So, I am now back in Portland, attending Lewis and Clark (properly) for the first time in 3 semesters... and they think I'm graduating this year. I mean, it must be a joke - I've only had 3 semesters of real school (by which I mean, on campus), and then 3 semesters of self-development and travel, and now they think I'm a senior. It's simply ludicrous.
But, silly confusion of my school's administrators aside, it's... interesting to be back. I'd say it's good to be here, and that would be true, but only a partial truth. In actuality, it's disorienting and hectic and stressful and exciting and draining and uplifting all at once. First off, unlike 95% of the students here, I had one month of vacation time, instead of the typical four months. Second, schoolwork is a daily actuality here - hundreds of pages of reading per week (200 for just one of my classes), frequent quizzes and papers and homework... quite a difference from the lackadaisical academia of Chile and the paper-based classes in Germany. On top of the schoolwork, I'm working on preserving (or in some cases, probably still developing) literacy in 3 languages, and on preparing myself for a successful entrance into the "real world" in less than eight months.
Less than eight months. That number seems so impossible to me, when eight months ago I was running across Europe with Jay, and eight months before that, getting my heart broken for the first time in Chile. Time is elusive and relative, if not entirely random (or a creative figment of our collective imagination). Regardless of this, they say that at the end of this year, I'm an educated adult and must therefore secure work or go about seeking to find someone to fund my perpetual education. As years of graduate school does not sound like paradise after my experience in Germany, I'm going with the theory that my resume needs some serious work. To this effect, I'm working 13 hours/week in the on-campus cafeteria, volunteer-managing the swim team, leading discussion groups in first- and second-year German classes, (hopefully) tutoring Spanish and German students, and working on developing a nice honors thesis for German.
This is on top of my four other classes. Theoretically, I will have a light class load next semester, allowing me the time to (a) really concentrate on my thesis and (b) finding a local internship related to my desired field of work. In the meantime, I should probably consider what that field is.... For now, it's all I can do to keep up with my schedule of classes and meetings and deadlines and practices, eating and exercising when I have free time. It's pretty crazy, but it's also so very RIGHT. I'm liking my classes again. I'm inspired to work for them, to care about my education.... And it's such a relief to find that I still have the ability to care, that I'm happy to push myself to keep it.
I was thinking today how strongly I've been influenced by my participation on the swim team in my first years here - despite never being one of the true competitors (that is to say, not one of the ones who was breaking records or placing well in meets), I always pushed myself and those around me to do their best... To finish the set, despite being behind, to test our own limits. I'm thrilled to find that I'm doing that now, as second nature, without even trying. And what's more, I'm succeeding. Yes, there are concessions, and times when I have to admit that I'm not up a specific challenge, but I'm constantly pushing myself, refusing to allow that bit of boredom (or in some cases, exhaustion) preclude me from finishing my reading for the next day, refusing to slack off at work, refusing to drop off the swim team completely (though I'm physically not up to the challenge anymore), refusing to do shoddy work when I can do better.
This is where I was going sophomore year. This is where I was afraid I'd never be again after Germany. And this is where I am now. Where I'll be in a week, I couldn't say. Quite possibly burning out just a few weeks into the semester, but very likely still loving it.
Pushing limits - I think my parents used to be upset about my inclinations to do this, but perhaps just because I was pushing theirs and not mine. Expanding my own boundaries, testing my abilities, endurance, and dedication... I love that LC inspires me to do this. And right now, where I am, I'm feeling amazingly content with my life. Despite having no idea where I'll be in eight months, and despite having a very imposing to-do list to still complete tonight, and despite having a lot of research to do this week, every time I pause (be it only for a moment), I'm struck by how really happy I am here.
Admittedly, much of this may have to do with Jay, who is serendipitously living right down the hall, or with the euphoria of being "back in my element" or with my re-discovery of the joys of a free gym/swimming pool, or with the gloriously sunny weather.
...But that doesn't really matter, I don't think. The point is, I'm thrilled to be here, doing what I'm doing. So, yay life. Now to read some German, some Spanish, some history, and to scour some German newspapers.
I leave you, therefore, with a quote that's been running itself through my head recently. And, although the song is in many ways depressing, I find this particular section inspiring and uplifting:
"These things we do to keep the flame burnin
And write our fire in the sky
Another day to see the world turnin
Another avenue to try."
-"Luck of the Draw" by Bonnie Raitt
Much love to everyone (here's to hoping that it's contagious).
12 September 2006
22 August 2006
Back in the Bay Area
Berkeley, California
Interestingly enough, after returning from Valparaíso, Chile, Berkeley seemed sparkly and clean in comparison. Now, returning from Germany, I’m struggling to come to grips (again) with the homeless population, with the smell of too many cars, and with the considerable decrease in general prettiness (in strictest terms) from shiny Munich.
The other extreme is taken by Palo Alto, the suburb where I grew up. This rich community of Stanford-alumni or Stanford-bound is laid out by an oppressive city ordinance requiring every house to follow the uniform tree regulation of its street (when our house’s oak tree died, the city refused to allow us to plant a willow tree in its stead, as that would have destroyed the unity of Greer St.). The result, of course, is a very lush suburb (especially in comparison to urban Berkeley), further highlighted by the range of shiny expensive cars driven around by the locals (public high school students driving brand new Mustangs and Porsches? You’d better believe it.)
I always feel out of place in Palo Alto now. Partially, this is due to my frustration at having taken this extremely privileged community as the “norm” when I was in high school (I recall temporarily resenting the fact that my parents gave me the used minivan when I turned sixteen, instead of buying me a shiny new car like all the other kids). While I appreciate the education, opportunities, and friendships that growing up in Palo Alto afforded me, I regret that I was drawn into that culture without even knowing it. It saddens me that my parents had to deal with another Palo Alto snob as a child, when all they wanted was to give me a good education.
I now occasionally refer to Palo Alto as the “shiny city” (so named for the spotless streets as well as for the shiny new cars. Karin, our wonderful neighbor in Palo Alto, once said that it was as if there was a little old lady sweeping up after everyone in Palo Alto). So, if I mention it again (which I’m sure to do), you’ll know what I’m talking about.
It’s strange, associating “home” with Berkeley and Valpo and LC and Munich (well, Jay) all at once. Strange, and disconcerting at the same time. I feel as if I’m not really here. I can see my hands in front of me, and they’re cooking something in the Berkeley kitchen, but if I turned around, the Valpo dining room could face me. Or if I pass through that door, Jay could be sitting on the chair playing guitar. Or if I barge into the hallway brandishing a tube of toothpaste, I can wage a playful war with Rigel (my first year roommate at LC). All my memories are trying to coexist, to meld the places into the time that I feel they must have occurred in. In the space of two years, could I really have been in all these places? Plus the traveling with Carrie in Latin America? And with Jay in Europe? And with my dad in London? And with Julia to the coast? Realistically, it doesn’t add up. If everything happened “just yesterday”, then clearly they must all be in one place.
Either that, or I have a wicked-fast method of rocket-based travel.
In the time remaining in CA (about 1.4 weeks), I need to somehow (a) get my knee fixed by a chiropractor (b) get my yearly physical (c) make an appointment and get all four of my wisdom teeth removed (d) get a cellphone (e) somehow get down to Santa Cruz to see Leoni and (f) figure out what I want to write my honor’s thesis on.
Oh, and pack for my final year at LC. You know, seeing as my flight leaves on the first of September. Arg. Maybe I can finish knitting that haltar top and reading the pile of delectable for-fun books in that time too? And sleep? Sure I can. Maybe. Hm.
The other extreme is taken by Palo Alto, the suburb where I grew up. This rich community of Stanford-alumni or Stanford-bound is laid out by an oppressive city ordinance requiring every house to follow the uniform tree regulation of its street (when our house’s oak tree died, the city refused to allow us to plant a willow tree in its stead, as that would have destroyed the unity of Greer St.). The result, of course, is a very lush suburb (especially in comparison to urban Berkeley), further highlighted by the range of shiny expensive cars driven around by the locals (public high school students driving brand new Mustangs and Porsches? You’d better believe it.)
I always feel out of place in Palo Alto now. Partially, this is due to my frustration at having taken this extremely privileged community as the “norm” when I was in high school (I recall temporarily resenting the fact that my parents gave me the used minivan when I turned sixteen, instead of buying me a shiny new car like all the other kids). While I appreciate the education, opportunities, and friendships that growing up in Palo Alto afforded me, I regret that I was drawn into that culture without even knowing it. It saddens me that my parents had to deal with another Palo Alto snob as a child, when all they wanted was to give me a good education.
I now occasionally refer to Palo Alto as the “shiny city” (so named for the spotless streets as well as for the shiny new cars. Karin, our wonderful neighbor in Palo Alto, once said that it was as if there was a little old lady sweeping up after everyone in Palo Alto). So, if I mention it again (which I’m sure to do), you’ll know what I’m talking about.
It’s strange, associating “home” with Berkeley and Valpo and LC and Munich (well, Jay) all at once. Strange, and disconcerting at the same time. I feel as if I’m not really here. I can see my hands in front of me, and they’re cooking something in the Berkeley kitchen, but if I turned around, the Valpo dining room could face me. Or if I pass through that door, Jay could be sitting on the chair playing guitar. Or if I barge into the hallway brandishing a tube of toothpaste, I can wage a playful war with Rigel (my first year roommate at LC). All my memories are trying to coexist, to meld the places into the time that I feel they must have occurred in. In the space of two years, could I really have been in all these places? Plus the traveling with Carrie in Latin America? And with Jay in Europe? And with my dad in London? And with Julia to the coast? Realistically, it doesn’t add up. If everything happened “just yesterday”, then clearly they must all be in one place.
Either that, or I have a wicked-fast method of rocket-based travel.
In the time remaining in CA (about 1.4 weeks), I need to somehow (a) get my knee fixed by a chiropractor (b) get my yearly physical (c) make an appointment and get all four of my wisdom teeth removed (d) get a cellphone (e) somehow get down to Santa Cruz to see Leoni and (f) figure out what I want to write my honor’s thesis on.
Oh, and pack for my final year at LC. You know, seeing as my flight leaves on the first of September. Arg. Maybe I can finish knitting that haltar top and reading the pile of delectable for-fun books in that time too? And sleep? Sure I can. Maybe. Hm.
Desolation Wilderness trek of doom
Desolation Wilderness, California
As we have done every year since… well, since I started college, my mom and I (and Julia as of last year) go on a summer backpacking trip for a long weekend. Two years ago it was to Butano State Park near Pescadero (Californian coast), last year it was to Five Lake Basin within Tahoe National Forest (Northern Lake Tahoe), and this year it was to Desolation Wilderness, in Southern Lake Tahoe. First let me state that “Desolation” refers not to the dearth of people (the trail was in fact a disturbingly popular one), but to the plethora of granite slabs that we had to traverse in our trip. Lovely.
For anyone who knows the area and/or cares, our planned trip was to go from Bayview at Emerald Bay over Maggie’s pass (a horribly steep climb when you’re just getting used to the feel of your equipment and the altitude increase from the Bay Area), and down to Dick’s Lake to camp the first night. We did this without dying, so “Success!”. The next day, we made our way up Dick’s Pass (during which Julia’s feet blistered over and I became increasingly dizzy as we gained altitude), down the “Scenic Route” (to be fair – quite pretty views), and on to Gilmore Lake for lunch, and then to either Heather Lake or neighboring Aloha lake to camp. We decided to push past both lakes, over Mosquito Pass, to Clyde’s Lake for the night instead. This would have been fine, but I had accidentally not moved my Arch support/insoles from my running shoes to my hiking boots, so my feet (and, soon after, my knees) were in intense pain for the later portion of this hike. Additionally, Clyde Lake did not offer much in the way of campsites, and we pitched our tent between a family with 2 cute little girls and 2 llamas (what?!) and a pair of older men who were attempting to fish on the lake. Both of these groups were within 15 feet of our tent.
The next day, tired and sore, but also not enjoying the trip as much as we had in the last year, we decided to do the last two days’ worth of hiking in one day, marching about 10 miles of steady flatland at a fast pace (barring the frequent river crossings, where everyone but me slipped at least once) and then had to climb up for pretty much the rest of the trip, most of which was over granite and in direct sunlight. At the end, we had to go back down from Maggie’s pass (a downward slope that Julia veritably skipped through, while my mom and I leaned on our poles and coaxed our crappy knees to make a snail’s pace). In the end, we finished the hike a day early, got a reward of being able to wash our hair in the closest public bathroom (at the ranger station), massage our miserable feet, and head off towards home, in search of food on the way (and non-iodized water, of course!)
Now, however, two weeks after our trip of some-glory-but-mostly-mosquito-bites, my knee still isn’t properly aligned, but rather clicking at every move (and aching whether or not I move it). Seriously, who decided that a 21-year-old woman should suddenly inherit an 80-year-old body? This is just silly.
For anyone who knows the area and/or cares, our planned trip was to go from Bayview at Emerald Bay over Maggie’s pass (a horribly steep climb when you’re just getting used to the feel of your equipment and the altitude increase from the Bay Area), and down to Dick’s Lake to camp the first night. We did this without dying, so “Success!”. The next day, we made our way up Dick’s Pass (during which Julia’s feet blistered over and I became increasingly dizzy as we gained altitude), down the “Scenic Route” (to be fair – quite pretty views), and on to Gilmore Lake for lunch, and then to either Heather Lake or neighboring Aloha lake to camp. We decided to push past both lakes, over Mosquito Pass, to Clyde’s Lake for the night instead. This would have been fine, but I had accidentally not moved my Arch support/insoles from my running shoes to my hiking boots, so my feet (and, soon after, my knees) were in intense pain for the later portion of this hike. Additionally, Clyde Lake did not offer much in the way of campsites, and we pitched our tent between a family with 2 cute little girls and 2 llamas (what?!) and a pair of older men who were attempting to fish on the lake. Both of these groups were within 15 feet of our tent.
The next day, tired and sore, but also not enjoying the trip as much as we had in the last year, we decided to do the last two days’ worth of hiking in one day, marching about 10 miles of steady flatland at a fast pace (barring the frequent river crossings, where everyone but me slipped at least once) and then had to climb up for pretty much the rest of the trip, most of which was over granite and in direct sunlight. At the end, we had to go back down from Maggie’s pass (a downward slope that Julia veritably skipped through, while my mom and I leaned on our poles and coaxed our crappy knees to make a snail’s pace). In the end, we finished the hike a day early, got a reward of being able to wash our hair in the closest public bathroom (at the ranger station), massage our miserable feet, and head off towards home, in search of food on the way (and non-iodized water, of course!)
Now, however, two weeks after our trip of some-glory-but-mostly-mosquito-bites, my knee still isn’t properly aligned, but rather clicking at every move (and aching whether or not I move it). Seriously, who decided that a 21-year-old woman should suddenly inherit an 80-year-old body? This is just silly.
A slightly-less-biased review of my year in Munich
Berkeley, California
Now that I’ve been in the states for about three weeks, it seems time to re-examine my experience in Munich. I stand by the statement that Bavarians in Munich are simply unkind and not at all patient with foreigners who do not have perfect Bavarian accents, which seems strange for a city that is over 40% comprised of foreigners.
Additionally, I maintain that the quintessential German pastimes of drinking beer, eating processed meat, and smoking do not appeal to me, and cannot possibly be good for their health. Nor can, for that matter, the orangish skin tone that locals are so wont to achieve through their many hours of sunbathing in the English Gardens. I also loved the English Gardens above all other places in Munich, but sun screen is always a requisite for lying in the grass for hours at a time in the summer. It’s a wonder that no one notices when their skin progresses from “healthy tan” (oxymoron though that is) to a strange rubbery orange. Oh well.
Furthermore, the school system really did suck. For a school ranked as one of the best in Europe, it was shocking to note how little work was actually involved in the classes. The grade was based upon a single test or a single paper, following a semester in which the students would lead the class every day by giving a dry, monotonous, memorized presentation for the hour and a half of class. Only the really good professors gave any input at all. Most just sort of checked of days as the semester progressed.
However, to be fair, I gained a lot from my time in Germany. For all the depression and frustration and insecurity that Munich bestowed upon me, my time there also gave me a chance to get to know Jay better. Even to the point of having our relationship develop into one of the closest and most honest friendships I’ve ever had, as well as what has become by far the most loving relationship I’ve experienced (not that there’s a whole lot of room for comparison, but still). Jay alone has far outweighed the negative aspects of my time in Germany, and I really cannot stress enough the fact that, despite how frustrated I may have been with Germans, I do not regret my time spent in Munich.
In addition to my Jay, there was of course the added bonus of being in Europe, and therefore able to travel through various cultures in a relatively short distance and with reasonable ease. Every one of the countries I visited (possibly excepting Swizerland because Geneva was ridiculous) was a unique and treasured experience. From our struggles to purchase food and train tickets in Bulgaria without speaking a word of the native language, to trying snails in Paris, to the eye-opening experiences of pushing my cultural boundaries in Turkey and Morocco, the traveling I was able to do in Europe was simply amazing. And it resulted, of course, in a greater lust for travel – once I discovered that Morocco and Turkey were not the bastions of American-hategroups that our guides had implied, the list of “reasonable/safe travel destinations” increased dramatically.
So despite the depressing winter and the unfriendly locals, despite the detrimental effect on my respect for academia, and despite my personal distaste of the local cuisine (and air), this year in Europe was in many ways a productive experience. Still, were I to move to a German-speaking city again, I would opt for Vienna over Munich.
Additionally, I maintain that the quintessential German pastimes of drinking beer, eating processed meat, and smoking do not appeal to me, and cannot possibly be good for their health. Nor can, for that matter, the orangish skin tone that locals are so wont to achieve through their many hours of sunbathing in the English Gardens. I also loved the English Gardens above all other places in Munich, but sun screen is always a requisite for lying in the grass for hours at a time in the summer. It’s a wonder that no one notices when their skin progresses from “healthy tan” (oxymoron though that is) to a strange rubbery orange. Oh well.
Furthermore, the school system really did suck. For a school ranked as one of the best in Europe, it was shocking to note how little work was actually involved in the classes. The grade was based upon a single test or a single paper, following a semester in which the students would lead the class every day by giving a dry, monotonous, memorized presentation for the hour and a half of class. Only the really good professors gave any input at all. Most just sort of checked of days as the semester progressed.
However, to be fair, I gained a lot from my time in Germany. For all the depression and frustration and insecurity that Munich bestowed upon me, my time there also gave me a chance to get to know Jay better. Even to the point of having our relationship develop into one of the closest and most honest friendships I’ve ever had, as well as what has become by far the most loving relationship I’ve experienced (not that there’s a whole lot of room for comparison, but still). Jay alone has far outweighed the negative aspects of my time in Germany, and I really cannot stress enough the fact that, despite how frustrated I may have been with Germans, I do not regret my time spent in Munich.
In addition to my Jay, there was of course the added bonus of being in Europe, and therefore able to travel through various cultures in a relatively short distance and with reasonable ease. Every one of the countries I visited (possibly excepting Swizerland because Geneva was ridiculous) was a unique and treasured experience. From our struggles to purchase food and train tickets in Bulgaria without speaking a word of the native language, to trying snails in Paris, to the eye-opening experiences of pushing my cultural boundaries in Turkey and Morocco, the traveling I was able to do in Europe was simply amazing. And it resulted, of course, in a greater lust for travel – once I discovered that Morocco and Turkey were not the bastions of American-hategroups that our guides had implied, the list of “reasonable/safe travel destinations” increased dramatically.
So despite the depressing winter and the unfriendly locals, despite the detrimental effect on my respect for academia, and despite my personal distaste of the local cuisine (and air), this year in Europe was in many ways a productive experience. Still, were I to move to a German-speaking city again, I would opt for Vienna over Munich.
31 July 2006
Uuuuugh.
Berkeley, California
Oh my god I'm home.
And jetlagged, after 3 legs of sleepless, stressful flights.
more on this tomorrow.
Californian air is the best thing ever.
And jetlagged, after 3 legs of sleepless, stressful flights.
more on this tomorrow.
Californian air is the best thing ever.
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