On Observation

At the gym at school, you are responsible for wiping down the equipment you use when you finish. For reasons probably including cost and convenience, instead of hand towels or rags, paper towel dispensers are placed sporadically throughout the gym to use for this task. To me, it seems common sense that little paper towel is required to wipe the face and arms of an elliptical machine or the seat of a stationary bike. I watch people pump out lengths and lengths of paper towels, fold them over and over into thick squares, and this makes me cringe. I of course agree with the notion of cleanliness and sanitation, but some of these people have no evidence of sweat--their t-shirts are not drenched with pooling sweat, but alarmingly dry. Yet they find the need to be so carelessly wasteful. While I would not call myself an activist, though I am trying to be more conscious about the Earth's resources, I feel, however, that anyone could recognize that a length of paper towel that is twice one's own height is more than sufficient to take care of the residue left by one's sweaty palms.
When I am on the elliptical, I have nearly a full 360 degree scope of vision, and no one is safe from my observant and critical eye. The machines face a panel of mirrors, and I observe my fellow gym-goers with interest. There is the girl down the row from me with spandex shorts and hoop earrings. Grad students hunch over bicycles, text books open in front of them, highlighters in hand. Nearly everytime I am there, there is a large man who always wears the same outfit: gray cotton shorts and a white t-shirt he has cut the arms out of. When he is on a stationary bike, he pumps hard, occasionally standing up, and shoutign "HA!"--a sort of military sounding, grunting noise. People who are not accustomed to this look around the gym to see where the sound was coming from. Everyone is using an iPod, banded around their arm or clipped to their shirt, and some take out their ear pieces as they glance around. Other days, he uses the elliptical. There are different varieties of ellipticals at the gym, and he and I prefer the same kind. When he ellipticals, he does so vigorously. He keeps his arms lifted above his head most of the time, matching the motion of his legs. He is a big sweaty man, little hair, but a thick white mustache tops his upper lip--much like the kind my own father had when I was very young (besides the obvious color difference :) ), and I try to keep my distance. This is not always possible, as you must sign up for a time slot on the machines, and I have not yet learned his name in order to not pick the one beside him.
You know, in this particular case, my judgmental eyes will look away; I grant him permission to use as many paper towels as he feels appropriate.
The track is another matter: you need to know the rules of the road to use it. I get lost in my head when I'm running, which is why the track is a very useful tool: no matter how far away you get mentally, you can't get too far away physically--the track keeps you on course. There are suggestions hanging above the lanes of the track that read "walk," "jog," "run." To me, these merely indicate that the slowest moving people stay toward the inside of the track. You must always be under the assumption that you are the slowest person on the track. Until someone comes up that you must pass, stick to the inside lane. Sorority girls run the tracks in groups of four or five, all with various event t-shirts. They spread across the track and everyone else squeezes by, pressed against the wall. I see two older women nearly every day. They are tan, fried and dyed hair pulled back with scrunchies, tiny waists. They wear the same outfits every day, which I always wonder if they wash. They are both tall and long-legged, pushing each other to run laps on the track. Another girl I see everyday is my friend. We have never spoken, but while I am stretching I will see her run by. We will nod at each other in acknowledgment. She is taller than me, but otherwise we are much the same. We run the track. We strap our iPods to our left arms. We have extra hair ties on our left wrist. I think she usually outruns me, though. When I'm running, I try to keep track of my laps. I see dust clumps on the floor. I see the people walking outside, on the path below. Sometimes it's raining or snowing or sunny and I see that, too. I see people playing volleyball on the basketball court or some playing basketball on the basketball court. Sometimes I see AJ Ratliffe down there, the basketball player from our team last year, who left of mysterious personal problems. He is unmistakable with "AJ" tattooed across his bicep. With all these distractions, I often forget the lap I am on. I have my own set of rules in how to deal with track time. For situations such as this, I go back to the last lap I remember counting and start over from there. I usually have a number in my head of how many I need to run that day--16, 24--and I feel uneasy stopping before I am positive that I have reached this number.
I walk a few laps after a run, watching the people pass by, a woman with no shoes and her work clothes on outwalks me. People doing yoga and core strengthening near the track on blue mats. An employee spraying down the blue mats as fast as he can, and glaring at the students as they take them down from the wall and use them. I understand this feeling. When I worked at the pool, I would have the whole deck cleaned up, new towels on the table, toys and noodles in their respective bins, and it would last 5 minutes. At the Limited, I fold a stack of sweaters, ready to close, and someone comes in and pulls one from the middle of the stack. It is infuriating, and seems like a personal offense. Of course, the sweaters are there to be looked at, the gym mats there to be used, but I understand the sentiment.
A lot of people to see at the gym.

Middle Way House

Point of interest:
I am doing a sociology internship this semester for 400 level credit. It's turned out to be very rewarding. Essentially, I go to the Rise, which is a housing project for victims of domestic violence twice a week. I write weekly journals about my observations and experiences, and at the end of the semester I will write a research paper about domestic violence in the community or how the economy effects domestic violence, something like that.
Women are put on a wait list for a spot at the Rise, because it is often hard to have availability. This obviously demonstrates the need for this sort of facility in the community. It is long term housing, unlike Middle Way House (which sponsors and operates the Rise), which only offers short-term emergency housing. The Rise is more like transitional housing. I operate the desk and door, signing people in and out, greeting tenants, answering the phone, checking IDs. I also am being trained in some of the bureaucratic policies. I help the site manager make sure the paper work is in order before someone can move in. The woman must prove that she has been abused and that she is homeless. She also must have papers about any source of income and child support she might have. From here, we calculate the amount of rent she must pay each month. The Rise is an interesting dynamic, because these women are all living here for the same reason. The children all grow up in close quarters, and seem to be very close. The way the staff interacts with the tenants is different than I expected, because they are tough on them. They expect rent when it is due and for everyone to follow procedure in other ways. I guess I wasn't expecting this, because of the difficult situations the tenants have come from. I guess I expected it to be a more cuddly atmosphere, but I understand now why the distance and sternness works: it is more of a catalyst to get these women back into the real world.

A little different than my usual posts, but nonetheless is something I am up to!

Couch Surfing

I recently joined the community of Couch Surfers! Check it out, if you're interested: www.couchsurfing.com. It's this really fascinating way of networking with people all over the world. Whether you are hosting or traveling, you get the opportunity to learn about cultures and make new friends.
Basically,how it works:
Once you sign up and become a member, you have to create a profile (much like a facebook profile) including interests, location, travel experiences, etc. If you are interested in traveling somewhere particular, you search that city and dates that you need and find someone with an available couch. You can crash on their couch and then move on to your next city and next couch. Hopefully, through this experience, your host will be able to share with you some of the best places the city has to offer and give you good recommendations; they might even be able to show you around a little. You have also made a contact. Everyone has specific guidelines and needs on their profiles--that way you know ahead of time the max amount of nights you can stay, the availability they have to hang out, things like that.
After my first round of travel days are over, I think it would be great to host, too. All you need is a couch, and you can give travelers a great experience and make some friends.
I'm pretty excited about getting started with it. It just seems overall like a really ingenius system that provides users with experience and unity that they could get no other way. Life is all about learning and growing, and I think most importantly about experiencing these things through human beings. Traveling the world with the help of strangers-turned-friends gives a different perspective on the places you are visiting: you can see it from an insider's perspective, you meet real people from the community, and discover quite often--that despite all the trivial and superficial differences, the people of the world all are fundamentally alike in ways that you might not expect.
To wrap it up:
I'm excited about this new endeavor and hope to utilize this community to the fullest while I am traveling the rest of my life!

RANT

It's snowing. Again. They say we're only expecting an inch. That's enough. A large black bird, probably a crow, keeps flying past my window. I think I hear it landing on the roof and taking off again, but that's probably crazy. A couple of days ago, one of the days that it was 50 degrees and beautiful, I saw a cat perching on the rocks surrounding the drainage ditch behind my building. I stared for a long time, amazed at how much the rock looked like a cat. Also, I've been worried about my eyes lately, finding that I squint more. Maybe I need glasses. So I didn't really believe it was a cat, but then it moved. It had been staring back at me as long as I had been staring at it. I haven't seen a feral cat since Waco.
Today, when I left my apartment for the gym, it was 40 and clear. Leaving the gym, the wind was blowing snow into my eyes. I walked with my head down to my car. I wanted to run, because the wind was cold and strong, but the ground was slick with snow and icing (no one seems to bother to salt the walks and streets anymore past a certain point in the winter. I think we all start pretending it is spring far too soon. For example, The Limited has had strapless spring dresses and floral cardigans since mid-January.) and I couldn't do more than shuffle quickly toward my dirty car. This is one of my biggest problems with winter. At the time when I want to move the quickest, I am hindered and most at risk for injury.
Anyway, the snow is still falling, and I am going to make tomato soup and start my homework for the upcoming week. It's Saturday.

Life Roles

For sixteen years, I have played a constant role of student. Some statuses I possess are ascribed: woman, daughter, sister, and student, or so I thought. Turns out, sixteen years is not forever. In May, I will no longer be a student, and I will lose a major defining role.
Who am I if not a student?
My roommate and I are letting this sink in and trying to make the most of these last few months. We want to make sure we go to all our favorite places one last time, spend enough time doing things that we want, and enjoy our friendships and experiences as college students. It's hard to stay in the moment and enjoy it with so much pressure on the future and everyone looking beyond May into jobs, careers, new beginnings. The focus is on what is next and where we're headed. Really, I want to be focused on right now. I want to enjoy it and revel in it, because the future is coming whether I worry about it or not. (Don't worry, I'm not saying I won't be prepared when the time comes.)
I love college, and I'm pretty sure I just got the hang of the college lifestyle. Now I'm getting kicked out of the club. Forced out against my will, I will no longer be a student.
That being said, in another light, it is time to move on, and I can sense that. I am looking forward to a new town, a new experience, new people. School restricts you to one place for awhile (though I tried my best to get out of that) and I will be at last free. I can be as nomadic and mobile as I choose (or so I think...). More responsibility, yes, of course, but potentially more freedom? I'm not sure people already out of school would agree. College may have a lot of work and studying; however, I think I would rather spend nights in a library surrounded by other academics than stressing over a job, waking up early, etc. While there seems to be more disadvantages to graduating at this point, I have accepted the fact that I am and there are other things out there. There is life after college, exciting life, the life of a young adult, trying out a lot of things. It's an entirely new chapter, this is a new stage completely unfamiliar, but very exciting. There is opportunity. So maybe I'm a little excited... Still, for now, I'm going to focus on being a student and enjoying this lovely college town that I live in.

La Calle de Martin de los Heros

This is something I wrote for a class...thought it sort of applyed to my overall Blog theme...

There is a pinging sound, and then a clicking noise, several clicking noises, as several seatbelts are unbelted. The air smells old and stale and is really making me sick. I open my eyes slowly and glance warily around. I have slept well the whole way here, and am not ready to relinquish my seat. I peek over at the man next to me. We nod at each other, half-smile. We didn’t have much to say to each other on the eight-hour flight. Mostly because of the language barrier, I think.

People are filling the aisles, reaching into overhead compartments, impatient to get off this plane. For the most part, no one is speaking—it is only 7 a.m. here, 1 a.m. in Chicago, where we took off from. It was 5 p.m. then. Eight hours ago.

The lights seem dim in the airport; the ceiling is high with some sort of yellow tube-like structure arcing overhead. Everything is glass. I follow the crowd. The baggage claim is a wake-up call with fluorescent lights and announcements blaring through the speakers in two or three languages. I see a woman with a sign: “SLU-Madrid.” That’s me. I feel relieved, and breathe out tension I didn’t realize I was carrying. There’s a small crowd gathered around her. I walk over, still dazed. She checks me in and says “Grab your bags. Then go through the doors to the meeting point. Most of the host families will be waiting there.” I go through the door, dragging large suitcases. There is a line of students, all with puffy, sleepy faces and more people with “SLU” signs. It’s chilly in here, and I realize that the entire far wall is missing, covered by large pieces of tarp. You can see big piles of rubble between the gaps in the plastic tarps. Someone tells me, “Left over from the bombings. They haven’t rebuilt much yet.”

The students around me are getting picked up, and few remain. I make idle small talk with a couple of girls, we sit on the cold dusty floor and go over the basics. None of us are interested in the conversation; we are all glancing around, sizing up the people walking through the airport, wondering if one of them is here for us. A tiny woman in an overbearing animal print fur coat is making a bee line for the woman with the “SLU” sign. She begins talking in very loud, very fast Spanish. She is extremely angry about something. The woman with the sign gestures me over. The small woman-- significantly shorter than me, and I am a mere 5’2’’-- is still shouting and gesturing wildly. “This is Maria, your Señora. Don’t worry, she’s mad at us, not you. She says she thought we would send a cab for her when it was time. If you have any problems, call the school. But you won’t.”

I can only look at her. The small Spanish woman and the school assistant exchange a few more heated Spanish words, and then my Señora, Maria, is off, she has reached for one of my bags and is heading toward the exit, a clear plastic sheet with security holding it back for people to go in and out. I catch up to her, trying to take the suitcase from her. She is speaking Spanish at me, eyeing me as she walks briskly. She steps out into the cool, January morning, and opens the door of a cab. We get in. She wants to know where I’m from, and I tell her, “Indiana.” Never heard of it, she says, and I try a new approach. Near Chicago, I tell her. Relatively near Chicago, at least. She’s heard of Chicago. We try to make more small talk, but I am tired, and frightened, and don’t speak Spanish all that well, anyway.

“No entienda mucha español,” she tells the cab driver. They laugh. She doesn’t understand much Spanish. I look at her. I understood that, I tell her with my eyes. Later, because justice exists, it will be her who doesn’t understand, and karma will have gotten its’ revenge. Her son, who has gotten a job in London, and speaks perfect English, will be home on a visit. We will all be sitting around the breakfast table in Maria’s tiny apartment, and he will be telling us of his adventures in Europe. He tells us he has a pot dealer in Amsterdam, who ships him the “good stuff” on a regular basis. “You can’t get that stuff anywhere else,” he tells us. “Get your pot in Amsterdam. I have for years now.” We laugh uneasily. Maria is beaming at him, so proud he is speaking English with the American girls. Her son! He has a job in London, did you know? A business man in London. “Don’t worry,” he tells us, “She doesn’t understand English.” He looks over at her and smiles. She pats his hand, so proud of her son.

We are now driving downtown, and I watch out the window as shop signs go by and see people strolling around. No one hurries in Madrid. The cab pulls to a stop, finally, in front of a building with a black iron door and Maria and I get out. Her hair is perfectly curled on her head. “Frío, frío frío,” she has been saying this all along. It is cold, but not compared to where I’m coming from. She pulls the collar of the atrocious coat closer. At the door, she hands me a key. It is large and old fashioned, very heavy. She opens the door for me then shows me what to do. Push all the way in, turn once, pull out and turn the key three full clicks. She wants me to practice, but after a couple of tries, she opens it herself and leads me to the kitchen. There is a small kitchen table taking up most of the space. No dishwasher, but there is a small washing machine in the corner. A large animal leg is sitting across the counter.

I wriggle into a chair that is pressed between the oven and the table. She sits across from me with a cup of coffee. She pours a handful of what looks like dog food into her coffee, stirs, takes a sip, and makes a face. “Es mal. Terible!” She says. I am not at all surprised. She continues drinking the sludgy liquid while I look on, horrified. She asks me if I have had breakfast. I say no, and she reaches into a cabinet, pulling out two boxes of cereal. What looks like corn flakes and a fiber cereal. The dog food. She pours me some cornflakes, and returns to the table. For the next five months, we will sit at this table together, along with my other roommates, every morning, and I will eat cornflakes.

I am tempted to put my head in my arms right there on the table and fall asleep, but she is asking me what I like to eat. We play a guessing game, where she names a food and I say “Si” or “No.” Sometimes, to show off, I will say “mas o menos” or “a veces.” Sometimes I say “No entiendo” when I don’t know what the food is. Where are my roommates? I ask her. “The other girls had afternoon flights.” She shows me computer print outs of their pictures. The other girls. Las otras niñas. She calls us all that, like she has forgotten our names when we leave a room. “Niña!” She will shout at me. “Bring me your laundry! Tell las otras niñas I am doing laundry today” or “La otra niña stayed out late last night. What was she doing?” I don’t know which of the other girls she is referring to, so I ask. She appears confused. “La otra!” I respond “No sé.” I don’t know. This, along with “No entiendo,” will be the foundation of most of María’s and I’s conversations. Through the first few weeks, it is all I know how to say, and it is the truth: I don’t know. I don’t know, quite often, because I can’t understand. Later, these phrases are a great way to avoid questions I don’t feel like answering. You can’t argue with someone that says they don’t understand the language.

Pick Your Opportunity

This week, countless e-mails have flooded into my inbox from programs I have asked for more information. Au Pair in France, intern in Italy, teach English in Spain, work at a resort in Switzerland, volunteer in South Africa. One of my roommates from Madrid, Ana, is also looking to go abroad next year. We have been sharing links and talking everday about things we've found.
It would be nice to go abroad with her, because we could share things. We already know we travel and live well together, so that could work out perfectly. It doesn't hurt that she is also a native Spanish speaker...
Of course, ultimately I must pick the perfect opportunity for me, and she must do the same, but both of us have the main objective in mind: travel. Find a job wherever in Europe that gives us enough flexibility and money to travel.
Another friend from Madrid, Katie, is already living and working in Madrid. She did a program called TtMadrid, which is like a crash course in teaching English. They guarantee you a job at the end of the month-long course. Not bad.
Another organization I am interested in, but also terrified by, is WWOOF. WWOOF stands for world wide opportunities on organic farms. You pick a country and location, and WWOOF finds you people in need of volunteers. They provide you room and board in exchange for the work you do, which could be picking fruit, landscaping, farming, tending to animals...
HMM....
Doesn't sound like the fast-paced lifestyle I had in mind, but it would be an amazing way to float around Europe.
Every spare second I've had for the past month has been devoted to job/program hunting. They are endless, and they all sound amazing. I want to go to every single place in the world.
In short (and I am trying to be brief, classtime is approaching), the opportunities are endless and I already have some connections and networks in other parts of the world. I can go anywhere, as they taught us on Reading Rainbow, if anyone remembers that show. Yes, I just alluded to Reading Rainbow in reference to my future

Break the Bounds

"Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice." --Washington Irving