Sorry all. My fingers aren't speaking to me lately.
Don't know just what to do with myself. doot doo doooo...
Friday, November 12, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I'm an illegal
I have very fond memories of everywhere I travel to. But all too often they involve more tears than most people can produce in one lifetime. I'm almost sure of that, but I'll double-check. My time in San Luis Obispo was no exception.
From day one of my real travels, starting at the airport waiting to go through the security line and be shipped off to do a three-month internship in Scotland. I was eighteen, and fresh out of high school seven months prior. I was terrified that I was about to go through a line and not see my parents or family for three. whole. months.
In case any one is unaware, that's a long time for an eighteen year-old. Most people go off to college and have the privilege of going back to visit family, and see familiar faces every now and then. When I crossed through the metal detectors, I was basically stuck for a good, long time on the other side of the Atlantic.
On top of my fearful, and sad tears, I was running late for my flight. Great. I was running late for my flight, and I had to rush everything. I had to rush my goodbyes, I had to rush my hugs and my kisses. It was a terrible feeling, and when I finished my rushing goodbyes I ran through the airport sweating profusely with liquids and snot and tears coming out of every crevice of my face... only to show up to an empty gate. The man standing at the counter was angry with because I missed my flight, and he scolded me because, "I called your name on the loud speaker three times!!! We waited for you!!" Well that didn't help. But thanks for your kindness, sir.
I was relieved to find my parents still at the entrance of O'Hare just standing there. I was also a little weirded out that they didn't seem to be surprised that I was walking back from a flight I was supposed to be on. But my eyes were nearly puffed shut from crying so hard, so perhaps my squinty view on that moment isn't quite valid.
I had to wait twenty-four hours until I could catch the next flight out to Scotland. This, I thought, would be good for me. I'd have more time to process the reality of leaving. But, ah, no. All it did was prolong my tears and my apparent separation issues. I awkwardly blubbered through the first two hours of my flight until I put myself out with Tylenol PM for the night.
Eight hours of grieving across the ocean, and I landed in a beautifully green country. My tears were done, and I was finally excited about this! I felt cool and independent. I felt like I could talk to anyone, and be everyone's friend. I felt like I freaking had myself together, man. This was cool. I was in Scotland, and I did it by myself.
I had a big, dumb smile on my face when I walked up to the half-annoyed man at customs. I'd make is day better, I was nice.
"How long are you here for?" He asked me sternly.
"Three months." Smile.
"What are you doing here?"
Oh, he's trying to make conversation! My nice attitude must be helping, "Oh! Well, I'm doing an internship working at a Church, and I'll be working at a hostel while I'm here, too, just doing cleaning and stuff. I got connected to the chu..."
"Hold on hold on hold on hold on... you're not permitted to be working here. You don't have a work visa or anything. I can't let you in this country. Go over there and sit down."
My eyes were huge, and I'm sure I looked like a little puppy with her tail between her legs... peeing all over the place.
I didn't do anything wrong. I don't understand what's happening! This can't be happening!
He came over to speak with me.
"Do you understand what's happening?"
Shaking, and crying, "Noo", I replied between huge gasps for air.
Basically what it boils down to is that I don't understand customs or entering into a new country. And I think that everyone is as nice and naive as me, trying to make conversation with me when they're really trying to make sure no lunies or illegals get into their country. I made myself out to be an illegal by using bad words like "work" and "internship". Bad idea. Lesson learned.
In reality I wasn't working with a church, per-say. I was attending a church and reading books. I wasn't getting paid. I wasn't there to stay forever. I was just going there to learn.
Well, lesson 1: Not everyone who talks to me is trying to be friendly. Lesson 2: Stop talking so much.
This man interrogated me for fifteen minutes until he went out to speak with the people picking me up, which included the pastor of the church. They told him the real situation, and with the man at customs finally realizing that I was not as "with it" as I thought I was, he let me go free into the world of Scotland.
Tony and Kate helped me pick up my 120 lbs of luggage that I didn't need, and we finally drove our way into Edinburgh. On the wrong side of the road of course.
Please let these shenanigans be finished. I'm exhausted, and a little humiliated...
From day one of my real travels, starting at the airport waiting to go through the security line and be shipped off to do a three-month internship in Scotland. I was eighteen, and fresh out of high school seven months prior. I was terrified that I was about to go through a line and not see my parents or family for three. whole. months.
In case any one is unaware, that's a long time for an eighteen year-old. Most people go off to college and have the privilege of going back to visit family, and see familiar faces every now and then. When I crossed through the metal detectors, I was basically stuck for a good, long time on the other side of the Atlantic.
On top of my fearful, and sad tears, I was running late for my flight. Great. I was running late for my flight, and I had to rush everything. I had to rush my goodbyes, I had to rush my hugs and my kisses. It was a terrible feeling, and when I finished my rushing goodbyes I ran through the airport sweating profusely with liquids and snot and tears coming out of every crevice of my face... only to show up to an empty gate. The man standing at the counter was angry with because I missed my flight, and he scolded me because, "I called your name on the loud speaker three times!!! We waited for you!!" Well that didn't help. But thanks for your kindness, sir.
I was relieved to find my parents still at the entrance of O'Hare just standing there. I was also a little weirded out that they didn't seem to be surprised that I was walking back from a flight I was supposed to be on. But my eyes were nearly puffed shut from crying so hard, so perhaps my squinty view on that moment isn't quite valid.
I had to wait twenty-four hours until I could catch the next flight out to Scotland. This, I thought, would be good for me. I'd have more time to process the reality of leaving. But, ah, no. All it did was prolong my tears and my apparent separation issues. I awkwardly blubbered through the first two hours of my flight until I put myself out with Tylenol PM for the night.
Eight hours of grieving across the ocean, and I landed in a beautifully green country. My tears were done, and I was finally excited about this! I felt cool and independent. I felt like I could talk to anyone, and be everyone's friend. I felt like I freaking had myself together, man. This was cool. I was in Scotland, and I did it by myself.
I had a big, dumb smile on my face when I walked up to the half-annoyed man at customs. I'd make is day better, I was nice.
"How long are you here for?" He asked me sternly.
"Three months." Smile.
"What are you doing here?"
Oh, he's trying to make conversation! My nice attitude must be helping, "Oh! Well, I'm doing an internship working at a Church, and I'll be working at a hostel while I'm here, too, just doing cleaning and stuff. I got connected to the chu..."
"Hold on hold on hold on hold on... you're not permitted to be working here. You don't have a work visa or anything. I can't let you in this country. Go over there and sit down."
My eyes were huge, and I'm sure I looked like a little puppy with her tail between her legs... peeing all over the place.
I didn't do anything wrong. I don't understand what's happening! This can't be happening!
He came over to speak with me.
"Do you understand what's happening?"
Shaking, and crying, "Noo", I replied between huge gasps for air.
Basically what it boils down to is that I don't understand customs or entering into a new country. And I think that everyone is as nice and naive as me, trying to make conversation with me when they're really trying to make sure no lunies or illegals get into their country. I made myself out to be an illegal by using bad words like "work" and "internship". Bad idea. Lesson learned.
In reality I wasn't working with a church, per-say. I was attending a church and reading books. I wasn't getting paid. I wasn't there to stay forever. I was just going there to learn.
Well, lesson 1: Not everyone who talks to me is trying to be friendly. Lesson 2: Stop talking so much.
This man interrogated me for fifteen minutes until he went out to speak with the people picking me up, which included the pastor of the church. They told him the real situation, and with the man at customs finally realizing that I was not as "with it" as I thought I was, he let me go free into the world of Scotland.
Tony and Kate helped me pick up my 120 lbs of luggage that I didn't need, and we finally drove our way into Edinburgh. On the wrong side of the road of course.
Please let these shenanigans be finished. I'm exhausted, and a little humiliated...
hold it hold it
Eahmmm.. Due to lack of direction and solid transitions, the blog story on my travels are currently on hold.
Oh, I've got plenty up my sleeve, but, you know, I'm no professional or anything. Gimmee some time.
Thanks for reading me.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Part V - The Secret Life of Gangsta' Day (and bees)
SLO (as San Luis Obispo is affectionately called by all the cool kids) being the town where all of God's favorite angels all live on Earth, has a swap meet every thursday morning and my new friends invited me to go along. We all rode our bikes there. A clan of about six or so of us peddled down the street to the swap meet and back. I was on a wanna-be mountain bike with messed up gears. I was peddling twice as fast and sweating twice as much as everyone else. Except for the fact that no one else was sweating at all, or peddling fast. And we were all going the same speed. I felt like a fool, but what better way to make yourself the center of attention, right? Besides, leisurely bike-riding is over-rated. It's 8am, and I apparently need my cardio.
I, however, being completely delusional on occasion, like to pretend that I did not look the silliest on my bike. Silly award goes to my new bee-keeper friend who had a huge extension on the back of his bike held up by two small wheels. It was a wooden flatbed for a bike on which he carried a box. Not just any box, but a box to catch bees of course.
A couple of days after the swap meet I saw him at a cafe in town where people were walking by and warning everyone of the giant swarm of bees nearby. I have never seen anything like it. Thousands of bees buzzing around a tree. The sound of them was overwhelming, and when my bee-keeper friend came outside to see, he was ECSTATIC.
"BEES!!!!!!!" He squeaked like a little girl, "I'M A BEE-KEEPER!!!"
He jumped up and down a couple of times (really), ran frantically towards the bees, and then ran frantically back to his bike to fetch his box. He walked into the swarm of bees carefully with his bright green hat that he must have gotten back in 1982 before he was born. When the bees attracted a crowd of people he proudly stood around telling them everything he knew about the life of bees. They were enthralled with the bees. I was enthralled with watching him.
Every day something exciting seemed to be going in in San Luis Obispo. Luckily we didn't need much money to participate because none of us at the hostel had any money. Laura, Jonny, Mike, Jarred, Emily, and I scraped around, dumpster-dived occasionally, and used the resources the Elaine provided us at the hostel to make silly things like dumpster-dived-doughnut-pancake-cake. We enjoyed the farmers market every thursday. We rode our bikes around town some.
The most entertaining of days by far was Gangsta' Day. For an entire week Jarred, Jonny, and Laura listened to the ever-talented Afro Man (...) because they had tickets to see him. Twenty four hours before the concert Gantsta' Day began. This involved plenty of marijuana, fried chicken and waffles for breakfast, hoola-hooping, and of course, watermelon. Jonny and Laura had a half-baked conversation about what would happen if they met Afro Man, and if Jonny would be the big spoon or the little spoon. Jonny wanted to be the little spoon. It's Afro Man! Of course!
If you don't smoke week, you probably shouldn't listen to Afro Man because I'm sure it will offend you greatly. Unless you're my sister, Julie. Then you'll probably find it hilarious, along with the movie Superbad.
As days came and went in San Luis Obispo and at the Hostel, motivation in me drained. Even in a great town, on the California coast, with incredibly friendly people I got very lonely. Sunny days made me want to be sick. I grew up in the midwest. Never in my life have I seen so many sickeningly sunny days. It was the same. every. day. There were never clouds. The temperature always stayed the same, and there was no freaking rain. Ever. I still don't understand how people live in such perfection every day. I'd like a cloudy day to suit a grey mood once in awhile. Thunderstorms are exciting, too. Apparently not in California, though. Everyone quickly became sick of me complaining of the sunny days.
I became a hermit in my room coming out rarely even for food. I wasn't interested in the art walks or farmers markets anymore. I started spending days alone in the bookstore with my nose in my journal, and in books. I eagerly counted down the days until Aaron, my soon-to-be boyfriend came to pick me up and take me out of California to be with him. It was the only thing I had to look forward to. And I was looking forward to going to Branson. I hope that says something about the despair I felt. Branson.
I wanted to sleep all day to escape from my emotionless state. And I surely didn't want to be around anyone for fear that my mood might rub off on someone.
This feeling was all too familiar in my travels. No matter where I go, no matter how wonderful it is, lonely feelings and a sad heart are sure to follow, allowing only a few weeks of fresh joy.
Why is such a horrible trend so deeply involved in something I love as much as traveling?
I, however, being completely delusional on occasion, like to pretend that I did not look the silliest on my bike. Silly award goes to my new bee-keeper friend who had a huge extension on the back of his bike held up by two small wheels. It was a wooden flatbed for a bike on which he carried a box. Not just any box, but a box to catch bees of course.
A couple of days after the swap meet I saw him at a cafe in town where people were walking by and warning everyone of the giant swarm of bees nearby. I have never seen anything like it. Thousands of bees buzzing around a tree. The sound of them was overwhelming, and when my bee-keeper friend came outside to see, he was ECSTATIC.
"BEES!!!!!!!" He squeaked like a little girl, "I'M A BEE-KEEPER!!!"
He jumped up and down a couple of times (really), ran frantically towards the bees, and then ran frantically back to his bike to fetch his box. He walked into the swarm of bees carefully with his bright green hat that he must have gotten back in 1982 before he was born. When the bees attracted a crowd of people he proudly stood around telling them everything he knew about the life of bees. They were enthralled with the bees. I was enthralled with watching him.
Every day something exciting seemed to be going in in San Luis Obispo. Luckily we didn't need much money to participate because none of us at the hostel had any money. Laura, Jonny, Mike, Jarred, Emily, and I scraped around, dumpster-dived occasionally, and used the resources the Elaine provided us at the hostel to make silly things like dumpster-dived-doughnut-pancake-cake. We enjoyed the farmers market every thursday. We rode our bikes around town some.
The most entertaining of days by far was Gangsta' Day. For an entire week Jarred, Jonny, and Laura listened to the ever-talented Afro Man (...) because they had tickets to see him. Twenty four hours before the concert Gantsta' Day began. This involved plenty of marijuana, fried chicken and waffles for breakfast, hoola-hooping, and of course, watermelon. Jonny and Laura had a half-baked conversation about what would happen if they met Afro Man, and if Jonny would be the big spoon or the little spoon. Jonny wanted to be the little spoon. It's Afro Man! Of course!
If you don't smoke week, you probably shouldn't listen to Afro Man because I'm sure it will offend you greatly. Unless you're my sister, Julie. Then you'll probably find it hilarious, along with the movie Superbad.
As days came and went in San Luis Obispo and at the Hostel, motivation in me drained. Even in a great town, on the California coast, with incredibly friendly people I got very lonely. Sunny days made me want to be sick. I grew up in the midwest. Never in my life have I seen so many sickeningly sunny days. It was the same. every. day. There were never clouds. The temperature always stayed the same, and there was no freaking rain. Ever. I still don't understand how people live in such perfection every day. I'd like a cloudy day to suit a grey mood once in awhile. Thunderstorms are exciting, too. Apparently not in California, though. Everyone quickly became sick of me complaining of the sunny days.
I became a hermit in my room coming out rarely even for food. I wasn't interested in the art walks or farmers markets anymore. I started spending days alone in the bookstore with my nose in my journal, and in books. I eagerly counted down the days until Aaron, my soon-to-be boyfriend came to pick me up and take me out of California to be with him. It was the only thing I had to look forward to. And I was looking forward to going to Branson. I hope that says something about the despair I felt. Branson.
I wanted to sleep all day to escape from my emotionless state. And I surely didn't want to be around anyone for fear that my mood might rub off on someone.
This feeling was all too familiar in my travels. No matter where I go, no matter how wonderful it is, lonely feelings and a sad heart are sure to follow, allowing only a few weeks of fresh joy.
Why is such a horrible trend so deeply involved in something I love as much as traveling?
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