Back in the Homeland

Lusting for Dharma

2010-08-26T07:39:00.000-07:00

This is an old blog from my abandoned warehouse of un-posted blogs. They are getting lonely! Think I started this one in February or something.

In these first few months of grad school, I have come to notice that few of the issues that baffled me about Thailand/SE Asia have not already been written about, few of the questions I have have not already been posed (and answered...many times). These are the remarks of a rookie to the academic game, though. I hope this sentiment will soon morph into an attitude more conducive to productivity.

A couple weeks ago I had a brief but interesting conversation with another student in my program that made me think back to the eight days I spent at a Vipassana Meditation Center in a temple outside of Chiang Mai. That was over two years ago now.

In the middle of a lunch held by the Center for Southeast Asian Studies, I asked the student how he feels about Westerners who come to Thailand to lock themselves up in meditation retreats for weeks on end only to boast of their discipline-charged experience with feigned nonchalance later on to white backpackers in tourist pubs.

"Well, I didn't do one of those retreats, but I understand what you're saying..." my fellow grad student (and former resident of Thailand) acknowledged.

I charged forth:

"Because there are so many farang (white westerners) who come to Thailand only to stay in a temple, and don't explore how the temple experience plays out in real life...in Thailand where Buddhism is an institution as opposed to a trendy novelty in Western White Culture (think celebrity or California Buddhism). They stay in one temple and then move on to another and when they are all done they can go back to New York or Montpelier or Berlin or San Francisco and tell all of their friends about their rejuvenated sense of inner peace with that condescending glaze over their eyes when really their experience just isn't that special."

I think I stunned myself with my own skepticism.

Of course, generally I do believe that it is important to experience other cultures and religions. Many people in the world don't travel, much less explore a religion or philosophy that wasn't handed to them by their immediate circumstances.

I do appreciate the openness of Buddhism, and the general Thai attitude that you do not have to be a declared Thai Buddhist in order to benefit from some of the practices. Growing up Catholic, I always felt a little awkward leaving Dad alone as Mom, Jacob, and I went up for Communion. Dad, the rascally Protestant-turned-agnostic of the bunch, was left in the pew, engaging in the trusty Faux-Kneel (the Faux-Kneel is the stance you take during Mass when you are too lethargic to engage in the Full Kneel. To clarify, the Faux-Kneel does not require the knees to make contact with the kneeler. You need only to scoot your rear to the edge of the pew and hunch your shoulders a bit to look humble and reverent. But, whoa, how I digress.). The point is, not every religion is as inclusive in nature as Thai Buddhism.

Some of my issues with the tourist's relationship to Buddhism come in when tourists begin to think of themselves as authorities on Buddhism simply because of the meditation experiences they had while on Temple Tour. The Western obsession with temple-hopping in Thailand often seems superficial and self-indulgent to me. Maybe part of this is because there are so many temple-tourists, all with very similar stories, backgrounds, and motivations. While I kind of despised the book Eat, Pray, Love (I did indeed attempt to read the whole thing. Made it half-way.), I've got to hand it to Elizabeth Gilbert as a businesswoman. She did the exact same thing that millions of other tourists do every year, but figured out a way to make a stupa's weight in American dollars by writing about it.

Anyway, I shall share a couple of parables in an attempt to both relate my experience to you and begin to understand for myself the discomfort I feel when I think about the flocking of foreigners to Thai temples.

I arrived at Wat Phrathat Sri Chom Tong one sunny afternoon in late March. In my backpack were two loose, white button-down shirts, one pair of baggy, shin-length white pants, my wallet, passport, and a tiny notebook. You are not supposed to bring anything to a Vipassana center that could be "distracting," so I justified the diary by limiting myself to two or three skeletal sentences a day.

Riding the local bus from Chiang Mai up into the surrounding mountains, I felt a bit over-dramatic, like I was committing myself to an asylum or something. The feeling intensified when I arrived and saw the meditation students (inmates!) slowly meandering the grounds (prison!) in identical white garments (straight jackets!).

At that time, like many American 20-somethings, I was unemployed, insecure, and lonely. I was a walking cliche, I was curious.

Home for the week.

The Worldly Desire for Breakfast

The first morning I was there, I clearly remember the sharp hook of hunger that had lodged itself in my stomach overnight. Since I am normally a three-square-meals a day kind of gal, the kiwi juice I had slurped down the night before just hadn't cut it. At the temple, guests, like monks, are expected not to eat any solid food after 12:00 noon. Guests rise with an ominous-sounding bell at 4 a.m. and practice meditation for two hours, at which point the breakfast bell rings.

Of course, my first morning was pretty much a two-hour wait until that glorious sound. At exactly 6 a.m. I started walking towards the kitchen, lift heel, lift toe, moving, heel down, ball of foot down, toes down, trying to think only "I am walking to breakfast, walking, now I am walking." The day before, a meditation assistant from Mexico had explained some of the basic concepts of Vipassana to me. The idea is to experience only each moment, not to anticipate nor remember, to consider each moment a tiny bead in an infinite strand.

However, these moderate thoughts were usurped by more worldly, exclamatory desires: "I can't wait for breakfast! Holy shit. Can't wait can't wait!"

When I entered the kitchen, I was ashamedly the first to arrive. The temple workers were still bringing out the food. I tried to slow down my steps in hopes that someone else would come, but no one did. I quietly took a bowl, spooned out some vegetable gruel, and sat down to eat, alone in the empty hall ("Shame, shame, I am feeling shame. And eating. Eating, eating. Gruel, gruel.").

Only at several minutes after 6:00 did other guests silently enter the cafeteria in a trickling, white procession.

You're gonna reap just what you sow

Most of my memories of my Mini-Temple Tour seem to involve food in one way or another, mostly because I was hungry all the time. Soy milk and juice doesn't make a dinner...much less eight back-to-back dinners. After the first couple days, I realized that I would need to eat a bit more for lunch to keep myself upright for the succeeding 8 hours of meditation that lay ahead of me. But not the equivalent of two meals, because that would lean on gluttony. I settled somewhere around moderately full, but not to the point of discomfort.

One day, I noticed a bowl of what appeared to be stir-fried minced red tomatoes. Something similar had been served the previous day, and it was surprisingly delicious, so I helped myself to two generous ladles of the stuff. After sitting down, I quickly heaved a large spoonful into my mouth and then quickly realized why my neighbors had taken only a spoonful of the same thing. The tomatoes were actually chili peppers of noxious heat intensity.

Wasting food is highly frowned upon in meditation centers for many reasons, especially because you are supposed to refrain from realizing intense desires anyway, such as the desire for copious amounts of stir-fried tomatoes. I sized up my plate. I rhythmically ate every last bit of my chili salad, seed by precious seed.

Thailand: Land of Smiles and Mental Recuperation!

One day I had just finished attempting-to-meditate in the designated meditation hall, and met a smiley young German woman outside as I was walking back to my room. Normally we were not supposed to speak at all except for our daily meetings with the meditation instructor, but I think she was asking for directions or something. She told me how stressful her job in Germany was, and how she had started coming to Thailand every year to do meditation. She was staying for 21 days at Chom Tong.

"What are you doing after this?" I asked.

"Oh! I'm going to another temple for 20 days. Then back to Germany," she answered, matter-of-factly.

She, like many others, was addicted to meditation, and to the act of visiting Thailand every year during her vacation. Ironic, right?

She was friendly enough, but now I think I at least partially understand why I felt so uncomfortable around her. Many tourists seem to think of Thailand as a giant rehab facility. They frequent the temples and the spas, they engage in excessive rituals of self-caring. And that is Thailand to them.

This is of course beneficial to local Thai economies, and perhaps a preferable choice of entertainment when compared to sex tourism and the moral quandries of prostitution. But I still think that this manner of experiencing Thailand serves to further exoticize Thailand to Western eyes. Thailand is the land of massage, meditation, facials, doting attendants, and yoga (all at a reasonable price).

To sum up

Despite the skepticism I feel now regarding the larger issue of tourism and Thailand, I do value the experience I had at Chom Tong. I don't think I caught wind of nibbana, but I did have the luxury of time to learn a little bit about patience. I also learned that, if absolutely necessary, I can survive eight days without consuming a drop of caffeine.

The meditation itself was pretty much pure agony for the first two or three days. If I had ever encountered you in any way prior to March of 2008, you can rest assured that I thought about you at least 100 times, and pinpointed all the ways I have wronged you, or embarrassed myself in front of you. I was a bad friend, girlfriend, student, daughter, sister, and teacher over and over again in my head until at some point my brain realized that exponentially exaggerating past experiences was not a pleasurable way to spend its time.

After that, I began to feel more relaxed, slightly peaceful, and not entirely bored. Although, still a little bored. Vipassana meditation consists of a series of three actions: sitting, walking, and prostrating. By the fifth day, the teacher suggested that I picture a tiny steel ball in the center of my head. During the sitting portion of the series, I was to picture the ball sliding from the middle of my head to my right hip, back up to my head, then to the left hip, and so on. This was a helpful focal point, I realized, and I guessed that the idea was to eventually eliminate the steel ball altogether and focus on absolutely nothing.

After the eighth night, I thanked the nun who had taught me a couple chants in Pali, the meditation teacher, and the teaching assistant from Mexico. I caught the bus to Lampang, and then south to Bangkok. My old friend David was flying in from France. We would drink cocktails on beaches, ride bicycles around the ruins of Sukothai, and get doused in ice water on the Lampang streets during Thai New Year. Now and then, a small steel ball would apparate inside my brain.

So I guess I have two semi-conclusions that address why the Temple Tour makes me uncomfortable: 1) The presumptuous notion that you are more intellectual or knowledgeable about "Thai culture" if you go to a meditation center and the bragging about this that goes on in backpacking circles and 2) It contributes to another form of exoticising the East.

I'm still not totally satisfied with the thoughts posted here. Obviously, there are plenty of curious Westerners who are more modest about their experiences. Meditation centers are also frequented by scholars of Pali and Buddhism. And there is certainly nothing wrong with using meditation as a means of gaining new perspective. This is not a disclaimer. I'd just like to make it clear that I don't think that all foreigners who frequent meditation centers in Thailand meditate only for the bragging rights.

I'll keep thinking.

The Thai Conundrum: A Ponderus Plaid Post.

2010-05-26T06:49:00.000-07:00

Over the past week since the military has forced the Red Shirt protesters out of Bangkok, Thailand has quickly evaporated from the headlines of Western English language newspapers. After the exodus of the Reds, the headlines seemed to create a succinct, pleasant wrap-up for the Thai crisis that had dominated the international news for the 6 weeks prior. The restoration of "order" was nigh, and most importantly, the capital city was "open for business" again. While the resistance has been quashed for the time being, I doubt that any sort of order will neatly take its place; Thai politics is not a paint-by-number democracy.

There are thousands of blogs dissecting and speculating on the political situation in Thailand, and I doubt I have any unique or innovative perspectives to add, but a couple folks have asked me to post so here it goes.

For those of you who don't know what has been going on, I will humbly do my best to outline what happened (based on the blogs, news sites, and papers I've been reading, as well as conversations I have had with people studying Thailand here in Madison). About two months ago, thousands of protesters entered the city, taking hold of key locations, such as Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva's residence, and later moving their camp to a major commercial district in the city, forcing businesses to temporarily close. While the shutting up of business has been used as an argument against the Reds' "invasion", a friend of mine from Bangkok informed me that so much of Thailand's economy is generated by agriculture that such a short cease in business would not have a lasting effect on the country. Anyway, the commonly articulated cause of the Red Shirts was for the immediate dissolution of Parliament, and for Abhisit to step down as PM. They wanted new elections. Immediately.

The word on why they demanded Parliament dissolution and for Abhisit's resignation is that Abhisit was not a democratically elected PM. Thaksin Shinawatra, the billionaire PM who was ousted in a military coup in 2006 (while I was still living in Lampang), was commonly seen as the champion of Thailand's rural poor-- a man of the people, despite his obscene personal wealth and his slightly unscrupulous habit of vote-buying. Nonetheless he is generally viewed by rural populations as a democratically elected leader, while Abhisit came to power not through votes but amidst the chaos of the 2008 airport blockade in Bangkok. Even though Thaksin had been deposed, his party, Thai Rak Thai (Thais Love Thais), was re-elected in 2008, but the party was soon outlawed on charges of electoral fraud. Abhisit and the Democratic Party took hold.

Back to the future of Spring, 2010, the Red Shirts call for fair and democratic elections in which their interests will be expressed and hopefully addressed once more. Abhisit represents, in the eyes of many, the interests of the urban elite to which he was born.

While many people claim that Thaksin is the "puppet master" of the Red Shirts, pulling strings and calling shots from Dubai or Montenegro, I am not so sure. Personally, I find it difficult to believe that 1000s of people would put their and their families' lives at risk every day for two months for one man who won't even physically enter the country. In other words, the Red Shirts have no martyr situation.

What I do believe is that the Red Shirts represent groups of people who have felt systematically neglected for decades, with the exception of the five years Thaksin was PM. While most Thai leaders, including Abhisit, have traditionally not spent time in Isan (ruraly Northeast region of Thailand) except for brief day trips during elections, Thaksin actually went on a tour there, spent weeks on the road traveling from province to province, even camping out in the countryside.

While of course this effort could be seen as a mere token to gain votes (a la Obama changing his accent or manner of speech depending on the audience at hand), the time he spent there does have symbolic value. Thaksin also established programs that specifically addressed the concerns of Thailand's rural population, rather than containing his focus to Bangkok and Central Thailand.

The Yellow (and sometimes Pink) Shirts who have protested against the Red Shirt protesters, then, supposedly represent Abhisit, the Democratic Party, and the King. Abhisit has campaigned in the past for "clean" politics, in contrast to the rampant corruption of Thaksin's regime. One could also say that they represent the interests of the elite, the wealthy, and the intellectual, although there are some upper class urbanites who have joined and supported the Reds.

Hence, the conflict is not only political, but social; many people in Bangkok think that the Reds are too uneducated and naive to have legitimate political opinions. This is a deeply rooted sentiment, and the recent crisis has once again brought it to the fore.

An extreme but telling manifestation of inter-class resentment was highlighted by a photo taken at a Pink Shirt rally.* In the photo, a red shirt has been hung from a tree bearing the word "enough"-- a threatening sign of some people's intolerance and hate towards the protesters. The photo is especially disturbing because it deliberately alludes to the disastrous student protest of 1976, in which dozens of peaceful protesters were gruesomely tortured, beaten, and killed by the military. To even suggest this as a possible way to "deal with" the Reds reveals a complicated, festering resentment towards those challenging the political dominance of Central Thailand and the current leadership.

So back to the more...mechanical (?) aspects of the protest. Of course, the political and the societal are inherently entwined. In many ways, the Thai situation is similar to what occurs in many other governments. We in the USA certainly have populations that have been and still are disenfranchised. We have opened and closed polling stations according to the availability of the people whose votes we most value, and gone on to elect officials whose culture, opinions, and way of life is viewed as the most legitimate in our society (whether or not they truly represent the interests of the majority).

In Thailand, however, there is an added dimension to the Thai political system. This dimension is the monarchy, or more specifically, the irreproachable King Bhumipol. I will not discuss the King as a person, or what he has done as a leader and benefactor here, but rather as a symbol. In the present crisis and those of past decades, the King has been used as a basis for morality and a justification for the actions of all parties involved. The Red Shirts plea to him , casting King Bhumipol as the "Father" whose permission or approval they need in order to carry out their agenda. The Yellows say that the Reds are undoubtedly the anti-King, trashing His city, wreaking havoc and division in the nation, a nation which should remain united under a commonly revered, benevolent King.

A sense of urgency, of frantic exigence, is added when you consider that King Bhumipol's reign is coming to a swift end, and the existence of a worthy successor is unclear.

Another interesting, though less important, element to the situation that I have observed is the foreign expats' commentary on the crisis. I don't understand how so many foreigners can be so opinionated regarding the current political situation. Most seem to side with the government, posting Facebook status updates that aggressively pushed for the Red Shirts to get out of Bangkok, as if Isan farmers are the "germs in the pure Thai body".

Perhaps they are mimicking the beliefs of their Thai friends or significant others. I think it has to do with trying to internalize "Thainess," or as my anthropologist friend would say, "an attempt to go local." Whatever the motivation, the online discussions existing between foreigners just don't seem to resonate with sincerity. Most expats in Thailand have the convenience of leaving the country at any point. Thais are left to face any violence or political/societal/economic backlash that might occur. We foreigners simply don't have as much at stake.

I am not at all saying that foreigners don't have the right to political opinions, or should not think critically about Thai politics. I am saying that expats should think very critically--about the logistics of the politics, but also about their situation relative to that of Thais. Particularly when so many lives have been put at stake. And lost.

Personally, I've witnessed and heard about a lot of dialogue that seems to only perpetuate hate, and further bury the existing class tensions. I don't want to play any part in widening that rift. I want to understand.

So I am not sure regarding my own stance, and I am okay with my own, unimportant uncertainty. I am a Plaid Shirt. What happened in Bangkok is multi-faceted; it cannot be looked at as merely "Rural Impoverished vs. Urban Elite" or "Invaders vs. King" or "Hillbilly vs. Master's Degree" or "Honesty vs. Corruption." Friends keep asking me, "So who are the bad guys again?" and I never have an answer, because I have too many questions that need an answer before I could ever make such a sweeping judgment.

While I realize that stances must be taken in order to ensure immediate safety for the population and the continuance of business and government operations, I also think that this issue must be analyzed from as many standpoints as possible before moving on to business as usual. Clearly, a sustainable solution for the conundrum that is Thai democracy is needed. Unfortunately, I am just not sure that the events of the past two months will receive the critical analysis from Abhisit and the current administration that is needed.

*This photo was brought to my attention during a seminar with Prof. Thongchai Winichakul in Madison.

Spring

2010-04-08T13:01:00.000-07:00

1) April is National Poetry Month. I get an innovative poem e-mailed to me every day by the Academy of American Poets. I also rip poems out of the Poem-in-a-Pocket book that my colleagues and students gave to me in Boston. I bestow said poems upon people who are nice to me. And sometimes people who are rude to me. But the rude ones get those annoying, overly-esoteric poems that allude to obscure artists by way of impossibly thick metaphor and advanced vocabulary.

I celebrate you, Rude People of Madison!

2) My little brother is having a great time in Korea.

3) I have a vague idea of what I want to write my thesis on. Hopefully, it will involve drag queens.

4) I will study Thai at SEASSI (Southeast Asian Studies Summer Institute) here in Madison this summer. Come. Join me for a beer on Lake Mendota and some conversation in Thaiglish. You see, after 4.5 hours of language training every morning, I'm sure my English will rapidly depreciate in value as it pertains to witty banter and general clarity.

4) Many friends are getting married. All of these people are also pursuing the personal and professional interests that contribute to their loveliness. I couldn't be happier for them.

5) I bought "conference pants" last month. Because I went to a conference. While I didn't present and I was far to shy for "networking," hopefully the pants made an impression.

Douse yourself in eyeliner! Now, for a Gulf Wedding.

2010-01-21T17:03:00.000-08:00

It is a result of both the great fear of Shannon Heit and her preoccupation with my life as well as my current state of exhaustion that I send forth this blog. It's been around for awhile. It just needed some proofreading, a task which seemed like it might trump fewer brain cells than finishing this scholarship application.

For those of you who might wonder how and why I went to Qatar, it is a semi-complicated story involving the Ritz Carlton, grammar lessons, and a reckless streak of spontaneity, but suffice it to say that my dear friend Sharon bought me a ticket to Doha one fine Saturday morning in Boston.

While I was still teaching there, we had taken on a very friendly and charming student from Qatar named Hamad. He became sort of a dual pal/father figure to us. On breaks from discussing why he really should use modal verbs in everyday situations, our talks went a little something like this:

Hilary: So Hamad, it's better to say 'I would like a Caprese salad' rather than 'Bring me Caprese salad' because..."
Hamad: And Hilary! Why aren't you married?
Hilary: Well....
Hamad: Marriage is joy!
Hilary: Well...There's a lot of things I want to do. I'm young. Yeah...stuff.
Hamad: What young? You. Are not. Young! Time for children! Time for husband!

And so on. I know he only looks out for my best interests. Anyway, he talked about Doha so often and so lovingly that one day he told us "just come, and you will see what I say." And that is what we did.

Probably one of the most intense cultural experience that Sharon and I had was attending a Qatari wedding. Hamad's wife, Sara, took us one night, as Hamad was leaving for a few days in Morocco. When we told one of Hamad's sisters that we were going to a wedding, she got very excited, saying that we would see things we didn't know were here on earth. When I asked her what to wear for such an other-worldly affair she replied, "Oh, you know, maybe some glitter, and something...nice."

Now by glitter, I thought of the fairy dust that college girls rub into their cheekbones before heading out to a frat party; shimmery, but not on par with "disco ball." Sharon and I decided to go to a mall to find something "nice" to wear, since neither of us had packed anything besides loose, modest trousers and long-sleeved shirts. Apparently, we had been told, Gulf weddings are actually two separate parties usually held at luxury hotels: one for the groom, one for the bride. And because the parties were also gender exclusive, the women were permitted to remove the ubiquitous abaya (a long, black, flowing robe that Muslim women of the Gulf region wear over street clothes whenever they are in public or in the presence of a man who isn't immediate family or their husband) during the festivities. I thought I'd choose something dark and not too short, something that wouldn't attract a lot of attention and that I could wear again. Practical. "Nice."

Hamad and Sara picked us up around 9, and Sharon and I trotted out to meet him, covering ourselves in abaya so as not to attract any unwanted attention. When we got in, Sara lifted up her veil so we could see the heavy make-up that she had artistically applied earlier. While many young women in the Gulf have begun to wear a lot of make-up in public (eyeliner is important, I guess, if the eyes are the only part of your body that you show), Sara usually heeds to the traditional Qatari-Islamic values of modesty and covers her whole face when she goes out. But not tonight. Tonight her eyes were meticulously encircled in black eyeliner and highlighted by about four shades of shadow, her hair (which was streaked in subtle shades of red) was sleekly swept up on the crown of her head.

Hamad drove us to the hall, and when we got out I noticed that Sara had TICKETS to the wedding. Outside the hotel, there was a small and fluctuating sea of women in their abayas, chatting on mobiles, trying to make arrangements for their friends to come, no doubt.

The first thing I saw when I walked into the entryway of the hall was a voluptuous girl staring intensely into a mirror, attempting to adjust her bountiful cleavage within the confines of her heavily sequined, too-tight evening gown. Her abaya was nowhere in sight. It was a rather awkward thing to see, as up to that point we had only seen women in their abaya, unless we were guests in a woman's private home, and had been given several spiels about the importance of modesty in Qatari culture.

Sara handed an official-looking woman our tickets, and we relinquished our bags up for inspection. Our phones and cameras, and anything that remotely looked like it could be used to photograph the scantily-clad women accumulating behind us were confiscated for the evening.

The moment we got past security, I immediately felt as though someone had wired my brain to a virtual video game. The hall was enormous, maybe about half the size of a football field. Silvery curtains adorned the walls, and an ornate runway ran the length of the entire room, leading up to what could be deemed the "high throne;" a large platform created a T at the end of the runway, marked by two golden chairs and a good deal of lavish drapings and decor.

But what was most shocking were the women themselves. Most of the women, at least those in their mid-40s and younger, were wearing long, tight-fitting, chest-hoisting evening gowns. Forget the Red Carpet; Los Angeles has never seen such a decadent array of elaborate trains, embroidery, and beehive hair-dos. It seemed like at least half the party was trying to mimic a cross between Dolly Parton and Amy Winehouse (except our Sara, of course, who was the picture of class in a white, asymetrical evening gown). As I followed Sara and her friends through the tables, I realized that "nice" had probably meant a $15,000 evening gown imported from either Italy or Lebanon paired with five-inch heels, and that "glitter" had meant, well, disco ball. As I followed Sara through the sequin-strewn tables and scrutinizing, coal-lined gazes, I felt the plainness of my knee-length maroon cotton, the girlishness of my simple ballet flats. When I sat down, I covered myself in the abaya hoping that these high-so ladies would think I was a modest and considerate foreigner demonstrating respect for the local culture rather than just a bad dresser.

Just as shocking for me was how many of the women were behaving. In the public eye, Qatari women seem quite contained; they don't use much body motion when speaking, and certainly never speak loudly, and never, ever remove their abaya or hijab (the veil that covers their hair). However, tonight all pretenses of demureness and modesty seemed to have been cast to the side along with the abaya. Women were talking animatedly among themselves, analyzing other women's clothes, and eating like it was the Last Supper. There was live music--a traditional and very popular Qatari singer and her band, and let me tell you, the guests danced for hours up on that runway. Women in rhinestone-studded spikes were swiveling to and fro, some of them swinging their waist-length hair in circles (somewhat reminiscent of the head-banging I engaged in at middle school dances, albeit a more graceful and seductive version). Sometimes groups of older women would take control of the situation, displaying more methodical dances that looked like they had they their origins in the village rather than the clubs. These women seemed to protest the pageantry of the youth, keeping their abaya on and wearing Bedouin-style masks called batoolas . http://my-islamic-way.blogspot.com/2009/08/batoola.html

Finally: The Entrance of The Bride. After about two hours of dancing, the lights dimmed, and a spotlight shown on the black curtains hanging over the end of the runway (opposite from the throne). At the culmination of a bombastic drum roll, the bride emerged at last, clad in all the fantastic make-up, skirts, veils and various other gilded trappings reminiscent of the Barbie Dream Bride of my youth.

It took her about 10 minutes to walk the runway, and she was bawling the whole time ("From emotion," Sara clarified).

Towards the end of her grand and solemn promenade, her close friends and family members hiked up their skirts, climbed up on the catwalk, and began throwing money at her. Sharon looked at me, made aghast by the Western connotations of throwing money at a beautiful woman. Yet again, Sara clarified that this tradition represents wishes for good luck and a prosperous future, leaving me semi-wishing that I, too, would some day stand around in a gorgeous designer dress, adrift in an ever-thickening cloud of cold, hard cash.

After about another half an hour of dancing and money-throwing, the bride was seated on one of the thrones for a prolonged round of photo opps. There were TVs located all over the hall and a video camera strategically positioned onstage so that everyone could watch her smile for the cameras. Suddenly, the song changed , and Sara started to cover up in her abaya.

"This song means 'Man, you may come and take your bride now,'" she explained. "Now the husband and his family come."

The groom, accompanied by his brothers, father, and new brother-in-law emerged from the curtains and faced a room of at least 200 women who had only moments before been pulling moves that would put Beyonce to shame. Now these women were seated, mostly, and shrouded in their abayas. The bride's family had covered her in veils and were standing around her, now a shapeless heap of white tulle. The mother uncovered the daughter after exchanging blessings with her new son-in-law, and thus commenced their life as a married couple. And another bout of photos and dancing.

The dramatic revelation of the bride is quite interesting; a clear statement that this is her day to be the focal point, as she is the only one who can be physically seen by the groom in a room (read: world) of so many other women. After they leave together, down the runway, the guests can once again resume merriment in whatever garb they choose.

After I had eaten a theoretical physics textbook's weight in babaganoush and sampled five flavors of mousse, Sara decided that the party was losing its steam and suggested we take off. Sharon and I adjusted our abaya and made our way past the energetic young fashion moguls, the Phillipino waitstaff, and the old ladies who had relinquished daintiness to the bygone winds of youth and begun feasting directly from the buffet serving bowls.

Suddenly I was unplugged from the virtual world of decadence and lost inhibitions. It was 1 a.m., the air was cool, thin and still, the infant skyline of Doha signaling us across the sprawling highways and developing plots of desert. We were once again silently arranging our hijabs, scurrying like dark birds back to our flock.

Gulf Greetings

2010-01-02T13:07:00.001-08:00

I haven't had much time to blog since we arrived in Doha last week on the 26th. Our former student, Hamad, and his family have kept us unbelievable occupied. We've been to the new Islamic Museum of Art in Doha, the desert dunes, the beach, the Qtel headquarters where Hamad arranged a meeting with his boss (who is also apparently a sheikh?) for us, and a wedding. And of course, tons of the high-end shopping malls that are popping up all over around here.

Now we're in Abu Dhabi with another student, leaving for Dubai for 3 nights tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have a moment for a more in-depth blog soon.

An education with cheese, please

2009-12-16T20:04:00.000-08:00

I've been in Wisconsin for a couple weeks now. I came back to go to school at UW Madison. Strangely enough, they have an excellent program in Southeast Asian Studies, here in this arctic tundra where naught a coconut shall grow, ne'er rice field be cultivated.

At first, the idea of "coming home" for school seemed like a total defeat. I had envisioned going coastal for studying, or maybe Europe, or at least somewhere over an hour away from where I grew up. A place, perhaps, that didn't pride itself on Squeak Volume of its cheese curds. It was almost worse to know that I had other more far-away options, that I had spent hours on their applications, and that in the end they were simply unaffordable.

But lately I've been trying to see home as my next adventure, rather than a retreat. I actually don't know much about Madison. As a child, Madison was where I bought shoes. It was also the place with Indian restaurants, an ice cream shop with 29 flavors of ice cream, and a larger selection of movies than the four-screen shanty in Beaver Dam. Most of my friends left the state for college, and even now I only have approximately two friends who currently live there. The fact that I know so few people in Madison is alluring; it oddly makes me more comfortable with the move.

Not to mention, Madison is a really great school, and I was really fortunate to have been accepted. I've met so many people for whom a college education, much less graduate school, only exists as a hazy, unattainable dream. I won't take this for granted.

I went to Madison last week to meet with some professors. Mom and I drove down in the early afternoon to catch Professor Thongchai Winichakul, a renowned historian of Thailand, during his office hours. I'll be taking his graduate seminar, which goes by the seductive title of "Dangerous Histories." Apparently I'll be doing a lot of my own research on the nation or culture of my choosing; hopefully a head start on my masters thesis.

I also met with Professor Cullinane, who specializes in the history of the Phillipines. He had so much enthusiasm for the program, and was excited to explain my options. Overall, it was relieving to finally show up at "my school," to know that so many other people have interests similar to mine, to see massive books on hill tribes, Loatian politics, and Theravada Buddhism lining the shelves. Maybe leaving Boston to study Southeast Asia in sub-zero temperatures wasn't such a crack-pot idea.

I also can't deny that home in December is comforting. The heating is functional at my parents' house, and I even have an electric blanket. I am always shocked to open the fridge and see it full of delightful things for me to consume, and remember that we have a dishwasher that isn't constantly breaking and transforming our kitchen into a soapy wading pool. Perhaps I can now understand why so many Europeans live with their families until they're like, 40.

And now, a word about Wisconsin for the East Coasters who have never been.

Holy Crimony! The Glorious Benefits of Wisconsin: An exercise in positive thinking as an attempt to not miss my people in Boston so much.

1) Cheese and beer are indeed staples of our diet. There are at least six logs of cheese stored in the Disch freezer to serve as winter provisions, and my mom just bought another five-pounder of Monteray Jack this afternoon (holiday cheese sale!). A landmark on the highway to Madison is Schultz's Cheese Haus, one of many temples to dairy and German-style beef products in my area. My dad stows troughs of beer in the basement like a nuclear disaster is upon us.

And the "squeak factor" of a cheese curd is indeed a topic of discussion. My darling friend Cat asked me if it was because we keep live mice embedded in our cheese logs. This is fortunately not the case. The "squeak" is simply a combination of the texture and the actual sound that emanate from a curd once it is being ground between the back molars. It's not a good idea to by curds at a chain grocery store, because they will have probably lost their squeak, and hence their freshness, and hence will be no different from any other cheese.

2) People are just so nice. I've heard that students from the East Coast who go to Madison for undergrad tend to coagulate in their minority, one reason being that "the Wisconsin kids are too nice to hang out with." Well if pleasantness is a fault, consider us guilty! Darnnit.

3) You know you are in Wisconsin when the YMCA parking lot is full in the middle of a state-wide blizzard warning. No, not even the threat of sliding into a ditch or driving in zero-visibility can deter we Wisconsinites from working off those deep-fried cheese curds from lunch.

4) It's sort of invigorating to be somewhere where you have history. I can't step out of the house without running into someone I know: a high school teacher, a friend's mother, a guy I did community theatre with as a child, the popular girl, the bully. Seeing them is like getting knocked out by a time machine for a split second, only to be immediately flung forward again into the visceral present thinking, "I was intimidated by you? I had a crush on you? You picked me first for kickball when I was used to being chosen last? I spent two weeks studying for your exams?"

And then, you know, one must exercise polite conversation.

Flipped collars, Flamboyance, and the Success of Spandex.

2009-10-04T19:12:00.000-07:00

A dear friend of mine from high school has recently started a fashion blog based in Chicago that specifically targets style for the working professional (http://theworkingwardrobe.com/). She just got her first independent style consulting gig today. What that means, exactly, I'm not sure, though judging by the fact that I wear moccasins to work four days out of five (and All-Stars on Fridays!), her services are probably targeted towards casually-frocked culprits like me. Anyway, in tribute to her, I would like to take a moment to pontificate on some of my experiences in fashion out East.

We of the Midwest have a particular vision of fashion on the East Coast, usually involving Pastel Polo Parades and flipped collars so starched they threaten to lop of an ear upon any sudden movement. Incidentally, this vision does indeed materialize, particularly around the freshman area of Harvard. Now I understand why my high school (Wayland Academy, a boarding school where my dad teaches physics) had a dress code--to be more "East Coast." Of course, I was oblivious at the time to the implication that "East Coast" meant "prestigious." No one seemed to mind that our women's ties and tweed blazers provided endless fodder for contempt from people at the public school.

Anyway, despite the stereotypes, over the past year in Boston I've noticed that the style spectrum extends beyond the boat shoes and walking advertisements for Brooks Brothers in Harvard Square.

I can say that one of the best places for the style sleuth has to be the Faneuil Hall area on a Friday night. Faneuil Hall, not my usual nighttime hangout, is located downtown, just a five minute walk from the harbor. It's an old area, so much of the sidewalk is actually cobblestone (tourists dig cobblestone). There is a large area around Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall in which no cars are allowed, and the only way to migrate to the next bar is to tread over the treacherously uneven brick. Now combine cobblestone with 100s of swaggering drunk women in their 20-somethings teetering upon dangerously tall toothpick heels, clinging onto their sheepish boyfriends, who are trying their utmost to remain serious and manly about their slightly sloppy situations. While I've spotted some nice patent leather spikes in this area, my experiences as a spectator have made me want to refrain from sprucing up in stilettos.

Another demographic which seems to have found inspiration lately, particularly in the realm of "the headdress", is the homeless of Boston. See, there is a scruffy-looking fellow (presumably and sadly homeless, as he is usually carrying several loaded trash bags with him) who wanders around my work neighborhood in the ritzy Beacon Hill--Back Bay area. The special thing is that he wears some sort of feather headdress. I never want to stare too much, but it seems as though he has cut a strip of plastic to fit his head and adorned it with feathers of various fowl and size. The weird follow-up occurred a few days ago when I caught the 39 bus going south from Copley to Jamaica Plain. On the bus, I noticed that another woman, also homeless, was wearing a similar headdress, silently watching the stately brick apartments of the Back Bay whirl past. Are the homeless of Boston combining forces in the inauguration of a fashion "haus"? Is the mysterious headdress a mere coincidence? Am I missing some kind of subtle portent? Am I living in a David Lynch film? What?

Another fervor of fashion that has overtaken Boston (and much of the globe, unfortunately) is the "skinny jean." For those of you lucky few who aren't familiar, skinny jeans are simply very, very tight jeans (sometimes enhanced with spandex) that are so tapered they cut off the circulation in your calf muscles. The skinny jean is also God's way of saying that you have the figure of a double-scooped ice cream cone. Furthermore, how do these ladies get their feet through those narrow ankle-exits? I've tried on skinny jeans; I know how long it takes to get your feet through those unforgiving mouse holes. But then again, I have rather large feet.

And finally, and perhaps on a more personal note, I wish to touch on the resurgence of animal print spandex in my life. Recently, a dear and brilliant friend of mine has found it very necessary to sport this luxuriously tacky print not once but twice in the same week! What are the ramifications for a ruggedly handsome European fellow of donning a tight, midriff-baring cheetah print mock-neck at a downtown club on "Gay Saturday"? How do tipsy women at a housewarming party respond to tall Belgian men in sleeveless, curve-hugging, tiger-patterned evening gowns? The rest of the world may never know, but thanks to the past week, I now do.

Ana Ahub Jobna.

2009-09-02T12:44:00.000-07:00

Today was a pretty slow day around school. We're low on students this month. I am guessing many families that could normally afford to send their kids to a pricey city just to study English can't these days. A couple students slept in this morning, so I had a lot of one-on-one time with a really interesting girl from China. She is the oldest of four, and started working in one of her parent's companies when she was just 15. At 21, she now owns one of the companies (often micromanaging over the phone between classes) and has 130 people working under her. She hopes to improve her English enough that she can get into Harvard Business School. She's pretty much the Wonder Woman of the Asian continent, as far as I'm concerned. However, she noted in a serious and slightly frustrated tone that in China, the oldest must take on the family business (profession, practice, etc.) even if he or she doesn't have a natural inclination or desire towards that field.

I often wonder if I'm doing a silly thing by going back to school, especially since I plan to study Southeast Asia, which on the whole isn't exactly an international financial hub. I wonder what I will do with the degree, as I'm no longer convinced that I am meant for the PhD Factory, and I wonder if by studying Southeast Asia, I am avoiding some other avenues that interest me. But I guess the important thing is that I made a choice, and now I am responsible for making that choice the "correct" one.

I'm also thinking about applying for the journalism program at Madison and doubling it up. When I lived in Asia, I was always very envious of the correspondents and freelancers that I met when I was on my holidays from teaching. I also seem to be a masochist by way of arduous graduate school applications (insert maniacal laughter!)!

Basically, anything I like will guarantee my perpetual state of poor-ness, recession or not. I thought about staying in Boston and applying for programs in International Relations, but the amount of catching up in mathematics and economics that I would have had to do was a daunting thought. And that isn't what I'm interested in anyway. I'm interested in language and culture and writing. Conversations with my students often remind me to be thankful for the preposterous amount of freedom I have to not just state my interests, but pursue them.

Random note: Half of my reading class was mysteriously absent this afternoon. The only two students who came were both from Arabic-speaking countries (the UAE and Saudi Arabia). We discussed the book for awhile (The Giver by Lois Lowry), and then I requested an impromptu Arabic lesson. You know...couldn't get too far ahead....what with half the class gone and all. I learned various forms of greetings and introductions, as well as some key phrases to know when traveling in the Middles East, including "Ana jua'na. Ana ahub jobna!" (I am hungry. I like cheese!). All in all, a productive class.

T-Time!

2009-08-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

I probably should have bought a bicycle when I moved to Boston.

I use the T, Boston's subway system, to get pretty much everywhere (for the first month I was here I kept calling it the "El," a la Chicago). I usually forget to charge my mp3 player, hence I'm helplessly trapped listening to whatever tinny "mmpsh mmpsh mmpsh yeeeah" the teenageer next to me is plugged into. People listen to their devices at such a high volume; I often want to demand them to "Change the channel!" like when I was a kid and wanted to watch Sesame Street but Mom was watching Oprah or Antique Roadshow, or like now when certain friends of mine still want to watch Susan Boyle sing "I Dreamed a Drea m" over and over...

It's just that I like walking so much, and I fear a bicycle would get stolen anyway, even though I think it looks cool when someone walks into a party with one pant leg rolled up, all red-faced and tote-bagged: "Augh, man, I totally just biked here from Jamaica Plain in the rain but I still stopped at the co-op to pick up some organic freekah grains and IPA!" Well, I'll buy a bike in Madison for sure. And I will be rolling up one pant leg.

I've struggled with how to use my time on the T. I make a minimum of one round-trip to and from work every day, and there are at least two occasions per week when I take the T to work (about six stops), take the T back home, and then retrace the stops later en route to Harvard or Porter Square. That's like at least two hours invested in transport. I try to read or write or do something "productive", but usually end up wondering where the lady across from me bought her shoes, eavesdropping on Spanish-speakers (for practice!), trying to decide whether or not that guy by the pole is slyly executing a creepy up-and-down look in my direction (I get very defensive of my womanhood on the T)... Sometimes drunk people try to befriend me, which is humorous if I'm with a companion but a little frightening if I'm alone. In response, I pretend I don't speak English, or I just nod and stare absently at the window just above my intoxicated acquaintance's head until he or she starts to feel the cold, sobering drops of self-consciousness pooling. Kind of cruel, I know.

I was looking through my journal the other day and came across some of the experiences I've shared with the Good, the Bad, and the Insane of Boston.

1. I like the guitarist at the Arlington Green Line stop. He plays originals, I think, or maybe they are Mexican folk songs that I've just never heard before (not that I've heard many). The chords take their time echoing off the rounded tunnel walls, slow tunes as we all scurry to above or below. The overall effect makes me feel like an actress in a low-budget "indie" film, the part where she has something really heavy on her mind and is probably wearing fishnet stockings and smudgy black eyeliner and a corduroy blazer, or something with elbow patches anyway. His speakers are cheap, the acoustics suck, but the hollowness of the sound makes me feel both lonely, and hopeful and young.

2. Today when the train doors opened at Downtown Crossing there was a laughing couple holding the shrunken head of a wig mannequin between them. I did a double take because I thought a small face had sprouted through their armpits. The man was fumbling a pack of cigarettes and one of them fell on a sweet little girl in a stroller. The mother grumbled, "She's too young to start" in front of the perpetrator, his girlfriend, and the grinning bodiless head. The child was making earnest and purposeful gestures towards my red purse and the mother said "She has no sense of boundaries" to which I replied, "It's ok. She shouldn't. She's a child."

3. Sometimes I wish it was more acceptable to speak to people on the T--we're all so smug and sad, shouting into phones, busily entering and searching data in blackberries like foraging insects.

4. (February 10, 2009) I get so distracted on the T. Today a swaggering, disheveled man boarded on at Stony Brook and immediately started spraying air freshener all over the car, holding a pint of brown-bagged mystery in the other hand. He tripped on a woman's backpack, who previously hadn't dared to bend over and pick it up for fear of attracting attention to herself. He looked with disgust at the offending strap and thrust it aside with his dirty leather boot.

And he stood there, adopting a wide-legged albeit unsteady stance, King of the Car, surveying us common, coarse commuters. Of course, the next logical thing to do as Ruler was remove the can of air freshener (with a flourish!) from his jacket. Within seconds the entire car wreaked of chemical-drenched potpourri. The wide-eyed woman and I simultaneously migrated to the opposite end of the car, ducking as though in military retreat. She remembered her backpack.

When I reached Downtown Crossing, I quickly exited the orange line, feeling a bit light-headed, and bolted for the red line that would take me to Cambridge. I could hear the train either approaching or leaving, and the doors closed dramatically when I was just a few steps away. When this happens, I usually feel like spitting on the door and stamping my foot, but I kept my tantrum to an irritated exhale. THEN, a normal-seeming middle-aged man approached me and said "I wouldn't have missed that train if I hadn't been staring at your boots."

Perhaps on any other day I would have assumed that "boots" was an entirely different plural noun, but today I was wearing my very special Lobster Rain Boots. They are black with red soles and and tiny lobsters printed all over them. Even I can't stop staring at their waterproof glory.

"Oh. They're cool, right?" I replied, nonchalently.

"Yes." He proceeded: "I like your hair."

I said, "Thanks man."

Then, eyes narrowed in a sudden display of skepticism, he asked "Are you Jewish?" to which I offered a completely blank star and answered, "No, no, not Jewish. Ummmm....sorry?"

He let out a slight sigh of relief and nodded, staring back, perhaps waiting for me to articulate my Roman Catholic roots and small-town Wisconsin upbringing. But I didn't. I stared him straight in the eye for a solid five seconds before relocating focus to the Greek crossword puzzle I had been working on before the two-faced compliment. I almost wished I had lied and claimed false ethnic heritage just to see what he would have said. But I didn't, and he moved on to the next young-ish woman who sat alone two benches down from mine.

Anti-Semitism and a failed attempt at womanizing. Is there no shame in Boston's underground?

Fishy Forays in the Aegean

2009-07-26T12:46:00.000-07:00

So my "Greek blog" didn't bear fruit as I had planned. We traveled very quickly and with limited internet access, and I didn't much feel like sitting at a computer when there was always so much to see (and so much fried cheese to consume). Whatever aversion to dairy I had acquired in Thailand quickly evaporated with every fresh plate of sizzling saganaki.

There were also many hours to sleep. I slept an average of 10 solid hours per night in Greece, as opposed to the 5-6 I tend to get in Boston. This could be due to the heat and strong Mediterranean sun, or to walking all day with bags. I think also the removal of one's usual daily schedule can function as a sedative of sorts. Without the skeleton of working hours, social hours, work-out hours, etc, I sort of fall apart into a drowsy, gelatinous, jointless being. Schedules keep me coherent. I am American.

Not to mention the fact that sheer beauty is totally distracting for my REM. Every day I saw something stunning and unique; I have had 17 continuous days of stunning and unique in my life. I feel privilaged. In Athens I looked up in the middle of a small, empty road and there was the Parthenon, floating unassumingly above the city, donning a partial metal cast of scaffolding but glowing the breath of the ancients nonetheless. In Tinos we saw worn old men crawling up a tall hill on their knees to beg the Virgin Mary for forgiveness. I stood in an empty hallway, strung with white linens drying in the breeze, the sea beckoning from the window at the opposite end. We saw a quiet, blue and white artisanal village tucked away in the folds of the hills, and hitched a free ride to the vacant beach on the other side of the island. In Chios, I realized that I could see Turkey, and I couldn't stop staring at it. I jumped off a cliff into the ocean on the island where Leonard Cohen used to live. I drowned bread in olive oil. I frequently dragged Dio out to eat fresh spinach pies at breakfast.

A few weeks ago, I posted on Facebook that while in Greece I had eaten seafood for the first time in 12 years. Within minutes, childhood friends began calling and e-mailing to inquire about why I had decided to eat a creature with a spinal cord. I honestly hadn't been expecting a reaction, but people seemed shocked. After all, I was the kid who ordered environmental t-shirts bearing sentimental logos from thin catalogues printed on recycled paper (think: "love animals; don't eat them" or "fur is most beautiful on the animal to whom it belongs"). In middle school, I spent considerable time in the basement, rummaging through plastic bins of my parents' clothes from university, looking for holey bellbottoms and flannel shirts. While everyone else in 8th grade was listening to TLC and Green Day, I was fervently memorizing the lyrics to "Aquarius." In high school and part of college, I was a frequent visitor to PETA's website, and at one point was trying to convince the girls in my sorority (the sorority-bit lasted only a year) that beer was healthier than BGH-infused skim milk (quite a popular argument, actually).

However, lately I've been realizing how little I function on an easy-going hippy mentality. Some people allow most aspects of their lives to rely on limitations: a "good job" with clearly defined expectations and someone to answer to (and from who to obtain approval or disapproval, or crystal clear definitions of success and failure); a religion that defines morality and hence a life planned around rules; a restrictive diet that makes eating a less controversial or self-indulgent affair. I'm not saying that any of these things are wrong, or even always limiting. Jobs can lead to promotions. Many people benefit from practicing a religion. Some of the people I have looked up to the most in my life also have a strong faith and adhere to dogma. Maybe I mean more of a predictable framework.

I've been realizing that I build my personality and plans a lot around limits. I don't much like that, as I'd like to be a person who accepts change and all of the unclear, fluctuating and vivid challenges and opportunities that life can bring. Especially since, according to one of my dear co-teachers, we will only become more cemented in our "ways" as we get older.

One thing that righteously bugged me is that my vegetarian status had developed into a source of pride. In high school and college, I was "unique" (not many vegetarians in Wisconsin or central Illinois). In Chicago, it was fashionable and "healthy", similarly to Boston. In Thailand, a reaction that my roommate Jen and I often derived was one of admiration (well, after the initial confusion--"Not even fish sauce?"). A vegetarian diet is a sign of discipline in some Buddhist sects. Most people eat vegetarian food, for example, on certain holidays or if they go to a temple for meditation. Abstaining from meat is widely considered a sacrifice of the corporeal pleasures.

But pride isn't what initially made me want to go veg when I was 10 years old. Initially, it was a child's impulse to "not-want-to-hurt." In the years that followed, I began to read more about the environmental impact of coorporate farming, inhumane treatment of livestock, and the usual spiel of eco-friendly, healthy, ethical-type thinking. These are still points that I strongly believe in, and so I won't be eating meat in the States.

However, what about in a country like Greece, where a local butcher swiftly slaughters the goat in the backyard? Or where the evening's fish was caught that morning by a local fisherman whose whole livelihood depends on people eating his product? In many countries, there is no negative environmental impact resulting from public consumption of fish and meat, no life of misery in an over-crowded pen. And I do believe in a natural food chain--wolves eat lambs. Whales eat plankton. I know a guy who spontaneously ate a grasshopper out of pure frustration. We don't accuse them of murder. Pain is part of every animal's life.

Also, my own lack of consistency makes my diet difficult to justify. I own leather shoes, and according to my friend Eric of Proctor and Gamble, nearly all of my toiletries have been tested on animals in one way or another. Also, as a human-lover (as well as animal-lover), wouldn't I be wrong to protest local businesses? Not to mention that I still eat dairy products, and who says that the dairy industry doesn't operate similarly to the meat industry?

So with these thoughts swimming over an empty stomach and under the stars, I asked for a small, glistening sliver of the daily catch on the island of Hydra. Tired, I thought, sand still clinging to my clothes, as my hosts chatted back and forth, drinking Mythos beer, switching from Greek to English to Spanish. I am so tired of clinging to unexamined ideals that still govern my life. How can we know a principal, a value, a love, a friend, if we don't step out for a moment and realize how free we can be, if we choose? That being a human doesn't mean we have to define everything about ourselves, that sometimes our moral absolutes become relative? I can pull up the anchor and cast it out again. I can always go back.

Oh--and apologies to my carniverous friends, but I'll never be a mammal or bird-eater. I didn't even like the fish as much as a solid square of tasty teriyaki tofu. But I'm keeping an open mind.

Ela, ela, ela Ellatha.

2009-07-01T10:06:00.000-07:00

Today is the end of my first day in Greece. This trip was a bit last-minute. Just a month ago, we sat down on a Friday night and went shopping for tickets. I cleared some dates with the director of my school, and here I am, a mile or two from the Acropolis, looking forward to another 16 days.

We got in this morning and proceeded to crash in Dionysi's grandmother's place for about five hours before heading out into the city. This is probably the first time I've gone somewhere without doing substantial preliminary reading. I don't really know how many eras there were in Greece, or their corresponding architectural styles. The philosophy and rhetoric courses I took in college are stored in some foggy recess of my brain, and haven't been dusted in awhile. Instead, I've been studying the language for a couple months whenever I have a spare moment--on the T, waiting to meet someone, waiting for a break in the Boston rain under some corner bus stop, cooking a solitary omelette. I have stopped reading novels and poetry for the time being. My spoken Greek is still pretty terrible, but I can sound out written words and sometimes understand what's happening around me. As expected, I hear a lot of "Ela, pethi mou!" (yes /what's up /come on my child). My guess is that Rihanna's hit "Umbrella" must have been big over here, given the popularity of the all-purpose "ela".

So I've done no research, but I'm going to read the signs and ask questions and eat more than the recommended amount of fried cheese that one should consume in a day. Dio told me that "finite" is the best single-word description of Greece. It doesn't have the tallest mountains, or the widest variety of fruits, the strongest economy, the largest temples. We climbed the Acropolis this afternoon, and could see where Athens ends, confined by three mountains and the foggy sea port. Greece has moments of perfection, he says, points of precision which can be experienced in anything from an ancient statue of Apollo to a glass of your Grandmother's fresh orange juice.

old blog

2009-05-03T12:52:00.001-07:00

I think the address I had entered before was incorrect. This is my old blog: http://www.myspace.com/bright_tights

So go there for the past two years.

BONSAIS

2009-04-30T17:37:00.000-07:00

The bonsais have mysteriously reappeared in Arnold Arboretum, and I'm taking this as a sign that Boston is officially convinced in the presence of spring. I really love the Arboretum. It's a park maintained by Harvard about a kilometer from my doorstep in Jamaica Plain. There are paths and marshy trails and a special little hut just for gutsy little bonsai trees. I was alarmed, back in October, when I had gone running to the top of the hill upon which the bonsai hut is perched only to find that they had been relocated indoors for the winter. Every time I've been jogging since then, "let there be bonsai" has been a prominent mantra in my adrenaline-deprived brain as I plod towards the arboretum.

Last weekend, I was walking around Harvard Square on Saturday morning, wasting time before I was due to play soccer with Dionysi and the physicists. Together, this team leaves theory at the office and transforms into an unstoppable force christened "Impertinence." The team name makes cheer-leading a much more interesting affair: Impertinence triumphs! Impertinence scores again!

Anyway, the city's transformation in the midst of springtime made me feel like I was in a different country--tulips had emerged, the occasional ant timidly scurried out from a sidewalk crack, and the bushes were slowly fleshing into brilliant green. I was, however, more amazed at the emergence of humanity: hairy shins, flowing hair, cracked elbows, pasty white legs freshly de-coccooned from scuffed-up Uggs, and of course, lots of cleavage bouncing about in every which way. Seeing as I've spent the last few springtimes in more conservative parts of the world, the revealing tendencies of the western sundress are a bit shocking. However, I feel that the donning of a sundress is a contagious bug for many women. Despite my immediate disdain for my American sisters' lack of restraint, I couldn't resist going out and buying a feisty blue number for myself that same morning. .

I've also joined a gym, thanks to the coercive nature of my co-worker, Sharon. I guess I didn't make it too difficult for her. I heard "next to the T" and "unlimited yoga" and I was pretty much sold. Gyms do give me a slight case of the heebie jeebies--something about people scampering about on indoor machines reminds me of a metaphor in a post-modern novel. We'll see how this experience progresses.

For Heit

2009-04-16T17:47:00.000-07:00

I don't even quite know how to begin blogging again. This resurgence of emotional outpour via cyberspace is the result of the vexacious but clearly effective nagging tactics of Shannon Heit, my dear friend who continues to station herself in Seoul, Korea with one Kyoungseok Lee. I visited her there once. I still maintain that lunch at the temple in Insadong was the finest meal I have ever had ever ever forever. And I doubt that anyone in the world besides KS will ever bestow porcelain dolls of Korean villagers craddling kimchee in their tiny frozen arms as a parting gift. Mm. Kimchee.

So now I've been living in Boston since September, after a summer spent traveling to the larger dots on the map in the midwest, teaching yoga to my mother's coworkers, and reading The Economist on the backporch in Beaver Dam, WI with a New Glarus Spotted Cow beer clutched between my knees. You see I can't make things simple for myself, so the logical thing to do after coming back from Asia was to rebound geographically in one way or the other. I will say that I love Boston, despite the stress and challenges I've faced here. My group of friends is small but wonderful, there are poetry readings everywhere, and after two months at a terrible internship and another month of job-searching, I've landed a lovely teaching post at a small ESL school located on a college campus in a swanky area of the city. I mean, we're two blocks from Valentino. That's serious swank.

Boston also gave me a swift kick in the boot-ay towards applying to graduate school. I've been accepted to the programs in Southeast Asian Studies that I applied to at Cornell, Ann Arbor, and Madison, and it's looking as though I'll be back in the land of fried cheese and beer brats come January of 2010. I'll write more about grad school at a later time. Or maybe not, as the decision has already taken up the greater portion of my year thus far.

I live in Jamaica Plain, which is southwest of downtown Boston. It's a great neighborhood; I don't think I could compare it to any place in Chicago at all. Or any place I've ever lived, actually. It's a nice mezcla of families, students, and we working folks, and there is just so much green. Well there is now after a harrowing arctic winter from hell's most frozen tundras. There's a large pond about half a mile from my house, and I've been running around it each day after work. Today I saw lots of Canadian geese sitting calmly in pairs, and emerald-dipped mallards fighting over the lady ducks. I look pretty ridiculous when I run; I still haven't bought an ipod (mine was stolen a couple years ago), so I use a discman that's maybe seven years old, along with headphones that are larger than your average-sized tufty earmuffs. I like to think I'm a neo-hipster or "retro" rather than a freak.

Thus concludes my first blog out of Boston. This weekend I plan to run the pond, co-host a cook-out (you're all invited), study Greek, and finish at least one of the five books that I've started since February. Love, Hilary

Blogs from the Beav

2008-08-06T11:18:00.001-07:00

I've recently returned from two years living and teaching in Lampang, Thailand. I miss my life there every day. For example, I miss my rather eclectic bunch of friends, my rental motorbike, and how you can buy delicious tropical fruits anywhere and how the vendor always chops it up and serves it to you with two sticks so you can share the juicy goods with a friend. I am very interested in continuing to study Thai language, and have been spending some of my copious downtime trying to re-memorize the approximately 28 vowel forms. Currently, I am unemployed and living in Beaver Dam, WI , where I was born and raised, with the exception of those rogue five years in Baton Rouge.

I wrote on a myspace account when I had time during my years in India and Thailand, so feel free to check that out as well http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAll&friendID=24548775