes, sadly, only lasted a semester. Still, it was enough time for me to put little post-its in my brain: notes on how to write an effective essay, notes on how to analyze lighting in a film, notes on how to be a good teacher.
In my senior year film class I repeatedly got high on learning. Yes. My pulse raced and I'm sure my eyes dilated on numerous occasions. I remember the first film we studied was "Cool Hand Luke," and I was astounded at how much there was to break down, analyze, and develop. I had never thought that film could be so complex, and I loved discovering it all for the first time. I did the homework for fun and went of to college decided on being a film major.
That didn't happen. I did journalism, instead, which can get pretty damn close. I spent lots of time with cameras, editing machines, and footage. My random visits to the TV studios were spent deciding on angles and composing logical sequences.
Senior year in college, I took a television production class. It was the greatest disappointment of my life; nothing compared to The Gymnast's revolution. I suppose I had been expecting greatness, and my professor, a real douche-bag, had us memorize the Television Production Handbook. She litterally pulled sentences directly out of the book with blanks for us to fill in on the final. It was the ultimate in busy work. Another post-it: what not to do as a college professor. That was the only B I got in four years of university.
Shortly afterwards, I tried to write The Gymnast an email. I thanked him for treating us like grown-ups, but also for making us work. I told him where I am today, how I got here, and where I'm hoping to go. And I told him that I think he had something to do with it, and that he really does make a difference in peoples' lives. I never heard back, although I don't know if he ever got it.
One of my best friends from high school is in Paris now. She's here for the summer. A few days ago, we stayed up all night trying to remember things that are slipping away from us. She was also a fan of The Gymnast; she took his film class the semester after I did. Earlier that year, she had helped me on my solo project by being one of the two main actresses.
She was telling me about her brother - who in my mind is still 12 years old - and what it was like going to his high school graduation, when we had the following converstion:
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," she said, "My brother took film with The Gymnast this year."
"Really? Did he like it?"
"Yeah, yeah, he totally did. But The Gymast showed your film."
"What?"
"Yeah, he showed your film as an example to the class. It was crazy for my brother, of course, because there he was watching his big sister from when SHE was in high school. But still. Funny, huh?"
I can't really explain how much this affects me. Right at the moment I'm thinking about going back to journalism, I find out that my favorite teacher has used my project for the past six years as a class example. I'm honored, but I'm also mystified. Somehow, I feel as if things have come back full circle. For some reason, I find this all very reassuring. It's as if now I realize that I have been complicating things for nothing, and that, at the source, I know where I stand and what I want to do. And even better, that position has just been validated by my past.
I failed an exam today. The last time that happened was in seventh grade, and I had gotten a C (which at the time was considered failing, and to my slightly OCD self still is...). Shocked, I called my mom in tears from the pay phone outside the middle school gym.
Therefore, given my academic history and my dramatic tendencies, I can't quite explain why my reaction to the entire trauma that took place this morning is so mild. Sure, I walked out of the exam completely baffled. And yes, I bitched with my cohorts about the exam immediately afterwards (how could he ask that and who the hell does he think he is?). But in the end, I'm not too upset about it. As a matter of fact, I'm disturbingly calm about this whole I've-got-finals thing going on right now.
Meanwhile, Kathypath and I went out to a Mexican joint and had a few margheritas this evening. I haven't drank those in months. At first we were just going to meet up for a drink, but we ended up deciding to extend it to dinner once we started discussing all the passersby and their choice of attire. How can you not want to do that for hours on end? We saw some truly hideous fashion. Once we decided to eat, we were sent to the basement, so no more people-watching. No worries, we extended it to the big screen by making up a list of Hollywood people we love and hate and hate to love and love to hate. The evening, overall, was the equivalent of eating popcorn and watching some mindless movie - I just let my brian relax for a few hours. It felt good after such an insane day.
And in the end, I walked home from the restaurant in a good mood despite this morning's poor performance. My thoughts: it's over, and I can't do much about it. Now it's time to look towards the future.
So here's my list for the top five things to do by 2005. We will see, come... oh... I dunno... March 2005, if I actually manage to get this stuff done. Here they are, in no particular order:
Read more »I am so upset about Ray Charles' passing. I know he was old, and sick, and not making music any more, but I still can't help but feel like a little light has gone out somewhere.
Whatever Reagan-remebering was being done in this house (little to none) has been usurped by Ray's death. If we need somebody to honor, let's honor "The Genius": he grew up poor, blind (after the age of seven) and an orphan, and managed to make one hell of a life for himself through music.
My Ray records will be turning in mourning.
Actual conversation on the café terrace the other day:
The Boy: Ah! Ah! Look over there! See, it's another mixed couple: white man/black woman. I'm seeing more and more of them these days.
Me: Yeah, I agree. Still, black man/white woman is far more frequent.
(We watch the white man/black woman couple for a moment in silence)
Me: Do you really think they're a couple? He's twice her age.
The Boy: I don't know. I was just asking myself the question. He's gotta be - what - like, ten years older than her? At least. Did you here that Lance Armstrong is dating Sheryl Crow? I think he's ten years older than her, too. What's wrong with people? Everybody is dating people with a ten year age difference.
Me: Hey! WE have a ten year age difference.
(beat)
The Boy: Oh yeah.
(beat)
The Boy: We must have set a trend.
This morning I left the house at 8.00 so that I could sit and have a café before going to my exam. I'm surprised I'm at that mental age where that's the kind of thing I do: it's no skin off my back to get up an hour earlier if it means I can sit back with a coffee for a bit.
Anyway, on the way down the stairs, I heard somebody listening to the radio while washing dishes. It's hot in Paris right now, so my neighbor had their windows open, and the announcer's voice was quietly updating the courtyard on world events.
For some reason, this created an incredible flashback for me. I remember when I first got to France, I would always have a little tingle of excitement whenever I heard talk radio in the background. AM radio has a subtle way of reminding me that, hey, I'm in France, and hey, people speak French here. Plus, getting little snippets of other people's lives is always exciting, and the muffled sounds coming from whosever apartment it was were floating around in a specifically Parisian way.
Then I went and took the bus. The sun was draping across the city scenically, and I heard a little voice in my head say, "There is no other city that is this beautiful in the morning." I got off the bus and walked by an outdoor public exhibit on the Normandie invasion. It was so interesting that it cut slightly into my coffee time.
Now that it's hot out, I sleep, work, and clean the house with my windows open. Central Paris is never quiet, and one of my windows opens out to a city street. One of my favorite activities is sitting and listening to the sounds of the city. I even enjoy yelling back at honking cars from inside my apartment (we're six floors up) - The Boy and I have made it into somewhat of a pasttime.
But mainly, I just love my life here. I just finished a four-hour exam that I actually feel pretty good about. Now I am sitting in my house, avoiding the scorching sun, and listening to Paris' heartbeat. It's composed mainly of motorcycles, but there are also laughing people, dishes clanking, delivery trucks delivering, and neighbors gossiping.
Soon I'll be leave to meet up with a friend to get a coffee on a terrace before escaping the heat by seeing an evening movie. My next exam is in two days, and I already feel prepared for it. Things are looking good. I think I'll go enjoy this lovely city now.
I spent half the day studying and half the day enjoying the good weather. The Boy and I sat out on a café terrace for at least two hours today, and I even managed to get some studying in while baconing under the sun. I'm feeling pretty good, although slightly sun-drunk; I think I'll be going to bed before three am this evening.
On a side note, the girl next to me at the café was so tan I found it inspirational. In a moment of pure folly, I told The Boy that I'll be that color when I come back from my trip, and now I'm wondering if I haven't set myself up for disaster. It turns out Ms Tan is in one of my classes at the Sorbonne. Small world.
Despite my good mood, I'm pretty much in shock about a number of things:
Dad called me to announce that Nalbandian was losing. But I informed him that he had already lost. Damn those time differences.
Anyhow, apparently I bring no luck to tennis men. Safin and Kuerten went down in a qualifying match and a quaterfinal respectively. Then I threw my support to Nalbandian because he was responsible for their fall, and he went down in the semis. Henman, my back-burner boyfriend, also just suffered a tragic loss to Coria.
Even my half-hearted love for Moya was wiped clean by Coria.
I suppose I could just support Coria because he'll probably win anyway, but he's too short. Listening to the Roland-Garrros radio stream (shut up, my tv can't be set up because the antennas broken. And yeah, shut up, I still use rabbit ears. And yeah, so whatever, tennis is really not the kind of sport you can listen to on the radio), the announcers said, "I mean, he's not a midget or anything, but he's pretty short." They were actually pretty funny sportscasters, which made the whole fact that I have to resort to listening to the matches instead of watching them at least semi-bearable.
Anyway, I don't know what to do anymore. Who do I choose? Gaudio with his long hair and wanna-be Spanish architect's name? Or Coria, the almost midget?*
It's a lose-lose situation here.
Meanwhile, I'm rather sick and have the perfect excuse to not study and instead watch the games. But I can't. I haven't watched television in my house in over two years, and the one time I want to, I discover that my television doesn't work. Someone has it in for me this year when it comes to tennis.
*Actually, they're both 5'9. Still shorter than me, but by no means short by Argentine standards.
Mom and Dad have come and gone. It was nice to see them, as always. Although there were plenty of good moments, Mom and I have concluded that the following was, without a doubt, the highlight of the visit:
At the French Open, Mom and I decided to play risky and see if we could buy tickets once we got there. There had been no pre-planning whatsoever. The idea was to chalk up life to chance and to fly by the seat of our pants. Our adventurous decision was met with a resounding "No more tickets!" once we got to the ticket office, and our tennis dreams were shattered.
Walking back to the metro, we were offered numerous tickets by shady characters with cardboard signs. Mom suggested we discuss prices with some of them, but I shrugged off her decision. After Mom's wallet got stolen last year, I was terribly afraid of getting screwed over by Rolland Garros fake-ticket-selling scam artists.
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