[Editor's note: As you can see, I changed the format here. Please feel free to weight in on the new look.]
I just made my first legal music download.
I know, I know. I am decades behind everyone else with their iTunes and Rhapsody and whatnot. I admit - I had been downloading music illegally for a while (and truth be told, if I really liked the artist, I'd go to a music store - physical or online - and by the CD.) But that route was often limiting, and well, illegal.
But now I joined my brethren in the 21st century. I had been nervous about the whole process, mainly because I just don't fully understand it. Questions like whether I can burn the songs on a CD or email them to a friend or put them on my mp3 player or another computer daunted me, and I can't say they are fully answered. I was also unsure which music service to use and how they were different, and frankly, researching the topic just seemed boring and confusing to me.
Now I am finding it's just too easy. My credit card information is saved, and all I have to do is find the song or artist and click the "Buy It" button. Then the song miraculously appears in my jukebox and then neatly organized by artist in my music folder. This could be dangerous. My first downloads were a song from randomly obscure Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark (it came on recommendation) and the awesomely ubiquitous Sean Paul. I am poised to make more purchases.
In other news, I finally mustered up the motivation to send my resume and clips to two places. I am not massively overexcited about either of them, but they are the gateway applications - kind of like the gateway purchase. When you are shopping, you sometimes have to just buy something small off the bat to get the spending rolling. After that first purchase, it somehow becomes easier to find what you are looking for and lay down the cash for what you need.
So now, I am hoping that will just set off a firestorm of available jobs and a deluge of motivation on my part. We'll see.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
sample cover letter
Date
Name
Company
Address
Dear Mr./Ms. Somebody-or-other:
Unless I drop someone's name right off the bat in this letter, my guess is you'll just scan it, maybe looking for some key words or worse, egregious errors, before moving on to judge my resume. I'd be surprised if you made it all the way through even then, and because of this, I will cut to the chase.
I want you to hire me. The job looks pretty cool, the work not too hard, and the location doesn't entirely suck. I'd be good for the company: I'm kind of funny, I like to laugh, I get along with people for the most part, I don't lie or fabricate sources.
I could also insert here stock words like hard-working, creative and aggressive, but considering you are just scanning, I could also insert such nonsensical phrases as flux capacitor and butter bean ice cream head and it wouldn't make much difference. Most of your judgments will be made with a glance at my resume, taking into account number of years experience and where I last worked.
They tell us the cover letter allows us to give more detail to some things mentioned on your resume, but I find it hard to believe. I hate writing these letters; they stress me out and I never feel like they are clever or eye-catching enough. And I wonder how much you pay attention to them anyway, except to shake your head at how cheesy it is or maybe pass it on to a coworker to laugh at it. Plus, I may suck at cover letters (and some have even told me I am weak on paper), but give me an interview and you will be ready to sign me on, I promise.
Anyway, please hire me.
Kind regards,
Sara
Name
Company
Address
Dear Mr./Ms. Somebody-or-other:
Unless I drop someone's name right off the bat in this letter, my guess is you'll just scan it, maybe looking for some key words or worse, egregious errors, before moving on to judge my resume. I'd be surprised if you made it all the way through even then, and because of this, I will cut to the chase.
I want you to hire me. The job looks pretty cool, the work not too hard, and the location doesn't entirely suck. I'd be good for the company: I'm kind of funny, I like to laugh, I get along with people for the most part, I don't lie or fabricate sources.
I could also insert here stock words like hard-working, creative and aggressive, but considering you are just scanning, I could also insert such nonsensical phrases as flux capacitor and butter bean ice cream head and it wouldn't make much difference. Most of your judgments will be made with a glance at my resume, taking into account number of years experience and where I last worked.
They tell us the cover letter allows us to give more detail to some things mentioned on your resume, but I find it hard to believe. I hate writing these letters; they stress me out and I never feel like they are clever or eye-catching enough. And I wonder how much you pay attention to them anyway, except to shake your head at how cheesy it is or maybe pass it on to a coworker to laugh at it. Plus, I may suck at cover letters (and some have even told me I am weak on paper), but give me an interview and you will be ready to sign me on, I promise.
Anyway, please hire me.
Kind regards,
Sara
Monday, April 10, 2006
updating my profile for the high school directory
After receiving two notices in the mail from my high school urging me to call an 800 number and update my profile, I finally called.
I wasn't sure what they wanted. It's not long until reunion time, so maybe that's it? Although, in a tiny private school with 35 kids in my graduating class, no football team, no prom and certainly no committee to arrange such post-school activities, I am not sure the school'd be hosting a reunion. (Plus, why an 800 number? What about the Internet, folks?)
So I called the 800 number, armed with a short list of lies of my career successes, which of course I had no intention of using. After getting off the phone with the woman, I thought perhaps I should have lied:
No, I don't have a permanent address right now... No, see, I just moved, and will be moving again... Er, uh sure keep my dad's address. ... Why yes, I have earned a degree since finishing high school. Two actually. Thank you, yes, thanks. Well, yes they are both in journalism, but one's a masters.... ? Yes, just graduated... well, really I graduated nine months ago... Um, well, no I don't really have an employer. Yes, two degrees. No job. That's right. You can put freelance writer on there, but there's no address to include. That's right. No, no husband or kids either....
No thanks, I don't think I will be ordering the $75 collector's edition directory then.
Couple that experience with the reality that the grace period for grad school loans is almost up. Nine months. Soon I begin the monthly payments. I knew it would happen, but as I was filling out the forms and seeing all those numbers with dollar signs next to them, it still kind of felt like fake money. I just got to go to back to school and not pay as much and how cool is that? "It's an investment in your future," my father told me, and sure that made sense in a nebulous, worry-about-it-later, character-building kind of way. Oh crap, now I have to pay that back.
****
Is it just a coincidence that reggaeton is all over the radio these days? Was it there before, and I didn't notice it until after I spent two months completely submerged it in? Is it kind of like when you learn a new word and then hear people use it all the time after that?
Either way, it's everywhere and I am not complaining. I know, some of my friends who have spent time in South America reject the fast paced Latin dance music, and others I know have a negative association with it, as it is connected to an often exclusive culture in the states. But I welcome it with open arms. It brings me back to the cobblestone streets and musty strobe-lighted discotec of Copan.
I wasn't sure what they wanted. It's not long until reunion time, so maybe that's it? Although, in a tiny private school with 35 kids in my graduating class, no football team, no prom and certainly no committee to arrange such post-school activities, I am not sure the school'd be hosting a reunion. (Plus, why an 800 number? What about the Internet, folks?)
So I called the 800 number, armed with a short list of lies of my career successes, which of course I had no intention of using. After getting off the phone with the woman, I thought perhaps I should have lied:
No, I don't have a permanent address right now... No, see, I just moved, and will be moving again... Er, uh sure keep my dad's address. ... Why yes, I have earned a degree since finishing high school. Two actually. Thank you, yes, thanks. Well, yes they are both in journalism, but one's a masters.... ? Yes, just graduated... well, really I graduated nine months ago... Um, well, no I don't really have an employer. Yes, two degrees. No job. That's right. You can put freelance writer on there, but there's no address to include. That's right. No, no husband or kids either....
No thanks, I don't think I will be ordering the $75 collector's edition directory then.
Couple that experience with the reality that the grace period for grad school loans is almost up. Nine months. Soon I begin the monthly payments. I knew it would happen, but as I was filling out the forms and seeing all those numbers with dollar signs next to them, it still kind of felt like fake money. I just got to go to back to school and not pay as much and how cool is that? "It's an investment in your future," my father told me, and sure that made sense in a nebulous, worry-about-it-later, character-building kind of way. Oh crap, now I have to pay that back.
****
Is it just a coincidence that reggaeton is all over the radio these days? Was it there before, and I didn't notice it until after I spent two months completely submerged it in? Is it kind of like when you learn a new word and then hear people use it all the time after that?
Either way, it's everywhere and I am not complaining. I know, some of my friends who have spent time in South America reject the fast paced Latin dance music, and others I know have a negative association with it, as it is connected to an often exclusive culture in the states. But I welcome it with open arms. It brings me back to the cobblestone streets and musty strobe-lighted discotec of Copan.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Today show, Schmoday show
I had a dream last night where I was in high school (but still at my current age) and Katie Couric was a lunch lady. She leaned over the food line to gossip with me, which of my friends are married and where I got my cute outfit.
I guess I had Couric on the brain with the news of her leaving the Today show and heading over to CBS. Here are my thoughts on the topic, pretty much in chronological order.
1. Really? The bubbly anchor - who before 8 a.m. plays pretend anchor but as the morning progresses get more and more giggley as the segments get more ridiculous - is going back to news?
2. This woman, who let it be known I do like, but not for her newshound edge, is going to be taking over the anchor chair at the network of Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite?
3. That annoying bitch from the view and Who Wants to be a Millionaire is taking her spot? (One blog questioned if people would be able to take her seriously as a news anchor if she keeps her Millionaire post too. Once again, people, the Today show is hardly a news program.)
4. Hmmm... maybe Couric's got it in her. When she's not talking about herself or digressing or interrupting guests, she does seem to have a sharp interview style. Before the Today show, she had strong news experience and when she does do real interviews, they aren't so bad. And as this NPR commentary points out, having a woman in the anchor spot - particularly one as warm and real as Couric - might not be such a bad thing. Do we really need an old man with a deep voice to feel like we are getting authoritative news?
5. The Today show is total crap (though in the interest of full disclosure I watch it while I eat my cereal and particularly enjoy the fitness and fashion segments), I don't watch network TV news, Couric is and will continue to get paid mindblowing amounts of money, and in the end who really cares?
I guess I had Couric on the brain with the news of her leaving the Today show and heading over to CBS. Here are my thoughts on the topic, pretty much in chronological order.
1. Really? The bubbly anchor - who before 8 a.m. plays pretend anchor but as the morning progresses get more and more giggley as the segments get more ridiculous - is going back to news?
2. This woman, who let it be known I do like, but not for her newshound edge, is going to be taking over the anchor chair at the network of Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite?
3. That annoying bitch from the view and Who Wants to be a Millionaire is taking her spot? (One blog questioned if people would be able to take her seriously as a news anchor if she keeps her Millionaire post too. Once again, people, the Today show is hardly a news program.)
4. Hmmm... maybe Couric's got it in her. When she's not talking about herself or digressing or interrupting guests, she does seem to have a sharp interview style. Before the Today show, she had strong news experience and when she does do real interviews, they aren't so bad. And as this NPR commentary points out, having a woman in the anchor spot - particularly one as warm and real as Couric - might not be such a bad thing. Do we really need an old man with a deep voice to feel like we are getting authoritative news?
5. The Today show is total crap (though in the interest of full disclosure I watch it while I eat my cereal and particularly enjoy the fitness and fashion segments), I don't watch network TV news, Couric is and will continue to get paid mindblowing amounts of money, and in the end who really cares?
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
my dad's a happy man
So my brother just got a job. On Wall Street. With full benefits, dental, year-end bonuses and a fat salary (although he assures me it isn't the snort-coke-off-hookers kind of salary).
This is significant because this is a man who has always shunned corporate life, much to the dismay of our father. I remember he had a job a few years back where he went to an office all day and did work and had a assignments and a boss and steady paychecks, and each time he talked about it, the veins in his neck would bulge and he'd break out in hives.
He's never been one for authority (think long-haired rocker in high school loathed by the headmaster and adored by the chicks), and to him having a full-time job was just a contract to waste away at a desk chair and emotionally beaten to a faceless pulp by society.
But don't go thinking he's some kind of unemployed vagabond. Since college, he's done just fine by himself freelancing. He even managed to go back to school for a master's degree in a massively complex and cutting edge futuristic computer science . (That is perhaps for another post, but said foray into academia just showed that this is one of the smartest, most creative thinking people I know. Stop with the awwwws.)
Nope, he's done fine, but with each passing day that he didn't have a full time job or health insurance, my father lost another fine gray hair from his poor head. See, my brother always said that every family has one - the uncle or brother or sister or cousin who bucks the tradition, breaks the family line of doctors or lawyers or whatever it might be, to forge a new path of (euphemism here) creativity.... (I don't fully agree about his assessment, particularly the part where he compared himself to our uncle who really was that one in the family... again, perhaps for another post).
For my father, a doctor from a line of doctors, this idea of setting off on a wayward path always made him a bit nervous. Although he has always been unflinchingly supportive of us and everything we do (never once a hint that we should consider being doctors), I think he was always waiting for brother to get a life. Nevermind that he had one in which he was perfectly happy and successful, it didn't fit the mold. And more importantly it didn't involve health insurance.
(And perhaps the fact that I went the traditional route right out of college, landing a job that although it paid pennies and offered only minimal health coverage, did provide some kind of stability... until I got laid off along with the entire editorial staff... just exacerbated the pressures on my brother to get a stable job. Oh how the tables have turned.)
Well now everything has changed. My father is giddy with excitement that my brother has a "real" job with a salary and a 401K and health benefits. It's similar to last year when both his children were in school earning their respective masters degrees. For a man devoted to advanced education, this was a dream come true. Now, he's won the lottery. And so now I just need to get on it and find myself a job too.
This is significant because this is a man who has always shunned corporate life, much to the dismay of our father. I remember he had a job a few years back where he went to an office all day and did work and had a assignments and a boss and steady paychecks, and each time he talked about it, the veins in his neck would bulge and he'd break out in hives.
He's never been one for authority (think long-haired rocker in high school loathed by the headmaster and adored by the chicks), and to him having a full-time job was just a contract to waste away at a desk chair and emotionally beaten to a faceless pulp by society.
But don't go thinking he's some kind of unemployed vagabond. Since college, he's done just fine by himself freelancing. He even managed to go back to school for a master's degree in a massively complex and cutting edge futuristic computer science . (That is perhaps for another post, but said foray into academia just showed that this is one of the smartest, most creative thinking people I know. Stop with the awwwws.)
Nope, he's done fine, but with each passing day that he didn't have a full time job or health insurance, my father lost another fine gray hair from his poor head. See, my brother always said that every family has one - the uncle or brother or sister or cousin who bucks the tradition, breaks the family line of doctors or lawyers or whatever it might be, to forge a new path of (euphemism here) creativity.... (I don't fully agree about his assessment, particularly the part where he compared himself to our uncle who really was that one in the family... again, perhaps for another post).
For my father, a doctor from a line of doctors, this idea of setting off on a wayward path always made him a bit nervous. Although he has always been unflinchingly supportive of us and everything we do (never once a hint that we should consider being doctors), I think he was always waiting for brother to get a life. Nevermind that he had one in which he was perfectly happy and successful, it didn't fit the mold. And more importantly it didn't involve health insurance.
(And perhaps the fact that I went the traditional route right out of college, landing a job that although it paid pennies and offered only minimal health coverage, did provide some kind of stability... until I got laid off along with the entire editorial staff... just exacerbated the pressures on my brother to get a stable job. Oh how the tables have turned.)
Well now everything has changed. My father is giddy with excitement that my brother has a "real" job with a salary and a 401K and health benefits. It's similar to last year when both his children were in school earning their respective masters degrees. For a man devoted to advanced education, this was a dream come true. Now, he's won the lottery. And so now I just need to get on it and find myself a job too.
Monday, April 03, 2006
spokesman comments or lack thereof
The federal government is trying to find a way to move from the 50-some-odd-year-old system of paying employees to one based on an employee's performance. Rather than award workers for how many years they have put in at a federal agency, they are looking to award them based on how well they actually do at their jobs.
That makes sense to me, but considering this is the federal government we are talking about and evaluating employee performance requires more work, it could be some time before the old system is changed.
As I am reporting on a related story, I am faced with the quintessential example of why paying for performance is a good idea: the government agency press office. Since my first days of reporting on the federal government, I have come to see the agency press office as the bane of my reporter existence. When I call, I can picture them sitting around an office, gossiping, doing their nails, emailing, drinking coffee. When the phone rings, one of them rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath, mustering up the proper amount of miserableness and I-don't-give-a-shit attitude.
I called one agency press office today, asking for them to help put me in touch with some big dude and knowing if I didn't start with them, I'd be shut down immediately. With her rudest tone of voice, the half-listening woman on the other end basically acted like she could care less why I was calling, as if I had rung the wrong office and why would she be the one to help me. She starts to transfer to me some unknown office in the bowels of the agency, but I stop her, explaining that I will only be transferred back to her since I am a reporter. She then cuts me off mid-sentence and transfers me to some random voice mail where I would no doubt be ignored again.
This seems to happen every once in a while, really with any press office where I don't directly know the contact there. It's infuriating and frustrating, and often there are few other options. I wonder how many of these press people would be around if their job performance was evaluated. Or how their performance would change were it to be linked to their pay.
Surprisingly, I did get a call back not too long after I left the message. But perhaps unsurprisingly, the spokesperson pulled out the classic we-have-no-further-comment comments. The person you really want to talk won't comment, but sure I'll answer your questions, she tells me. As I start to ask them and get more and more in-depth, bringing out a few follow-ups to her statements, she continues to answer with about four stock phrases, regardless of the question. I could ask her what she had for breakfast, and her response would be "As I mentioned before, the agency chose to blah blah yadda yadda yadda."
Now, I understand there are answers you want that you just aren't going to get, especially if the story has a tinge of controversy or agency fault. But part of me wants the spokesperson to own up to that. It's not like I don't recognize that each answer sounds strangely similar to the last, and in fact that time it had nothing to do with the question at all. Would it kill you to just say, You know Sara, I have about three things I am authorized to say, so you can probe until you are blue in the face, but you ain't getting anything else out of me. In not so many words, I once had a spokesman say that to me, and for a second I felt like we were both humans stuck in a tough position on two sides of the story fence.
That makes sense to me, but considering this is the federal government we are talking about and evaluating employee performance requires more work, it could be some time before the old system is changed.
As I am reporting on a related story, I am faced with the quintessential example of why paying for performance is a good idea: the government agency press office. Since my first days of reporting on the federal government, I have come to see the agency press office as the bane of my reporter existence. When I call, I can picture them sitting around an office, gossiping, doing their nails, emailing, drinking coffee. When the phone rings, one of them rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath, mustering up the proper amount of miserableness and I-don't-give-a-shit attitude.
I called one agency press office today, asking for them to help put me in touch with some big dude and knowing if I didn't start with them, I'd be shut down immediately. With her rudest tone of voice, the half-listening woman on the other end basically acted like she could care less why I was calling, as if I had rung the wrong office and why would she be the one to help me. She starts to transfer to me some unknown office in the bowels of the agency, but I stop her, explaining that I will only be transferred back to her since I am a reporter. She then cuts me off mid-sentence and transfers me to some random voice mail where I would no doubt be ignored again.
This seems to happen every once in a while, really with any press office where I don't directly know the contact there. It's infuriating and frustrating, and often there are few other options. I wonder how many of these press people would be around if their job performance was evaluated. Or how their performance would change were it to be linked to their pay.
Surprisingly, I did get a call back not too long after I left the message. But perhaps unsurprisingly, the spokesperson pulled out the classic we-have-no-further-comment comments. The person you really want to talk won't comment, but sure I'll answer your questions, she tells me. As I start to ask them and get more and more in-depth, bringing out a few follow-ups to her statements, she continues to answer with about four stock phrases, regardless of the question. I could ask her what she had for breakfast, and her response would be "As I mentioned before, the agency chose to blah blah yadda yadda yadda."
Now, I understand there are answers you want that you just aren't going to get, especially if the story has a tinge of controversy or agency fault. But part of me wants the spokesperson to own up to that. It's not like I don't recognize that each answer sounds strangely similar to the last, and in fact that time it had nothing to do with the question at all. Would it kill you to just say, You know Sara, I have about three things I am authorized to say, so you can probe until you are blue in the face, but you ain't getting anything else out of me. In not so many words, I once had a spokesman say that to me, and for a second I felt like we were both humans stuck in a tough position on two sides of the story fence.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Nintendo fingers
What does one do on a cloudy weekend afternoon in the New York capital region? You go to Mallbany, of course. Many know this town as Albany, but considering there is little else to do there and no other need for us to visit than for a mall, it has been dubbed Mallbany.
Well, this recent trip to Mallbany was unique, as I discovered the funnest video game ever known to man, although I am not sure that statement comes with much weight from a person who is not all that into videogames. The game is Guitar Hero, and we got sucked into it at Best Buy, where they had set up the game and the two guitar-shaped controllers.
It's like Dance Dance Revolution, I guess, but perhaps easier and less physically demanding - although one should beware of Nintendo fingers, the ache and tightening in your fingers after prolonged video game playing. I am embarrassed to say, I walked away from the massive flat screen TV and mini guitar with said cramps.
The game was worth it. As a green mohawked British rocker, I wailed on the wawa bar and waved the guitar in the air to "Appetite for Destruction" and "I Want to Be Sedated." The more I rocked out, shaking the guitar and breaking a considerable sweat, the more points I got, and I do believe I was rewarded for also singing along and karate kicking the air. All too quickly, we forgot we were standing in the isle at Best Buy while pre-teen boys watched our rocker personas take over.
The game was so good, we went back a second day. Quit judging.
Well, this recent trip to Mallbany was unique, as I discovered the funnest video game ever known to man, although I am not sure that statement comes with much weight from a person who is not all that into videogames. The game is Guitar Hero, and we got sucked into it at Best Buy, where they had set up the game and the two guitar-shaped controllers.
It's like Dance Dance Revolution, I guess, but perhaps easier and less physically demanding - although one should beware of Nintendo fingers, the ache and tightening in your fingers after prolonged video game playing. I am embarrassed to say, I walked away from the massive flat screen TV and mini guitar with said cramps.
The game was worth it. As a green mohawked British rocker, I wailed on the wawa bar and waved the guitar in the air to "Appetite for Destruction" and "I Want to Be Sedated." The more I rocked out, shaking the guitar and breaking a considerable sweat, the more points I got, and I do believe I was rewarded for also singing along and karate kicking the air. All too quickly, we forgot we were standing in the isle at Best Buy while pre-teen boys watched our rocker personas take over.
The game was so good, we went back a second day. Quit judging.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
"One foot in the grave and one on a banana peel"
It's surprising how quickly the days pass even though I don't have a job. It makes me wonder, when I did work and when I eventually work again, how I ever got anything done.
I realized over the weekend that I am in fact no longer a spring chicken. This is a realization that I seem to be having more and more frequently, but now it's gone beyond finding - and pulling mercilessly - unwanted wirey white hairs from my head.
I can see many of you rolling your eyes, but bear with me. This weekend I was again struck that I am getting older when my friends and I drank too much rum and then basically spent the entire next day in bed recovering. I guess we don't bounce back like we used to. Then the realization resurfaced as our conversations tended at times toward wrinkles, home-buying and wedding and baby showers. Ahem. Choke.
Well, then in a context entirely unrelated (or least not intentionally), we got to talking about death. As my friend was discussing her thesis (not to be divulged or really butchered by my ignorance on these pages), we began discussing just what you should do, or perhaps what your loved ones should do, with your body once you die. I always thought cremation was a reasonable plan, considering it's a total waste of space to bury bodies in the ground, we are running out of space, and I loathe cemeteries and don't want people to associate my life with such wastelands.
But then, apparently cremation is bad for the environment, and something like a third of mercury emissions are from burning our dental fixtures in the cremation process. And my brother once explained something about how burning bodies sucks energy from the atmosphere and creates more negative energy or something like that that skimmed somewhere just over my head.
Enter promession. Developed by a Swedish biologist, apparently it's a method of environmentally ethical body decomposition that involves freeze drying the body in liquid nitrogen, reducing it to a fine powder, removing all the artificial bits and then burying it in some kind of biodegradable casket. The idea is then the body will naturally become part of the earth, providing the proper nutrients for plant growth. I don't know much about it - in fact those last sentences were the extent of it. But so far it sounds like a more reasonable alternative to burial, which seems antiquated and unreasonable, and cremation. I understand it's still being developed, and from what I can see, it's slow to make waves in the U.S., but count me as a believer.
Which kind of brings me to the question: Should I have a living will? Morbid, I know, but I wonder when one is supposed to deal with such matters. I don't have any possessions to speak of, but should it be written somewhere who is in charge of my body and what I want done with it?
On a much lighter note, after much frustration on the job search front, I decided to dedicate some time each day to practicing Spanish. To this end, I went to the bookstore and bought a colorful children's book that I could read and translate. It's called El Capitan Calzoncillos. Already, I didn't know that last word, but bought it anyway, only to discover calzoncillos means underwear. I am reading a book called "Capitan Underwear and the perverse plan of Professor Pipicaca." I don't think Pipicaca translates, or perhaps it translates quite clearly. So that partially explains the cartoon picture on the cover of a bald, pink child wearing nothing but tighty whities and a red cape. Awesome.
Oh, and the title of this post is a quote I heard on NPR this weekend that seemed somehow fitting, or at least funny enough to share. It's from a Southern woman talking about the only circumstance in which it was acceptable for one to miss church: if you'vr got one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel.
I realized over the weekend that I am in fact no longer a spring chicken. This is a realization that I seem to be having more and more frequently, but now it's gone beyond finding - and pulling mercilessly - unwanted wirey white hairs from my head.
I can see many of you rolling your eyes, but bear with me. This weekend I was again struck that I am getting older when my friends and I drank too much rum and then basically spent the entire next day in bed recovering. I guess we don't bounce back like we used to. Then the realization resurfaced as our conversations tended at times toward wrinkles, home-buying and wedding and baby showers. Ahem. Choke.
Well, then in a context entirely unrelated (or least not intentionally), we got to talking about death. As my friend was discussing her thesis (not to be divulged or really butchered by my ignorance on these pages), we began discussing just what you should do, or perhaps what your loved ones should do, with your body once you die. I always thought cremation was a reasonable plan, considering it's a total waste of space to bury bodies in the ground, we are running out of space, and I loathe cemeteries and don't want people to associate my life with such wastelands.
But then, apparently cremation is bad for the environment, and something like a third of mercury emissions are from burning our dental fixtures in the cremation process. And my brother once explained something about how burning bodies sucks energy from the atmosphere and creates more negative energy or something like that that skimmed somewhere just over my head.
Enter promession. Developed by a Swedish biologist, apparently it's a method of environmentally ethical body decomposition that involves freeze drying the body in liquid nitrogen, reducing it to a fine powder, removing all the artificial bits and then burying it in some kind of biodegradable casket. The idea is then the body will naturally become part of the earth, providing the proper nutrients for plant growth. I don't know much about it - in fact those last sentences were the extent of it. But so far it sounds like a more reasonable alternative to burial, which seems antiquated and unreasonable, and cremation. I understand it's still being developed, and from what I can see, it's slow to make waves in the U.S., but count me as a believer.
Which kind of brings me to the question: Should I have a living will? Morbid, I know, but I wonder when one is supposed to deal with such matters. I don't have any possessions to speak of, but should it be written somewhere who is in charge of my body and what I want done with it?
On a much lighter note, after much frustration on the job search front, I decided to dedicate some time each day to practicing Spanish. To this end, I went to the bookstore and bought a colorful children's book that I could read and translate. It's called El Capitan Calzoncillos. Already, I didn't know that last word, but bought it anyway, only to discover calzoncillos means underwear. I am reading a book called "Capitan Underwear and the perverse plan of Professor Pipicaca." I don't think Pipicaca translates, or perhaps it translates quite clearly. So that partially explains the cartoon picture on the cover of a bald, pink child wearing nothing but tighty whities and a red cape. Awesome.
Oh, and the title of this post is a quote I heard on NPR this weekend that seemed somehow fitting, or at least funny enough to share. It's from a Southern woman talking about the only circumstance in which it was acceptable for one to miss church: if you'vr got one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel.
Friday, March 24, 2006
more time-wasting career path debates as I struggle to get motivated to find a job
I just realized I haven't written anything all week. Maybe that's because very little that is noteworthy has happened to me this week. Nonetheless, here are some mindless ramblings:
On the job front, I did send out emails to two newspaper editors, and heard back from one who said there may be an opening in a month or so, but don't wait for it, because it might not happen, but if it does it would require me to use my brand spanking new Spanish speaking skills. I am not sure if that is promising or not. Plus, said newspaper is in my hometown, which brings me to question whether I could move back to a place I shunned and ran far, far away from the second I graduated high school. It's debateable. I always said I would never move back there. But, as I get older, I realize more and more that the town doesn't suck. In fact, there seem to be more young people there than I remembered from growing up, and something that in the right light mildly resembles a night life. I suppose I will take up this debate in full force if this position actually opens up. I guess in the meantime, I should be looking for work at more than two places.
I have also managed to articulate my immediate future into two potential paths:
Path A: Move to a random city - scratch that, tiny, one-horse town - somewhere in the country to get a job at a newspaper, likely covering the night cops beat or writing up the latest news from the town council hearings. The stories might be bird cage liner, but hey, I'd be cutting my teeth at a daily newspaper, earning journalistic credibility, proving my abilities to handle the rigors of daily deadlines. And there's always the chance that I'd hit the story of the year, like how the town commissioner is embezzleing money from the library fund to pay for underage gay prostitutes. Or something. My point is, Plan A means choosing job over location, and remember I did just drop a boatload of cash to go back to get a master's degree in hopes that I'd be better equipped for a daily.
Plan B: Scrap the newspaper deal and find a writing job in the city of my choice, preferably one where I have friends or the promise to make some. In this scenario, I have given up on the idea of earning stripes as a newspaperman and decided it's important to report and write regardless of the venue. I mean, who really reads newspapers anyway (besides my fellow J-school grads)? Aren't they a dying breed anyhow, and aren't most papers laying off reporters? And isn't now more feasable now to get good journalistic cred through online publications or magazines, rather than the traditional daily paper route? Plus, wouldn't it be nice to be paid more than mere peanuts? I mean, writing is writing is writing. Right?
I think this is a debate that I have bothered you with on this blog before, and now I'm doing it all over again. Part of me thinks I will continue to question this throughout my career, but I hope to at least settle on some kind of a choice soon so I can shut up and get a damn job.
In other less self-absorbed news, a man who owned a restaurant down the street from my father's house was found this week lying dead in the kitchen shot in the head. I know this happens every day all over the country, but I can't stop thinking about it, mainly because of the proximity to my family and the connections he and his family have throughout the neighborhood. It really is shocking.
On the job front, I did send out emails to two newspaper editors, and heard back from one who said there may be an opening in a month or so, but don't wait for it, because it might not happen, but if it does it would require me to use my brand spanking new Spanish speaking skills. I am not sure if that is promising or not. Plus, said newspaper is in my hometown, which brings me to question whether I could move back to a place I shunned and ran far, far away from the second I graduated high school. It's debateable. I always said I would never move back there. But, as I get older, I realize more and more that the town doesn't suck. In fact, there seem to be more young people there than I remembered from growing up, and something that in the right light mildly resembles a night life. I suppose I will take up this debate in full force if this position actually opens up. I guess in the meantime, I should be looking for work at more than two places.
I have also managed to articulate my immediate future into two potential paths:
Path A: Move to a random city - scratch that, tiny, one-horse town - somewhere in the country to get a job at a newspaper, likely covering the night cops beat or writing up the latest news from the town council hearings. The stories might be bird cage liner, but hey, I'd be cutting my teeth at a daily newspaper, earning journalistic credibility, proving my abilities to handle the rigors of daily deadlines. And there's always the chance that I'd hit the story of the year, like how the town commissioner is embezzleing money from the library fund to pay for underage gay prostitutes. Or something. My point is, Plan A means choosing job over location, and remember I did just drop a boatload of cash to go back to get a master's degree in hopes that I'd be better equipped for a daily.
Plan B: Scrap the newspaper deal and find a writing job in the city of my choice, preferably one where I have friends or the promise to make some. In this scenario, I have given up on the idea of earning stripes as a newspaperman and decided it's important to report and write regardless of the venue. I mean, who really reads newspapers anyway (besides my fellow J-school grads)? Aren't they a dying breed anyhow, and aren't most papers laying off reporters? And isn't now more feasable now to get good journalistic cred through online publications or magazines, rather than the traditional daily paper route? Plus, wouldn't it be nice to be paid more than mere peanuts? I mean, writing is writing is writing. Right?
I think this is a debate that I have bothered you with on this blog before, and now I'm doing it all over again. Part of me thinks I will continue to question this throughout my career, but I hope to at least settle on some kind of a choice soon so I can shut up and get a damn job.
In other less self-absorbed news, a man who owned a restaurant down the street from my father's house was found this week lying dead in the kitchen shot in the head. I know this happens every day all over the country, but I can't stop thinking about it, mainly because of the proximity to my family and the connections he and his family have throughout the neighborhood. It really is shocking.
Monday, March 20, 2006
tax time
I finally did my taxes this weekend and learned what I feared, but thought might be the case. I owe the federal government $2,000.
No, that's not a typo and as far as I know we didn't make any mistakes. That's two thousand dollars. What that is, friends, is highway robbery.
OK, that's not true. It's just how it is. See, I knew all year as I freelanced that I should be setting aside money for taxes, but I didn't. Instead I went to Central America for two months. And this morning I wrote two checks, one to the feds and one to the state, for nearly $2,000. Now the balance in my checking account is uncomfortably low and my savings account is nonexistent.
I realize around this time of year that my case is far from unusual. But as a friend of mine suffering similar financial woes put it, we had already mentally spent the little money we had. I had already started planning my next trip in a couple months, this time maybe to Mexico?
Instead, I am sitting in front of my computer, wearing all of my clothes and wrapped in a blanket, in the part of the apartment without heat - which is pretty much all of it except for one room closed off to contain the warmth generated from a demonically possessed gas heater. We're eating eggs and beans nearly every meal. I spent the afternoon scheming ways to make money, combing the job sites and subsequently getting disappointed at the prospects, and checking and rechecking my bank balance online just to see if a miracle had happened. Plus, one of my travel buddies is back in Roatan (after a while in Costa Rica), working to become a dive master, drinking endless Port Royals, sitting in hammocks and generally making my sub-freezing, penniless existence in upstate New York pale in comparison.
I can't help but think I am living a version of the time our parents always talked about while we rolled our eyes. Something about living in squalor to follow a dream or struggling to make ends meet on the road to happiness or up hill both ways in the snow and whatnot. Am I going to one day lean back in my chair, my eyes glazed over, and reminisce about these tough times and how we cut corners but built character?
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. In a few days, I am sure the shock will wear off and I'll be borrowing the car to go to Target. In fact, I've already booked a bus ticket to visit friends in New York this weekend.
No, that's not a typo and as far as I know we didn't make any mistakes. That's two thousand dollars. What that is, friends, is highway robbery.
OK, that's not true. It's just how it is. See, I knew all year as I freelanced that I should be setting aside money for taxes, but I didn't. Instead I went to Central America for two months. And this morning I wrote two checks, one to the feds and one to the state, for nearly $2,000. Now the balance in my checking account is uncomfortably low and my savings account is nonexistent.
I realize around this time of year that my case is far from unusual. But as a friend of mine suffering similar financial woes put it, we had already mentally spent the little money we had. I had already started planning my next trip in a couple months, this time maybe to Mexico?
Instead, I am sitting in front of my computer, wearing all of my clothes and wrapped in a blanket, in the part of the apartment without heat - which is pretty much all of it except for one room closed off to contain the warmth generated from a demonically possessed gas heater. We're eating eggs and beans nearly every meal. I spent the afternoon scheming ways to make money, combing the job sites and subsequently getting disappointed at the prospects, and checking and rechecking my bank balance online just to see if a miracle had happened. Plus, one of my travel buddies is back in Roatan (after a while in Costa Rica), working to become a dive master, drinking endless Port Royals, sitting in hammocks and generally making my sub-freezing, penniless existence in upstate New York pale in comparison.
I can't help but think I am living a version of the time our parents always talked about while we rolled our eyes. Something about living in squalor to follow a dream or struggling to make ends meet on the road to happiness or up hill both ways in the snow and whatnot. Am I going to one day lean back in my chair, my eyes glazed over, and reminisce about these tough times and how we cut corners but built character?
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. In a few days, I am sure the shock will wear off and I'll be borrowing the car to go to Target. In fact, I've already booked a bus ticket to visit friends in New York this weekend.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
365 days of this garbage?
Yesterday was this blog's one year anniversary. Or would you call it a first birthday? I'm not sure, and to tell you the truth, I am not sure that means a thing, except perhaps just that I have been sharing my mindless drivel with the online world - that is, all three readers to stop by here - for a full year. Again, am I proud or embarrassed? Anyway, I thought at least it should just be pointed out. Cheers to "it's better than a mass email".
Also of note is my recent realization of how much I have moved around in the last year and a half. Last September I left a cushy job and comfortable life to move alone to Chicago. Then six months later after surviving a Chicago winter, I moved to Prague. After three months there and a long weekend back in my studio apartment in Chicago, I moved to Washington, DC for the summer. September (and graduating) brought me back to Chicago, but to a different tiny studio a stone's throw from my previous one. In January, I left again for two months in Central America, one month of that spent living with a family in Copan Ruinas, only to return knowing I needed to move yet again, this time out of Chicago and to upstate New York. In two months or less, I'll move again to some as of yet undisclosed location. Recounting all of this makes my head spin. I'm exhausted.
Also of note is my recent realization of how much I have moved around in the last year and a half. Last September I left a cushy job and comfortable life to move alone to Chicago. Then six months later after surviving a Chicago winter, I moved to Prague. After three months there and a long weekend back in my studio apartment in Chicago, I moved to Washington, DC for the summer. September (and graduating) brought me back to Chicago, but to a different tiny studio a stone's throw from my previous one. In January, I left again for two months in Central America, one month of that spent living with a family in Copan Ruinas, only to return knowing I needed to move yet again, this time out of Chicago and to upstate New York. In two months or less, I'll move again to some as of yet undisclosed location. Recounting all of this makes my head spin. I'm exhausted.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
A day in the life
It's been a few days since I have written, and after you hear what I have been doing (a typical day's schedule to follow), you will understand my void of any insight, and perhaps wish I hadn't taken the time to write this.
7 a.m. - wake up. Look, I might not have much to do, but that does not equal a cure for insomnia. And I did watch three recorded episodes of The OC last night (I couldn't stop!), and my mind was swimming with the drama that is the lives of Ryan and Marissa, et. al. So I'm up, and I decide to read for a bit, wondering why I fancy myself a writer but have yet to come up with phrases and analogies mere fractions as funny or clever as this author.
8:30 a.m. - cereal and coffee while watching the Today Show. I marvel again at the tragedy that is Anne Curry's hair, and then remember my conversation with my step-mother a couple days ago: Me: What's with Anne Curry's hair? It's looks horrid! Step-mother: She cut it off and gave it to Locks of Love. Me: Oh. Oops. So that's why she's been growing it out so long, which is kind of unheard of when it comes to TV anchor women. Well, I'm an ass. Today, it was on to hard-hitting coverage such as how Al tried (and didn't quite make it) to lose 20 pounds and a mock quiz show featuring a 10-year-old who has already published a book on presidential trivia and plans to run for the slot in 20 years. Hey, I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm not a social outcast.
9:30 - 12:30 p.m. - work, also known as putting in a few calls and emails, and spending the remaining 2 hours and 45 minutes organizing and renaming the 900 photos from our trip while listening to bachata on my computer. For three days I've been trying to pare down and arrange the photos for an online scrapbook, but I've only managed to narrow them down to 450, and it's going to take awhile to do captions for all of those. I also took time - about a half hour - to craft a five-line email in Spanish to my friend. It's getting harder and harder.
12:30 - lunch break. I made grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches, with my new favorite food: avocados.
1:30 - 2 - unexpected nap on chair after reading roughly four and a half pages of aforementioned book.
2:15 - back to work. I come to the decision that this freelance assignment due Friday is just not going to happen, what with my sources not telepathically sensing I need to contact them and thus preemptively calling me with the proper answers, kindly saving me from exerting any minute effort on the story. So I email my editor to tell him I need more time and that so many folks are declining to comment, and just as I hit send, two sources finally call me back. Shit. Now it looks like I'll have to file after all.
4:30 - I realize at this point that I am still in my pajama pants, with no plans to don jeans and leave the house. I also begin to feel my eyeballs drying out from staring at the computer screen tiled with 900 images of me, my friends, tropical trees, horses, sunsets and random strangers who we've coaxed to give the requisite thumbs-up pose for each shot. I think my muscles are also starting to atrophy, so I decide it's time to revisit the gym I just joined. Something tells me it's geared to a more life-seasoned crowd, as it's called Forever Young and has an aerobic class called Silver Sneakers, but I'm not daunted. I can stationary bike next to grandma without hesitation. In fact, upon my arrival, I am surprised at the unexpected amount of 20-something jocks (one in particular who looks like he overstayed his welcome at the Fake n Bake by about 18 hours and smells overwhelmingly of vanilla and something close to bananas).
7 - dinner of enchiladas, another variation on my Central American culinary theme, which I have yet to tire from. While eating, we watch a downloaded copy of 8 Simple Rules, the show that should have gone off the air the second John Ritter died, but instead limps on with only sporadically funny moments overpowered by dead father coping family themes. This particular episode was just weeks after his death, which they wrote into the show, and the daughters grapple with returning to school and struggling with the guilt of feeling an ounce of happiness or normalcy in a time when they should be mourning their father. All of a sudden, as I am sucking down a third enchilada, I am catapulted back to the fall of seventh grade when I returned to school motherless, greeted by oh-poor-you eyes and too-eager smiles from teachers and peers when really I just wanted to pretend it was just another middle school days, and oh my gah I can't believe she wore that, and isn't he so cute, and similar teenage dribble drabble. All of a sudden, I felt a lump in my throat, and it was clearly time to get up and do the dishes. Add that to the list of TV shows that hit too close to home and I can therefore no longer watch.
9 - finally the moment I've been waiting all week for: the newest episode of The OC. I wonder how Marissa will get along now that she and Ryan broke up, and what is happening with Mrs. Cooper-Nickle and Summer's dad?! And of course, I won't miss a chance to hear my BF mockingly quip in a high-pitched and comically timed voice "Biotch!" or "Oh snap!"
7 a.m. - wake up. Look, I might not have much to do, but that does not equal a cure for insomnia. And I did watch three recorded episodes of The OC last night (I couldn't stop!), and my mind was swimming with the drama that is the lives of Ryan and Marissa, et. al. So I'm up, and I decide to read for a bit, wondering why I fancy myself a writer but have yet to come up with phrases and analogies mere fractions as funny or clever as this author.
8:30 a.m. - cereal and coffee while watching the Today Show. I marvel again at the tragedy that is Anne Curry's hair, and then remember my conversation with my step-mother a couple days ago: Me: What's with Anne Curry's hair? It's looks horrid! Step-mother: She cut it off and gave it to Locks of Love. Me: Oh. Oops. So that's why she's been growing it out so long, which is kind of unheard of when it comes to TV anchor women. Well, I'm an ass. Today, it was on to hard-hitting coverage such as how Al tried (and didn't quite make it) to lose 20 pounds and a mock quiz show featuring a 10-year-old who has already published a book on presidential trivia and plans to run for the slot in 20 years. Hey, I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm not a social outcast.
9:30 - 12:30 p.m. - work, also known as putting in a few calls and emails, and spending the remaining 2 hours and 45 minutes organizing and renaming the 900 photos from our trip while listening to bachata on my computer. For three days I've been trying to pare down and arrange the photos for an online scrapbook, but I've only managed to narrow them down to 450, and it's going to take awhile to do captions for all of those. I also took time - about a half hour - to craft a five-line email in Spanish to my friend. It's getting harder and harder.
12:30 - lunch break. I made grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches, with my new favorite food: avocados.
1:30 - 2 - unexpected nap on chair after reading roughly four and a half pages of aforementioned book.
2:15 - back to work. I come to the decision that this freelance assignment due Friday is just not going to happen, what with my sources not telepathically sensing I need to contact them and thus preemptively calling me with the proper answers, kindly saving me from exerting any minute effort on the story. So I email my editor to tell him I need more time and that so many folks are declining to comment, and just as I hit send, two sources finally call me back. Shit. Now it looks like I'll have to file after all.
4:30 - I realize at this point that I am still in my pajama pants, with no plans to don jeans and leave the house. I also begin to feel my eyeballs drying out from staring at the computer screen tiled with 900 images of me, my friends, tropical trees, horses, sunsets and random strangers who we've coaxed to give the requisite thumbs-up pose for each shot. I think my muscles are also starting to atrophy, so I decide it's time to revisit the gym I just joined. Something tells me it's geared to a more life-seasoned crowd, as it's called Forever Young and has an aerobic class called Silver Sneakers, but I'm not daunted. I can stationary bike next to grandma without hesitation. In fact, upon my arrival, I am surprised at the unexpected amount of 20-something jocks (one in particular who looks like he overstayed his welcome at the Fake n Bake by about 18 hours and smells overwhelmingly of vanilla and something close to bananas).
7 - dinner of enchiladas, another variation on my Central American culinary theme, which I have yet to tire from. While eating, we watch a downloaded copy of 8 Simple Rules, the show that should have gone off the air the second John Ritter died, but instead limps on with only sporadically funny moments overpowered by dead father coping family themes. This particular episode was just weeks after his death, which they wrote into the show, and the daughters grapple with returning to school and struggling with the guilt of feeling an ounce of happiness or normalcy in a time when they should be mourning their father. All of a sudden, as I am sucking down a third enchilada, I am catapulted back to the fall of seventh grade when I returned to school motherless, greeted by oh-poor-you eyes and too-eager smiles from teachers and peers when really I just wanted to pretend it was just another middle school days, and oh my gah I can't believe she wore that, and isn't he so cute, and similar teenage dribble drabble. All of a sudden, I felt a lump in my throat, and it was clearly time to get up and do the dishes. Add that to the list of TV shows that hit too close to home and I can therefore no longer watch.
9 - finally the moment I've been waiting all week for: the newest episode of The OC. I wonder how Marissa will get along now that she and Ryan broke up, and what is happening with Mrs. Cooper-Nickle and Summer's dad?! And of course, I won't miss a chance to hear my BF mockingly quip in a high-pitched and comically timed voice "Biotch!" or "Oh snap!"
Monday, March 13, 2006
looking for the "right" job
I got an email this morning from a mentor who said she heard I was having a hard time finding the right job. Interesting. This raises two questions: a) who's talking about my job search, and b) is it fair to say I can't find the "right" job, when technically I haven't started looking for any job?
Jobs. Oh, jobs. It took me many months to free myself from the competitive judgmental grasp that was graduate school. The pressure to find the most amazing journalism job in all the land was enough to stifle me into not looking for work at all. So I freelanced. And then I traveled. And how I am back - with hopefully a somewhat clearer mind to determine what it is I want to do for a living and a renewed motivation to dive head-first into the hunt.
The "for a living" part here is key. I think so many people forget that jobs are just that - work. What you do each day to earn a paycheck and contribute to society does not define you as a person. It might sound basic, but I think people tend to overlook that, giving too much weight to occupation and not enough to hobbies, friends, interests....
That said, I fear that it has been so long since I got up in the morning to go to an office, that entering the workforce again is going to be a struggle. I mean, if I work all day, how am I ever going to find the time to listen to Latin music and look at the pictures from our trip for hours on end (which is just what I have been doing for the past three days)? My friend says we should allow ourselves this time to reminisce about the trip, rehashing stories and pine for the tropical adventures. I hope she's right, because right now we can't seem to get enough. No, she doesn't have a job either, which might also contribute to the current state of affairs.
I came home this weekend to surprise my father for his 60th birthday. My step-mother arranged it, and after a week of trying to coordinate the surprise, we have decidedly determined she would be a terrible covert CIA agent. Her whispers into the phone with my dad in the next room and her plans to call my cell phone, let it ring once and hang up to signal they are ready for my grand entrance just didn't come across smoothly. Perhaps the biggest mistake was her asking my dad to lunch on Saturday. She never wants to go out to lunch, much less pay for it, on a weekend day when there is yard work to be done and no doubt days-old leftovers that can be resuscitated into an acceptable meal. My pops was a little suspicious, but when we walked into the BBQ restaurant (that's right, this is the South, after all), the look on his face was priceless.
Jobs. Oh, jobs. It took me many months to free myself from the competitive judgmental grasp that was graduate school. The pressure to find the most amazing journalism job in all the land was enough to stifle me into not looking for work at all. So I freelanced. And then I traveled. And how I am back - with hopefully a somewhat clearer mind to determine what it is I want to do for a living and a renewed motivation to dive head-first into the hunt.
The "for a living" part here is key. I think so many people forget that jobs are just that - work. What you do each day to earn a paycheck and contribute to society does not define you as a person. It might sound basic, but I think people tend to overlook that, giving too much weight to occupation and not enough to hobbies, friends, interests....
That said, I fear that it has been so long since I got up in the morning to go to an office, that entering the workforce again is going to be a struggle. I mean, if I work all day, how am I ever going to find the time to listen to Latin music and look at the pictures from our trip for hours on end (which is just what I have been doing for the past three days)? My friend says we should allow ourselves this time to reminisce about the trip, rehashing stories and pine for the tropical adventures. I hope she's right, because right now we can't seem to get enough. No, she doesn't have a job either, which might also contribute to the current state of affairs.
I came home this weekend to surprise my father for his 60th birthday. My step-mother arranged it, and after a week of trying to coordinate the surprise, we have decidedly determined she would be a terrible covert CIA agent. Her whispers into the phone with my dad in the next room and her plans to call my cell phone, let it ring once and hang up to signal they are ready for my grand entrance just didn't come across smoothly. Perhaps the biggest mistake was her asking my dad to lunch on Saturday. She never wants to go out to lunch, much less pay for it, on a weekend day when there is yard work to be done and no doubt days-old leftovers that can be resuscitated into an acceptable meal. My pops was a little suspicious, but when we walked into the BBQ restaurant (that's right, this is the South, after all), the look on his face was priceless.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
I'm a big winner
I have been getting calls for a Mr. or Mrs. Foley for several months now, or sometimes just for Ilene, and each time I tell them they have the wrong number and don't think much of it.
Until today, when apparently I won a giant sweepstakes. After I told the caller that once again he had the wrong number, he said "Look, I am just trying to reach the man or woman of the house with this phone number. It's been entered into a sweepstakes and we have been trying to reach you for a while to claim the prize, which is a new Mercedes Benz or a $1,500 shopping spree."
Me: Right. Okay. Well, I guess I am the woman of the house.
Man on the phone: Great, then you are eligible to collect these prizes. You just have to take down this 800 number and call Mark Foley.
Me: Mark Foley?
Man: Yes, he can arrange for you to collect your prizes.
I know, I know. There is a catch. There is always a catch, but I have to tell you, a significant part of me got a bit excited, and I would be lying if I hadn't already pictured my hair flapping in the wind as I screeched down the street in my new sleek Mercedes, windows rolled down, reggaeton blaring. Oh and all the things I could buy with $1,500..... Shoot, I'll call this Mark guy.
A woman answers the 800 number, saying something about a sweepstakes collection center. I ask for Mark. He's busy, but maybe she can help me. I explain the situation, how I'm not Mrs. Foley but apparently my phone number won and so I'd like to kindly collect on these prizes and by the way, can I choose the color of the car?
Enter the catch. All you have to do is take a 90-minute tour of some suburban Illinois resort and then I will be directly ushered to the garage where my shiny black sports car is waiting with the keys in the ignition.
Instead, tomorrow I will be behind the wheel of a giant boat of a rental car - I am banking on a Cutlass Supreme? - packed high with the last of my belongings, shedding a small tear as I leave this fabulous city of mine.
Until today, when apparently I won a giant sweepstakes. After I told the caller that once again he had the wrong number, he said "Look, I am just trying to reach the man or woman of the house with this phone number. It's been entered into a sweepstakes and we have been trying to reach you for a while to claim the prize, which is a new Mercedes Benz or a $1,500 shopping spree."
Me: Right. Okay. Well, I guess I am the woman of the house.
Man on the phone: Great, then you are eligible to collect these prizes. You just have to take down this 800 number and call Mark Foley.
Me: Mark Foley?
Man: Yes, he can arrange for you to collect your prizes.
I know, I know. There is a catch. There is always a catch, but I have to tell you, a significant part of me got a bit excited, and I would be lying if I hadn't already pictured my hair flapping in the wind as I screeched down the street in my new sleek Mercedes, windows rolled down, reggaeton blaring. Oh and all the things I could buy with $1,500..... Shoot, I'll call this Mark guy.
A woman answers the 800 number, saying something about a sweepstakes collection center. I ask for Mark. He's busy, but maybe she can help me. I explain the situation, how I'm not Mrs. Foley but apparently my phone number won and so I'd like to kindly collect on these prizes and by the way, can I choose the color of the car?
Enter the catch. All you have to do is take a 90-minute tour of some suburban Illinois resort and then I will be directly ushered to the garage where my shiny black sports car is waiting with the keys in the ignition.
Instead, tomorrow I will be behind the wheel of a giant boat of a rental car - I am banking on a Cutlass Supreme? - packed high with the last of my belongings, shedding a small tear as I leave this fabulous city of mine.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
It's snowing here.
Really. Snowing. These shenanigans have been going on for hours now. I know what you are thinking: Sara, you live in Chicago. It's still winter there. It snows in Chicago all the ever-loving time.
And yes, the weather would not be that big of a deal if a) I didn't just get back from the freaking island tropics where I was tan and constantly sweaty and b) I didn't have my winter jacket stolen from the bar this weekend. Who, by the way, steals coats? Especially since it's (hopefully) mere weeks until spring breaks, stores have already shipped out their coats and are stocked with sun dresses, and I have absolutely zero dollars in the bank to shell out for a new coat. Curses.
Nerd alert for the day: One of my traveling buddies and I have been emailing back and forth each day in Spanish, each note including four or five new vocab words. Nerdy, we know, but I am hoping this will help us retain the Spanish. Words for today included asombroso (amazing) and pasmoso (awesome). Surprised?
In other news, I am moving from Chicago. I recently came to the realization that it was high time for me to live in the same city as mi amor, so I am moving to be with him. Enough of this crappy long-distance business. And as I am subletting my place, selling my stuff, packing up my clothes and having last nights dancing and last mornings afters eating at Clarks, I am finding that it feels just right.
And yes, the weather would not be that big of a deal if a) I didn't just get back from the freaking island tropics where I was tan and constantly sweaty and b) I didn't have my winter jacket stolen from the bar this weekend. Who, by the way, steals coats? Especially since it's (hopefully) mere weeks until spring breaks, stores have already shipped out their coats and are stocked with sun dresses, and I have absolutely zero dollars in the bank to shell out for a new coat. Curses.
Nerd alert for the day: One of my traveling buddies and I have been emailing back and forth each day in Spanish, each note including four or five new vocab words. Nerdy, we know, but I am hoping this will help us retain the Spanish. Words for today included asombroso (amazing) and pasmoso (awesome). Surprised?
In other news, I am moving from Chicago. I recently came to the realization that it was high time for me to live in the same city as mi amor, so I am moving to be with him. Enough of this crappy long-distance business. And as I am subletting my place, selling my stuff, packing up my clothes and having last nights dancing and last mornings afters eating at Clarks, I am finding that it feels just right.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
"Jesus hates peanut butter"
I just saw this scrawled on the bathroom at the Melrose Restaurant (I know, it took me less than 24 hours to get my ass there.... I love me some sweet and sour cabbage soup....). I thought the phrase was hysterical. And unequivocally wrong. I am sure Jesus loves peanut butter.
I have spent the entire day listening to reggaeton and I only threw the TP in the garbage can a couple times. Yep, I'm settling right back in.
So it's 3 p.m. and I just realized I have no idea what to do with my life. Career-wise, that is. Am I back to asking the annoying journalism questions that have chased me for the last half year: Newspapers or online? Back to magazines? If I forgo newspaper work, have I failed? Why do I feel pressured to get an amazing job which will thus define me as an amazing, successful person? Will I ever be able to find a job?! (OK, I haven't really started looking for a job, but I am sitting at my computer and I have visited Journalismjobs, so that's a start, right?)
Right as I felt the life-changes come-apart sneaking up and I was feeling overwhelmed by the site of my train wreck apartment and utter lack of order, I did what every sane woman does. I made a hair appointment. Joel seems to make everything OK and feeling cute puts everything into perspective.
I have spent the entire day listening to reggaeton and I only threw the TP in the garbage can a couple times. Yep, I'm settling right back in.
So it's 3 p.m. and I just realized I have no idea what to do with my life. Career-wise, that is. Am I back to asking the annoying journalism questions that have chased me for the last half year: Newspapers or online? Back to magazines? If I forgo newspaper work, have I failed? Why do I feel pressured to get an amazing job which will thus define me as an amazing, successful person? Will I ever be able to find a job?! (OK, I haven't really started looking for a job, but I am sitting at my computer and I have visited Journalismjobs, so that's a start, right?)
Right as I felt the life-changes come-apart sneaking up and I was feeling overwhelmed by the site of my train wreck apartment and utter lack of order, I did what every sane woman does. I made a hair appointment. Joel seems to make everything OK and feeling cute puts everything into perspective.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos
I'm home. The past few days have been jam-packed with traveling. We left Roatan at about 6 a.m. on Saturday (with four new friends in tow, which I expected to be a huge pain in the ass since we were on a tight time schedule - and I am neurotic - but it actually worked out quite well... The only mishap was that in a sleepy hungover haze, we got into the wrong cab, thinking we were piling into the one we arranged and paid $10 for the day before), and got to Copan in time for the discoteca.
Being back in Copan for the weekend was a nice way to end the trip. Although a few things had changed in just a couple weeks (for example, the school had moved to a new building, and of course, all our teachers had new students), it felt familiar. It was also quite a test of our Spanish skills. We had dinner one night with one of our teachers, and basically flubbed for the first 20 minutes. But by the time we started playing Spanish scrabble with her 6-year-old, we were right back on the Spanish-speaking track, albeit at an elementary level.
Now that I have landed home safe and sound, I can voice a few things I didn't want to say for fear of jinxing us. For one, now I can honestly say no major tragedies happened on this trip; none of us was mugged or bags slashed or luggage lost or travel plans foiled. Sure we all had diarrhea for weeks, I had violent food poisoning, two others were out with a bacteria for a week or so.... but nothing too detrimental. Not a bad trip.
There are already a few things I miss, topping the list are eating baleadas and speaking Spanish. But here a few things I welcome upon my return to the States: hot showers, washing machines (and dryers for Pete's sake!), high speed Internet, flushing the TP down the toilet... I guess it's the little things.
And I am sure I will do some more reminiscing about the trip as I put in my Reggaeton CD and cook up some huevos y frijoles, but really I guess now my blog will return to more mundane musings. Like my shower regimen experiment and whether I am really Jewish.
Being back in Copan for the weekend was a nice way to end the trip. Although a few things had changed in just a couple weeks (for example, the school had moved to a new building, and of course, all our teachers had new students), it felt familiar. It was also quite a test of our Spanish skills. We had dinner one night with one of our teachers, and basically flubbed for the first 20 minutes. But by the time we started playing Spanish scrabble with her 6-year-old, we were right back on the Spanish-speaking track, albeit at an elementary level.
Now that I have landed home safe and sound, I can voice a few things I didn't want to say for fear of jinxing us. For one, now I can honestly say no major tragedies happened on this trip; none of us was mugged or bags slashed or luggage lost or travel plans foiled. Sure we all had diarrhea for weeks, I had violent food poisoning, two others were out with a bacteria for a week or so.... but nothing too detrimental. Not a bad trip.
There are already a few things I miss, topping the list are eating baleadas and speaking Spanish. But here a few things I welcome upon my return to the States: hot showers, washing machines (and dryers for Pete's sake!), high speed Internet, flushing the TP down the toilet... I guess it's the little things.
And I am sure I will do some more reminiscing about the trip as I put in my Reggaeton CD and cook up some huevos y frijoles, but really I guess now my blog will return to more mundane musings. Like my shower regimen experiment and whether I am really Jewish.
Friday, February 24, 2006
"Divers are special people"
We are now certified open water divers, which I suppose is kind of surprising considering that less than a week ago, I had never considered diving before and even when we got here, I was sure it didn't interest me at all. Now, we are pretty much hooked.
I must admit, though, I don't think I am a natural at it. I was the one in the small class of four that was slowest to pick it up. For the few few dives, I found myself close to panic attacks, struggling to feel comfortable breathing and not feeling like my head was going to explode. Really, I had a hard time getting over the idea that we were breathing air underwater (even though I was strapped with a heavy ass air tank). It all feels a little counter-intuitive. Also, it felt much like learning to drive a stick shift - as you descend you have to remember to breath deep, exhaling fully to allow yourself to sink, equalize the air in your nose and ears constantly so you don't blow your ear drums, go slow and relax and don't forget to use all the appropriate hand signals.
The first day or so of diving was mainly a bunch of underwater skills, the worst being the one where you drop to the bottom and then have to take off your mask then put it back on and clear the water out of it. I am not sure why, but that was one of the hardest for me. We also got to do fun stuff like hover over the sand - which the first few times more closely resembled flailing about - and taking out your respirator to use your buddy's, in case you run out of air.
Yesterday afternoon was our fourth dive, and the final dive of the course. We didn't have to bother with skills, so we just got to go down about 60 feet and swim along the coral and the fish. It was amazing. We saw turtles, crabs, vibrantly colored parrot fish and trumpet fish and entire schools of fish that seemed to be swimming with us. A couple folks even saw a massive eagle ray. And more than looking around and identifying sea life, the whole experience of slowing moving along with them underwater just feet from the intricate and delicate coral was just breathtaking.
But it kind of took me a while to relax, which for those that know me well, is probably not surprising. See, I tend to be a little high strung, perhaps a bit tense. Rather than just let go and enjoy the experience, I find myself preoccupied with worst-case scenarios or slight discomforts. It was hard for me to shake the concerns of making sure my airspaces are equalized or that my mask wasn't going to fill up with water or that my head wouldn't explode. I did get more comfortable with each dive, and I expect the fun dive we have planned for today will be fine.
A self-reflective note: With all my anxieties and inabilities to relax, this trip has been good for me. I might be a little slow on the uptake with new experiences, but there have been a few times in the past two months that I have really pushed my boundaries and been pleasantly surprised. For example, the first time we went horseback riding, every single muscle in my body was tense and all I could picture was me flying forward head first and smashing out all of my teeth. By the second and third ride, I was ready to move to the country and buy a horse. It was similar with diving. The first few times, I was convinced my head would explode or I would drown or have an underwater come-apart. The third and fourth dive were progressively more enjoyable, and I am excited about getting in the water today.
One more thing that's tough about diving: you can't really laugh underwater. You can't talk or giggle, and signaling for your buddy to see what you are seeing is tough (which is why we are incessantly chatting and smiling the second we get back in the boat, after saying "that was fucking amazing" a few times the second our heads are above water and our respirators out of our mouths).
I must admit, though, I don't think I am a natural at it. I was the one in the small class of four that was slowest to pick it up. For the few few dives, I found myself close to panic attacks, struggling to feel comfortable breathing and not feeling like my head was going to explode. Really, I had a hard time getting over the idea that we were breathing air underwater (even though I was strapped with a heavy ass air tank). It all feels a little counter-intuitive. Also, it felt much like learning to drive a stick shift - as you descend you have to remember to breath deep, exhaling fully to allow yourself to sink, equalize the air in your nose and ears constantly so you don't blow your ear drums, go slow and relax and don't forget to use all the appropriate hand signals.
The first day or so of diving was mainly a bunch of underwater skills, the worst being the one where you drop to the bottom and then have to take off your mask then put it back on and clear the water out of it. I am not sure why, but that was one of the hardest for me. We also got to do fun stuff like hover over the sand - which the first few times more closely resembled flailing about - and taking out your respirator to use your buddy's, in case you run out of air.
Yesterday afternoon was our fourth dive, and the final dive of the course. We didn't have to bother with skills, so we just got to go down about 60 feet and swim along the coral and the fish. It was amazing. We saw turtles, crabs, vibrantly colored parrot fish and trumpet fish and entire schools of fish that seemed to be swimming with us. A couple folks even saw a massive eagle ray. And more than looking around and identifying sea life, the whole experience of slowing moving along with them underwater just feet from the intricate and delicate coral was just breathtaking.
But it kind of took me a while to relax, which for those that know me well, is probably not surprising. See, I tend to be a little high strung, perhaps a bit tense. Rather than just let go and enjoy the experience, I find myself preoccupied with worst-case scenarios or slight discomforts. It was hard for me to shake the concerns of making sure my airspaces are equalized or that my mask wasn't going to fill up with water or that my head wouldn't explode. I did get more comfortable with each dive, and I expect the fun dive we have planned for today will be fine.
A self-reflective note: With all my anxieties and inabilities to relax, this trip has been good for me. I might be a little slow on the uptake with new experiences, but there have been a few times in the past two months that I have really pushed my boundaries and been pleasantly surprised. For example, the first time we went horseback riding, every single muscle in my body was tense and all I could picture was me flying forward head first and smashing out all of my teeth. By the second and third ride, I was ready to move to the country and buy a horse. It was similar with diving. The first few times, I was convinced my head would explode or I would drown or have an underwater come-apart. The third and fourth dive were progressively more enjoyable, and I am excited about getting in the water today.
One more thing that's tough about diving: you can't really laugh underwater. You can't talk or giggle, and signaling for your buddy to see what you are seeing is tough (which is why we are incessantly chatting and smiling the second we get back in the boat, after saying "that was fucking amazing" a few times the second our heads are above water and our respirators out of our mouths).
Monday, February 20, 2006
"There isn't much to do here unless you're diving"
It seemed that everyone we talked to told us that if we were not diving here in Roatan, we'd have nothing to do. We thought that would be fine, but then I realized that I am the kind of person who needs an activity, some kind of outside stimulation, rather than simply sitting in the hot sun for the entire day.
So we decided to get certified to dive. Apparently this is the cheapest place in the world to learn and has some of the best conditions for diving. Not that I know a thing about diving, or even considered it until about 9 a.m. yesterday when sitting outside drinking a cup of coffee, we began chatting with some of the divers and decided maybe this is something we should do.
By 5 p.m. yesterday, we had our books and three chapters of homework. Today, we watching videos and I guess tomorrow we get in the water.
The only catch is that I don't have the most ideal sinuses, which I understand could be a hitch in diving. Filling out the questionnaire yesterday, I had to answer "yes" to a couple questions, including one about sinus surgery and allergy medications. This prompted orders from the dive instructor for me to visit the local dive doctor, which as expected, was something of an adventure this morning.
First of all, this doctor sounded kind of like a wack job when the instructor was describing him. For example, the instructor's brother has severe asthma and his doc at home warned him against any form of underwater activity. But this doctor here said it was fine, just ascend a bit slower. In fact, that was his advice for another woman whose condition was infected bug bites on her legs. No, I agree there's no connection between ascension speed and bug bites, but that was this doctor's advice.
So I went to see him this morning and paid $15 for him to look in my ears and nose and tell me I am good to go. He explained a few things about what can happen to my ears if there is too much pressure, but that I should just equalize more frequently (holding your nose and blowing out so that your ears pop a bit) and, of course, ascend slower.
So we decided to get certified to dive. Apparently this is the cheapest place in the world to learn and has some of the best conditions for diving. Not that I know a thing about diving, or even considered it until about 9 a.m. yesterday when sitting outside drinking a cup of coffee, we began chatting with some of the divers and decided maybe this is something we should do.
By 5 p.m. yesterday, we had our books and three chapters of homework. Today, we watching videos and I guess tomorrow we get in the water.
The only catch is that I don't have the most ideal sinuses, which I understand could be a hitch in diving. Filling out the questionnaire yesterday, I had to answer "yes" to a couple questions, including one about sinus surgery and allergy medications. This prompted orders from the dive instructor for me to visit the local dive doctor, which as expected, was something of an adventure this morning.
First of all, this doctor sounded kind of like a wack job when the instructor was describing him. For example, the instructor's brother has severe asthma and his doc at home warned him against any form of underwater activity. But this doctor here said it was fine, just ascend a bit slower. In fact, that was his advice for another woman whose condition was infected bug bites on her legs. No, I agree there's no connection between ascension speed and bug bites, but that was this doctor's advice.
So I went to see him this morning and paid $15 for him to look in my ears and nose and tell me I am good to go. He explained a few things about what can happen to my ears if there is too much pressure, but that I should just equalize more frequently (holding your nose and blowing out so that your ears pop a bit) and, of course, ascend slower.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
our trip to the beach
Por fin, we are at the beach. We made our way to the Bay Islands of Honduras on Thursday, which turned out to be yet another adventure. Here's a rough sketch of the day's events:
6 a.m. - Wake up, pack, order some breakfast, pay for our room and suck down some fruit and granola.
7:15 - Run out of the hotel and down the street, lugging our packs, with little knowledge of how we are getting to Roatan, save for a recommendation that we hitch a 7:30 speed boat ride to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. This was to avoid ever having to set foot in Rio Dulce again (which was the original plan, return to RD and catch a bus to La Ceiba.... then on to Roatan).
7:25 - Make our way to one of the docks, where some man asked us where we were going. We say Puerto Barrios, and he hurries us into a speed boat, which was empty except for three open buckets of fish and three locals. About 30 Q and a few seconds later, we were speeding to Puerto Barrios.
8:10 - Arrive at PB. Off the boat, we tell another stranger where we are trying to get. He says there is in fact no direct bus to La Ceiba (where we know we need to be to catch a ferry to Roatan). He says we first have to go to this tiny border town, then to Puerto Cortez, then to San Pedro Sula (a total shithole that we were hoping to avoid) and then to La Ceiba. Geez. So we agree and pay an inordinate amount of money for a less-than-an-hour shuttle ride to a nothing border town.
9 - The driver pulls over and tells us this is our stop, but it looks more like a construction site with a few school buses parked along the road. This, we suppose, is the border crossing. He points to the line of buses and says they will take us to Puerto Cortez. After paying the immigration guards an exit fee, stamping our passports and hovering around the pseudo bus depot, we board one of said chicken buses - this one painted white and green and souped up with booming speakers mounted above the back door and a blinking license plate cover mounted near the front door.
About 10:30 or so - We arrive in Puerto Cortez, after having traveled through some tiny coastal towns, each marked by a blue Pepsi sign with the town's name under the logo. We talked with a few people (including a police officer from San Pedro Sula), and just sat back and enjoyed hearing the much-welcomed blaring Reggaeton and seeing Port Royal signs out the windows. (If I have not already mentioned Port Royal, it's the best beer ever. Honduran and awesome. More on that later.) We felt relaxed, like we were on our way home, sort of.
Sometime after 11 - I lose track, but at some point around 11, we arrive in PC, board yet another bus, this one a smaller shuttle, for an hour long ride to San Pedro Sula. Pretty uneventful, but yes, to answer your question, we went from riding along the coast to them back tracking inland down to SPS in order to go back up to the coast. That's just how it's done, I guess.
12:15 - Arrive at the bus station in SPS, buy ticket to La Ceiba and then wander across the street for cheese empanadas from a street vendor. We had been talking about empenadas (and baleadas and Port Royals) since we left Copan, and were really craving them. We inhaled them just in time to board the final bus of the day. About four hours later, we got to La Ceiba.
The next morning, we left one of the many danky hotels we have stayed in to catch a 10 a.m. ferry ride to Roatan. Yesterday was gorgeous: clear blue skies over sandy white beaches, lush tropical plants and palm trees, and of course cold Port Royals. The only catch here is that it is inordinately expensive. First of all, most prices are listed in American dollars, which I find annoying since last time I checked we were in Honduras and I was trying to experience the country and the language. Hotels, food, shopping - all of it is close to American prices (OK, except for lodging but $10 a night each feels like a lot after spending mere dollars to crash). But really, I can't complain. We are settling in for a week of sunning and relaxing.
I will end this entry with an open letter to Port Royal. In Spanish.
Querida Port Royal,
Te amo. Cuando yo viajaba en Guatemala, te extrane. Tu estas la mejor cerveza en todo el mundo - delicioso, fresco y mas barrato. Me gusta tomarte con limon y sal. Cuando estoy tomandote, me recuerdo nuestro viaje en Honduras y estoy feliz. Espero que nosotros podamos tomarte en los Estados Unidos cuando regresemos. Pero ahora, nosotros vamos a tomarte mucho. Gracias.
Con amor,
Sara
6 a.m. - Wake up, pack, order some breakfast, pay for our room and suck down some fruit and granola.
7:15 - Run out of the hotel and down the street, lugging our packs, with little knowledge of how we are getting to Roatan, save for a recommendation that we hitch a 7:30 speed boat ride to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. This was to avoid ever having to set foot in Rio Dulce again (which was the original plan, return to RD and catch a bus to La Ceiba.... then on to Roatan).
7:25 - Make our way to one of the docks, where some man asked us where we were going. We say Puerto Barrios, and he hurries us into a speed boat, which was empty except for three open buckets of fish and three locals. About 30 Q and a few seconds later, we were speeding to Puerto Barrios.
8:10 - Arrive at PB. Off the boat, we tell another stranger where we are trying to get. He says there is in fact no direct bus to La Ceiba (where we know we need to be to catch a ferry to Roatan). He says we first have to go to this tiny border town, then to Puerto Cortez, then to San Pedro Sula (a total shithole that we were hoping to avoid) and then to La Ceiba. Geez. So we agree and pay an inordinate amount of money for a less-than-an-hour shuttle ride to a nothing border town.
9 - The driver pulls over and tells us this is our stop, but it looks more like a construction site with a few school buses parked along the road. This, we suppose, is the border crossing. He points to the line of buses and says they will take us to Puerto Cortez. After paying the immigration guards an exit fee, stamping our passports and hovering around the pseudo bus depot, we board one of said chicken buses - this one painted white and green and souped up with booming speakers mounted above the back door and a blinking license plate cover mounted near the front door.
About 10:30 or so - We arrive in Puerto Cortez, after having traveled through some tiny coastal towns, each marked by a blue Pepsi sign with the town's name under the logo. We talked with a few people (including a police officer from San Pedro Sula), and just sat back and enjoyed hearing the much-welcomed blaring Reggaeton and seeing Port Royal signs out the windows. (If I have not already mentioned Port Royal, it's the best beer ever. Honduran and awesome. More on that later.) We felt relaxed, like we were on our way home, sort of.
Sometime after 11 - I lose track, but at some point around 11, we arrive in PC, board yet another bus, this one a smaller shuttle, for an hour long ride to San Pedro Sula. Pretty uneventful, but yes, to answer your question, we went from riding along the coast to them back tracking inland down to SPS in order to go back up to the coast. That's just how it's done, I guess.
12:15 - Arrive at the bus station in SPS, buy ticket to La Ceiba and then wander across the street for cheese empanadas from a street vendor. We had been talking about empenadas (and baleadas and Port Royals) since we left Copan, and were really craving them. We inhaled them just in time to board the final bus of the day. About four hours later, we got to La Ceiba.
The next morning, we left one of the many danky hotels we have stayed in to catch a 10 a.m. ferry ride to Roatan. Yesterday was gorgeous: clear blue skies over sandy white beaches, lush tropical plants and palm trees, and of course cold Port Royals. The only catch here is that it is inordinately expensive. First of all, most prices are listed in American dollars, which I find annoying since last time I checked we were in Honduras and I was trying to experience the country and the language. Hotels, food, shopping - all of it is close to American prices (OK, except for lodging but $10 a night each feels like a lot after spending mere dollars to crash). But really, I can't complain. We are settling in for a week of sunning and relaxing.
I will end this entry with an open letter to Port Royal. In Spanish.
Querida Port Royal,
Te amo. Cuando yo viajaba en Guatemala, te extrane. Tu estas la mejor cerveza en todo el mundo - delicioso, fresco y mas barrato. Me gusta tomarte con limon y sal. Cuando estoy tomandote, me recuerdo nuestro viaje en Honduras y estoy feliz. Espero que nosotros podamos tomarte en los Estados Unidos cuando regresemos. Pero ahora, nosotros vamos a tomarte mucho. Gracias.
Con amor,
Sara
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
