Quote of the Day

“It is funny how the occasion imperceptibly changes, like the light, at an inconstant rate. At any given glance you may see that the dog has rolled over in his sleep, or the trees have lost their leaves. Morning drains inexpressibly into lunchtime, or Christmastime. Overhead the geese are migrating, just as they were the last time you looked. You wash the dishes, turn around, and it is summer again, or some other time, or time to go.”

~Annie Dillard, from the essay “Aces and Eights” in Teaching a Stone to Talk

Travel Tip Tuesdays: Dealing with Culture Shock on the Road

A friend recently asked me to write about culture shock. Although I’m not much of an expert on it, I have experienced it several times. The most memorable were these two instances:

1. A few years ago, when I volunteered on an organic farm for the first time— our host was a bit of a hippie and the volunteers were incredibly liberal. I realized that there were so many things I took for granted (e.g. humans should not try to make themselves extinct) that my friends there did not. 

"Why is everyone speaking German?"

2. Last summer, when I flew overseas— the Shelter Hostel in the Netherlands was much like other hostels I’d visited, but when poor planning left me a bit stranded in Hamburg, Germany, I freaked out. 

There have been several others of lesser degree— for instance, seeing for the first time the fallout of racism against Native Americans, or switching from the culture of Latter Day Saints to Irish Catholicism— but I’ve handled them gracefully and adjusted quickly. So, from both positive and negative experiences, I have a few suggestions.

In advance, make sure the logistics of your trip are confirmed and easy to follow. When the mechanics of a trip flow smoothly, you can focus more on the experiences instead of trying to process everything at once. (See my tips on trip-planning here and here.)

Do some homework. Learning about a culture before you get immersed in it is always helpful, whether it’s a foreign country or just a worldview you’ve never encountered. Also be sure to take stock of what you believe before you leave on a trip, particularly if you have strong views. Are you ready to see these views challenged and tested? Will you be willing to change your mind?

When immersed in a different culture, figure out a familiar place to take a break. This can be difficult/impossible in many places in the world, but you can do your best. Try a hostel, a historic spot with a lot of tourists, a city park, or a nature trail. Don’t make my mistake: in Germany, one of my loneliest moments was walking into a McDonald’s in search of Wi-Fi. It looked just like a McDonald’s back home, but everyone was still speaking German, so it felt really eerie, a mockery of familiarity. Walking in the Hirschwald Naturpark a few weeks later was much better.

Walking is also timed-tested Lisa stress relief.

Keep an open mind. “Open mind” is one of those phrases that makes me flinch, so let me clarify: you do not (nor should you) completely accept and be happy about everything you encounter. However, you shouldn’t completely dismiss something just because it’s new. I would’ve never discovered how much I liked hostels if I hadn’t given the first one a shot. I would’ve never had such great conversations with my farming friends in Washington if I had refused to associate with them because they smoked pot (even though I always passed the pipe without partaking).

Try to understand. Don’t give up if you don’t “get” a new culture right away. Accept it on its own terms, trying not to impose too many preconceived notions onto it. (See my blog on comparing.) 

Always look for the good. No matter where you are, and no matter how crazy things are around you, seek out the positive and the admirable. You don’t have to believe that something is true or even right— you can still see beauty in something, no matter how broken or strange you may find it.

Stay in touch with home. Call home and write letters when you can. Take along something that reminds you of home: a family photo, a bottle of lotion that you used every day at home, a sentimental item of clothing (but remember, nothing you would be too devastated about losing). Bring along a book and some music that you’ve liked for a long time. Don’t forget a Bible, or, if you’re not a Christian, a book that inspires you and reminds you of your worldview. 

Express yourself. Being in a foreign culture can be really stressful. I work through my thoughts through words, so I find that calling home and journalling are the two best ways to release any pent-up emotions or stresses. 

Allow yourself a little break-down. If you’re like me, even if you express your emotions a lot, they still manage to explode. If this is inevitable, then you need to learn how to make it a controlled explosion. Wait until you’re somewhere emotionally safe— a good hostel, with some friends, or an open stretch of road, for instance. Let it all out. Remind yourself it’s okay to be homesick. It’s okay to feel bad. When the explosion dies down, take some deep breaths, drink some tea (or, in my case, hot cocoa), return to what you were doing, and see this as a fresh start. 

Remember, it’ll be a great blog later.

Next week: Dealing with culture shock when you come home.

~~~

Telemarketers and the Golden Rule

In the past week, I’ve had a few conversations on separate occasions where the talk turned to an annoyance we all know well: a pushy seller, which can be anyone from a telemarketer to the Mormon on your doorstep. 

In these conversations, my friends and acquaintances naturally turned to telling stories about their experiences. I have my favorite, that I pull out of mothballs whenever I can: how, after trying to be polite to a person petitioning for Green Peace, I got frustrated and just yelled, “I hate all polar bears! Kill the whales!” before storming off. I thought it was a funny story. 

Other people in the group have more impressive stories. Freaking out the Jehovah’s Witnesses by talking about Satan. Making the telemarketer think she had just caused a marital dispute. Fabricating a heartbreaking story to get the bill collectors off your back. In each of these conversations, I’ve listened with a polite desire to laugh, but end up grimacing instead. I said that, with my phone phobia, getting chewed out on the phone is one of the worst things I can imagine happening to me. I snapped at some people to be nice to Mormon missionaries, since they are sacrificing a huge amount of time and money for their conviction. 

My response kills the mood, or at least wounds it. People become defensive, making excuses. “They called me, like, six times in one day.” “They shouldn’t be harassing people in front of stores anyway.” And on they go. I always feel uncomfortable, and I’m relieved when the conversation turns to other things.

A couple days ago, I was feeling upset about the common thread in these stories: the meanness. Pushy people are human beings, trying to feed their family, or trying to speak what they believe is the truth, or doing a job that they probably hate in order to meet the bills. They are all human, created in the image of God.

Thinking about it, I realized I wasn’t exempt: although I was being completely facetious with the Green Peace people, I still reacted in a mean way. I didn’t show them the love of Christ, not by a long shot. If I could find my way back to Coronado Island and apologize to them, I would.

Every once in a while— heck, what am I saying— all the time, we should be aware that people are people. That store clerk who won’t return your item is being terse because she’s worried that her daughter is getting bullied at school. The telemarketer is working a job he hates because he just lost a well-paying job and is scrambling to make ends meet. The Mormon on your doorstep is a young person far from home, dying to get a friendly response from at least one person today. 

I’m not saying we shouldn’t be firm. Saying, “No, thank you, I’m not interested,” and hanging up or walking on is often kinder than dragging yourself through a long presentation and losing your patience. I’m just saying that we should remember what our reaction to our fellow human beings should be. Take a moment. See that person as a person. Do unto others as you would have them do to you.

~~~

A few months ago, Zach and I were getting calls every day, sometimes twice a day, from our Internet service provider, Charter. They called from different numbers, sometimes local numbers, occasionally Portland numbers, often undisclosed numbers. If we didn’t pick up, they’d call about eight times a day and never left a message. Usually, Zach would answer, listen for about ten seconds, and then say politely, “Thank you, we’ll let you know if we’re interested. Goodbye,” and hang up. Sometimes he listened to the whole spiel and then politely declined the special offers and said goodbye.

On one such occasion, he listened to a Charter woman’s entire speech, responding politely and appropriately while still assuring them that we have no need of cable TV.

At the end of her speech, the woman finished in her pre-programmed-sounding voice, “Thank you very much sir, it has been a pleasure talking to you.”

“You’re welcome,” Zach said. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, too.”

There was a pause. Then the woman laughed a little and said, in a tone quite more relaxed than her telemarketing voice, “You’re so sweet.”

I guarantee you she hung up with a smile.

~~~

Mountains in early spring, northern Utah

Happy

Today I feel better than I’ve felt in several days, not by virtue of sleep or good eating habits, but seemingly just because. After feeling melancholy for a week, a day of simple quiet happiness is pretty awesome.

I ate pizza for breakfast (homemade with my mom’s delicious crust recipe), took a walk with Zachary and sweated profusely, earned back the calories I’d burned by eating pierogies, listened to Zachary read half a chapter of Lord of the Rings, packed him a supper and kissed him goodbye, read my Bible (1 Samuel, the change of Israel from being ruled by judges to being ruled by a king, if you’re curious), then washed dishes while singing old hymns and brainstorming blog ideas. Tonight I get to hang out with one of my best friends and watch a movie.

Happiness doesn’t often last long, but I’m grateful for it when it’s here.

~~~

Scenes from the Inter Island Ferry, San Juan Islands, Washington

On my first solo trip, I took a break from my time in Bellingham to stay at a hostel at Friday Harbor on San Juan Island (it was a cozy hostel and I made many friends there, but, sadly, it shut down a few years ago). I took a lovely ferry ride over— and this soon became my favorite way to travel around the sound.

During my week on San Juan Island, I soon learned that there was an inter island ferry that ran between the four largest islands of the group: San Juan, Orcas, Shaw, and Lopez. And what’s more, the inter island ferry was free. (This is unfortunately no longer the case— as with the other ferries, you can ride one direction for free, but have to pay on your way back.)

Many times that week, I took my laptop, boarded the ferry and sat down at one of the tables, working on my editing for a few hours. Every time I looked up, I saw a new vista before me. At intervals I’d stand up, stretch, wander out onto the open bow, taste some sea air, stroll back inside, work on a puzzle for a while, and then return to my editing. If I could choose anywhere in the world to edit student papers the rest of my life, the San Juan inter island ferry would be it.

I think I’ll be posting more about the San Juan Islands in upcoming weeks. I’ve been missing them lately, and maybe telling you stories about them will help.

He Didn't Know What to Say, So He Played the Ophicleide

The past few days, every time I’ve sat down to write a blog, I can’t think of anything to say. There’s a lot to journal about. There’s a lot of raw emotion and jumbled thoughts I could vomit out. But when I write a blog, I try to make it something worth reading, not just therapy for me.

I don’t know what to say again today, so I’m posting a drawing of an ophicleidist. I feel like there’s a sweet story buried in this picture somewhere…

1939 Bridge, Bellingham, Washington

Housewife Project of the Week

Home decor is something I admire, but not something I’m naturally good at. I look at the way somebody else has put a space together, and I ooh and aah and envy. But doing it myself is a laborious task, and it often ends up looking forced. (Incidentally, I generally find fashion to be the same way.)

Still, it’s fun to try to decorate shelves. Here, nothing has to be functional— it can just be interesting to look at.

Rooting through my stash of random stuff, I found a vintage map I had salvaged from my grandparents’ house many years ago. In this depiction of “The Far East” from National Geographic, 1952, Korea is one country, Bangladesh is labeled “Pakistan,” and the country on top is listed as “Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic.” I pinned this to a bulletin board, added some random feathers (in a Balsamic Vinegar bottle I’m pretty sure is from the 80s), a framed photo from the Redwoods National Forest, a candle, and a wooden knickknack holder that my great-grandfather carved. Voila, it sort of looks like I have a style!

It took me a long time to arrange, and I fussed with it quite a bit, but I had a lot of fun doing it. Maybe, shelf by shelf, I can transform my house before we have to pack it all up and hit the trail.

~~~

100-Word Memoir: Surreptitious

The year after I graduated high school, I returned one day to visit a few friends who still attended my old fine arts school once a week. After sitting in on orchestra and making an appearance at choir, I slipped into the drama class and perched on a chair along the back wall.

One of my friends saw me and yelled my name. “Shh!” I said, putting my finger to my lips in exaggerated sneakiness. “I’m trying to be surreptitious.”

My old drama teacher, halfway across the room, loudly commented, “You can’t be surreptitious when you use words like ‘surreptitious.’”

~~~

Reading Aloud and The Lay of Leithian

I’ve spent the past few days with my husband, who had four wisdom teeth yanked with just local anesthetic. In between sipping broth, taking prescription narcotics, and feeling dizzy, he somehow found the energy and jaw strength to finish reading me The Lay of Leithian by J.R.R. Tolkien. (Zachary is, in short, fantastic beyond all reason.)

I had forgotten how comforting and exciting it is to have a story read aloud to you. When I read by myself, my eyes skim the page at an almost speed-reading pace, and I have to place a bookmark under the line I’m reading if I want to savor the prose. Reading aloud slows down the story. It lets me take in each word. Since I have a hard time processing things by listening to them (I’m a visual learner), I have to listen intently, focusing all my energy on taking in the meaning and hearing to the flow of the words. It’s a lot more energy-intensive than reading for myself. And a lot more exciting.

If you haven’t read The Lay of Leithian, and you like poetry, I highly recommend finding a copy. (Disclaimer: Tolkien never actually finished the poem, so you’ll have to discover how it ends by reading the chapter about Beren and Luthien in The Silmarillion.) The story follows the tale of Beren, a mortal man, who falls in love with a half-elf, half-angel maiden named Luthien. Their love is strong, but Beren must fulfill a seemingly impossible task to win her hand in marriage: journey to Hell and back and return with a holy stone, a silmaril.

The story, even aside from the incredible prose and spell-binding imagery, has everything good stories have: true love, a noble hero, a beautiful maiden, a forbidden romance, friendship, torture, prophecy, battle, the triumph of beauty, and the sorrow of fate. It’s one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever heard. I’ve already decided I’m going to tell it as a bedtime story to my children someday, especially to my daughters, who need to see that beauty has worth because it springs from goodness, courage, devotion, and strength.

In On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien wrote that before we grow weary of detailed and gritty and lifelike stories, “We should look at green again, and be startled anew (but not blinded) by blue and yellow and red. We should meet the centaur and the dragon, and then perhaps suddenly behold, like the ancient shepherds, sheep, and dogs, and horses— and wolves. This recovery fairy-stories help us to make.”

In The Lay of Leithian, I looked at green again— and it startled me in the best possible way.

Lost in Fairyland

Zachary was reading me The Lay of Leithian by J.R.R. Tolkien today before he left for work. Now I feel so entranced that I can barely feel the floor beneath my feet. I want to watch candles flicker and muse about romance and sing haunting Irish music.

Magic is powerful.

Heron and alligator, Everglades National Park, Florida

Markers Along the Way

The last time I had seen West Side Story, I had just turned 16. I saw it at the St. Louis Muny after waiting in line for the free seats with my sister and, most likely (though I can’t remember specifically), a huge gaggle of the friends who were commonplace in my life at that age. 

Newly recovered from braces, the worst of puberty, and my first (and totally unrequited) crush, I was a young jerk with a ton of friends, reeling to find my sea legs in a world where I would soon have to be responsible for myself.

I watched the show. I liked the part about the ballet-dancing gangsters, although I found it more humorous and “cool” than anything else. (My sister and I learned all the words to “Officer Krupke” and sang it endlessly.) I thought the love story was dumb. My sister and I made fun of it, saying the whole show should’ve been about the Jets and the Sharks— forget Tony and Maria!

And off we dashed into the damp summer night, and I thought little more about it, and I never considered that later this would be a marker on my path, a buoy that would remind me of where I had been and where I was now.

Last night, I went to see West Side Story at the Muny with my husband of nine months. I was a bit indifferent about seeing it, but Zach likes the movie, and read some positive reviews of the Muny’s rendition. I’m always happy to have a date with my husband, so off we drove, and my guard was down, and I wasn’t ready.

I didn’t understand that play last time I saw it. Eight years later, I understood.

A friend pointed out to me a few months ago that Romeo and Juliet (and, by extension, West Side Story) is not about true love— it’s about young love. Intense, insane, obsessive, all-consuming, that insists that nothing here is wrong: the whole world is wrong instead. 

At 16, I thought this was stupid. At 24, my heart just ached.

I wondered how all the intense and emotional themes had gone over my teenaged head. The fear and loneliness. The broken families and struggle to find meaning. The hatred. The gang rape. The passionate but fleeting love, a counterfeit of the love that would bring true healing. The ending that attempts to be hopeful, but leaves loose ends too dark to contemplate.

It’s a beautiful play, beautiful and dark, as irresistible as it is painful. The set design, the costumes, the orchestra, the dancing was all masterfully done. Every single actor on stage shimmered with intense energy, even when they were standing still. The joy was as intense as the sorrow, the humor as gut-wrenching as the violence.

It was the best play I had seen in ages and ages. Like any good play, it touched a part of my heart I rarely register is there. 

On the walk back to our car (parked two miles away, to avoid traffic), I cried a little bit, quietly, and tried to process what had just happened to me. I stared at my 16-year-old self: the jerky exterior, the soft undamaged heart, the lit-up eyes, the naïve dismissal of anything she couldn’t understand.

When neither of us had spoken for a while, I asked Zachary, “What are you thinking?”

“Not much,” he said, taking my hand. “I’m just being quiet and letting you think.”

I held his hand, the summer breeze stirring the humid air. And I thanked God that our young love is transforming by the day, rooted in something much stronger and more permanent than two young lovers in a world falling apart.

~~~

Worth a Thousand Words

As much as words and writing are my medium, art often strikes truer to my heart, and my drawings often reveal things I haven’t thought to say. If I want to figure out how I’m feeling on a particular day, I should draw a self-portrait. If the face is withdrawn and homely, with small, overworked catlike eyes, I know exactly how I feel, no matter how cheerful I’m acting. On the other hand…

Almost two years ago, I was stubbornly fighting to keep a clear head and a hard heart, even as my crush sent me excerpts of poetry from The Lays of Beleriand (which he is, by the way, reading to me in full now). 

I didn’t write about what I was feeling. I couldn’t break through the hard shell I had calcified around myself.

But randomly doodling one day, I drew this self-portrait:

My head didn’t believe I was in love. My hands knew otherwise.

~~~

10 Photos of Roads, Streets, and Courtyards

Whenever I travel, random things catch my eye. Although I’m usually looking up (insert tall joke here), I love to look down and notice things on the ground, from pretty manhole covers to puddles that reflect the sky. Sometimes I take pictures of them— and try to be sneaky about it, because that puts a giant neon “tourist” sign over my head. “Oh look, Winifred, the tourists are out again… taking pictures of the ground.”

It’s okay. The ground can be pretty interesting.

San Francisco, California

Spanish Fork, Utah

Bellingham, Washington

Kansas City, Missouri

Bellingham, Washington

Seattle, Washington

Tucson, Arizona

Hollywood, California

San Diego, California

Amsterdam, Netherlands

Travel Tip Tuesdays: Dealing with Hot Weather

Bad idea: walking seven miles in full sun in the heat
 of the day when the heat index was 110 degrees F.
(This is Lisa with heat exhaustion.)

Today Zachary and I got soaked in sweat during our customary four-mile walk— the humidity was intense, even though it wasn’t very hot. That got me thinking about traveling in hot weather. Since most people are indoors all day, a vacation that involves hours on a sunny beach or walking through a city in the middle of summer can take them by surprise. I usually travel in the off-season, but I’ve had my share of dealing with hot temperatures on the road. Remember these common-sense tips to help you stay cool.

Always carry a water bottle or two or three. Staying hydrated is surprisingly difficult, especially in dry heat. Don’t let thirst take you by surprise— keep sipping to help you avoid getting thirsty in the first place. Remember this in the car, too, especially if you’re driving through a remote area.

Wear a hat. Preferably one that covers your ears as well as your face.

Cover sunburn-prone areas of your body. Unless you’re swimming, I highly recommend using clothing instead of sunblock. It’s less messy, less chemical-ly, and allows you to sweat, which is important for staying cool.

Bring an umbrella. On a hot day, there are few things better than instant shade! On my travels, I’ve used an umbrella for sun protection far more often than rain protection.

Better idea: walking 18.5 miles in the shade when the heat
index was 110 degrees F, taking frequent breaks and eating
and drinking often (note the Gatorade and Clif bar).
(I did not get heat exhaustion that day.)

Eat a little whenever you drink. This helps keep your body’s systems in balance and will keep you from feeling nauseated when you try to eat on a hot, empty stomach (don’t ask me how I know!).

Take breaks often. On really hot days, pop into air conditioning whenever you can, try to stay in the shade, and pause to rehydrate and eat a little snack often. If you try to barrel through your schedule without breaks, you might get heat exhaustion (something I get frequently in the summer from pushing too hard!).

If you’re miserable, change your plans. This is supposed to be a fun trip, after all— if the beach, the ball game or the outdoor fair is simply too hot, head into the air conditioning and do something else. There’s no sense in making yourself miserable! 

~~~

A Conversation, In Which Zachary Fails to Recognize My Genius

Today, while I was making lunch and Zach was working on his computer, this conversation ensued:

ME: Zachary, I just thought of the best name for our baby whenever we have a baby.

ZACH: What’s that?

ME: Rohan! Wouldn’t that be cool?

ZACH: I thought you said it was blasphemy to name someone Rohan.

ME: That was referring to a character in that fantasy novel I saw the other day. You can’t name a fantasy character Rohan. That’s just ridiculous. But it would be a great baby name!

ZACH: I think that would be weird, since it’s a place name.

ME: No, wait! I’ve got it! (Waves hands wildly) I know the perfect name!

ZACH: Okay…

ME: ROHAN SOLO.

ZACH (alternately laughing and wondering who is this person he’s married): …I don’t think that’s a very good idea.

ME: No. You are mistaken. It is in fact the best idea.

The End.

~~~

Fogbow, Strait of Juan de Fuca, Washington

Life Is Short

Whenever I visit the seashore, I feel compelled to write “Life is short” at the tideline. The ocean is so vast and timeless that my own life on earth seems evanescent. Before I know it, the memory of my life on earth will be washed away, clean as new sand. 

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

If I didn’t believe in eternal life, I would be a lot more stressed about this.

100-Word Memoir: Camping Memories

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park was a highlight of our yearly vacation. We’d set up our six-person tent, toast marshmallows, tell stories, fight a tide of rainwater in our tent during the night, launder our sleeping bags in Gatlinburg, and go hiking. 

We always camped by a creek. I loved to watch the water striders on the pools along the bank. Their shadows had spots on the tips of the legs where they dented the surface tension.

After three days we were all grimy, sweaty, and bug-bitten. I always felt that this made me one with nature.

~~~

Travel Stories: And the Moral of the Story Is, Don't Ever Tell People You're a Heavy Sleeper

A few years ago, on an undisclosed trip at an undisclosed location, I was staying with a friend who lived in a house with a few other college girls. They were all very nice and welcoming. They showed me the couch I’d be sleeping on for the next couple days. It was caddy-corner to a love-seat in their living room, and I was happy because the couch was actually long enough to accommodate my height.

“Sorry you’re kind of in the middle of things,” my friend told me.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Seriously, don’t worry about being too loud. I can sleep through pretty much anything.” I assured all her housemates the same thing.

That night, after a lovely day of urban exploring, I laid on the couch, tied a bandana around my eyes, and conked out.

A few hours later, I drifted to the surface when I heard two people talking close by. I was almost going to drift back down into sleep, but then I heard my name and woke up fully. I soon recognized the voices as one of the housemates and her guy friend.

“So how long is she gonna be here?” the guy asked.

“A couple days,” the girl replied. “It’s interesting, she was homeschooled.”

The guy snickered. “I can tell.”

“Be nice!” the girl snapped.

The conversation turned to other things. Feeling vaguely offended and also a little guilty for listening in, I tried to get back to sleep. But it’s hard to fall asleep when two people are sitting three feet away from you having a conversation at normal volume.

Just when I was thinking I ought to ask them to leave, I heard a strange, soft smacking sound. And then another. And another. I froze. Could it be? Oh, crap…

Yup, they were smooching. Pretty passionately, from the sound of it. Three feet away from me. And I had no way to escape.

For several long, agonizing minutes, I tried to figure out what to do. They gave no signs of letting up. Finally, I pretended to wake up— ever so gradually, giving them plenty of time— and I peeked out from under my bandana. They were sitting side by side on the couch, the picture of innocence. “Hi,” I murmured thickly, as if just waking up. 

“Hi,” they said.

I didn’t know what to do. So I just smiled and said, “Goodnight,” and rolled over.

They were quiet for a while, but only a little while.

This lovesick not-quite-a-couple made out until four in the morning. Four in the morning! And all the while I laid on the couch and tried to meditate or think detached thoughts or go to sleep or figure out if there was any way I could possibly get them to stop smooching and leave the living room. 

Finally, the guy left for his dorm room (thank God), and the girl returned to her own room.

Finally alone, I pulled off my blindfold, looked at the time, and groaned. I was going to be trashed tomorrow. And, in the interests of the girl’s anonymity, I wouldn’t even be able to post this miserable and somewhat funny story on my blog!

Years have passed since that day, but I can tell you this: I never, ever told anyone ever again that I was a deep sleeper. That lesson I learned well.

~~~