NYC. Open letter to the children I love.

An open letter to my nieces and nephews (honorary & biological),

Let me start off with this:  you are all the smartest, best looking children that I’ve ever encountered. You are funny and cute especially when you bat your eyes and tell me me how awesome I am.  Occasionally after a visit, I even think that maybe I should make a kid for myself.  I know you are just manipulating me, an attempt to sucker me in into parenthood, or simply to neutralize me as a threat in your anti-parent plot. In short, my sweet little nieces and nephews, I’m onto you.

You have a lot on your side, powerful little limbs capable of amazing destruction 10x what your stature might suggest.  You have lungs that can shatter glass and stop traffic, and giant eyes on an oversized head that soften the hardest hearts.  All of this is in your corner as you seek to dominate your world, but they are no match for Auntie Lisa.

I have known your mommies and daddies since long before their chromosomes hooked up to make you. I remember what your mommies and daddies were like when they took the time to put on makeup, and slept until 11am on Sundays.  I knew them when they were up at 3am with puke on their shirt.  I knew them when that puke was their own. You believe you are winning, that the hormones and sleep deprivation have left them powerless against you.  I have watched you wield this authority with the confidence of a Russian tsar, your tactics of fear and intimidation. 

But I tell you this - I live in America, not turn of the century Russia.  And in America we believe in freedom, and when I see the sad sighs and the slumped postures of defeat in your parents, I'm emboldened to defend those freedoms.  This is bigger than you (although at 28 inches tall, most things are); it's about principle, it's about America.

These poor slobs who house and care for you were my friends before they were your parents. We go back to a world before cell phones and the Internet, and quite frankly you took those well-rested, fun people away from me.  It's those memories of the old days strengthen me in battle.  So when you go up against your Auntie Lisa, prepare to lose. You may have other aunts or uncles who cower before the power of a public tantrum, feel guilt at any sign of discontent – not I. Your weapons are inadequate against me. You cannot cry and get what you want.  I’m larger, smarter and stronger. When you ignore your parents' requests, or start to whine, I'm driven into action.  Regardless of what you think or feel or want, in my world the adults are right every time.  Yes, the adults are right every. single. time. including those times we are wrong.

If you still decide to revolt, be warned, I will unleash a powerful "teacher look" developed by top scientists and proven to paralyze toddlers from ½ a room away.  If that fails beware the low, but terrifying, "teacher voice" that can stop a closet monster in its tracks.  Best not to mess with me kiddos, best to just smile and obey - at least until I get on that plane headed home.

Much Love,
Auntie Lisa

BOAT TRIP. Princess Lisa.

Do you recall that for the first couple decades of your life adults were endlessly asking you what you wanted to be when you grew up? It was usually right after asking you how old you were, or remarking on your increased height, but before asking about your favorite teacher. Do you even remember the answers? I had many - from policeman and nurse to history teacher and astronaut. As a kid all these things seemed like choices at an ice cream shop to be made on a whim. Only as you grew older did the realities behind each became more and more readily apparent. You made choices. Took different paths. What you wanted to be when you grew up started narrowing down until you looked around one day and thought, well I'll be darned - I guess this is what I "am". The narrowing isn't necessarily a bad thing just another piece of getting older. And while there have been times where that moment of assessment left me breathless with panic - second guessing all those choices and turns, most days I think "hey, you haven't done half bad."

All of this to leads me to little 5-year old Maia. Maia sat, with two wet pig tails, one each side of her head, while we took a break from swimming in the lake.  We were sitting on a long bench seat having deli meat sandwiches in a friend's boat.  I asked her how she was enjoying her day - her parents had informed me it was her very first time on a boat.  She answered that she was having a wonderful time had decided to become a mermaid.  Given her enjoyment of the water, that made perfect sense to me.  I told her that I thought she would be a very pretty mermaid.  There was a lull in the conversation as we went back to our sandwiches then she asked in her little voice, in a matter of fact manner, what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I have spent time with my share of younger kids through the years, and they ask lots of questions, but in my experience they tend to be "why" questions rather than "get to know you" questions. So it caught me completely off guard. Usually the adult in the conversation would push it forward, but I found myself just grinning and saying "you know - I'm not really sure. That's a really great question." I had been caught by the purity of the question, the innocence of the intent. She didn't want to know what I wanted to do she was interested in who I wanted to be. And that really was a great question - and one I hadn't considered in quite some time.

I didn't answer quickly enough for her and she threw out a suggestion, "a princess?" she offered sagely. Who was I to argue with a girl wise beyond her years?  I agreed wholeheartedly and gave her a high five for such a brilliant suggestion.

The last time anyone referred to me as "Princess Lisa" in any sort of complimentary way was when I was only 8 years old. According to my best friend of nearly 30 years they were spoken to me by a classroom mom helping our class with Halloween parade preparations in 3rd grade. In those days my best friend  was less of a fan and overhearing these words used to describe me still forces her eyes to roll during a retelling of the story today.

Back in the boat, a few decades past my 3rd grade Halloween costume, I was clearly a candidate in Maia's eyes for princessship and she got down to defining my role - asking me which princess I would be? Now even when I was young - besides my awe over their tiaras - I was never much into princesses. I tended to believe that fairies and ballerinas had way cooler outfits, so when it came to putting myself into a princess category I was at a loss. Maia jumped in with another suggestion, "Rapunzel?" Always agreeable, I relented. Indeed Rapunzel seemed a good fit - as I'd been meaning to grow out my hair.

It was clear, even to this 5 year old, that I needed some career counseling - being the next Rapunzel wasn't going to be any walk in the park. The first issue was my hair - it wasn't nearly long enough. I was informed that the only way to grow it was to sing. The radio was on so I sang my heart out only to be met with the rolling eyes of Maia's older sister, who at 9 years old knew that I was no Rapunzel and wasn't going to get anywhere with that voice. She cut me off and informed me that I couldn't just sing to any old song, that accelerated hair growth in fact required a special song. Noticeably exasperated with my ignorance she added that my hair would also need to be magic ... it was all in the movie. "Haven't you SEEN the movie? It's been out for like a MILLION years." I admitted I had not seen the movie and felt like I was being admonished for having a poor attitude. How could I expect to be a princess like Rapunzel if I hadn't even bothered to see the movie? She had a point.

I had failed the first item on the list and I turned back to Maia for some additional pointers. I also would need to get myself a pink and purple dress. Check. I'm sure I could find one somewhere, I mean this wasn't Never Never Land, they have the internet here - Amazon.com would certainly have some adult sized princess dresses available for sale perhaps even with free shipping. Third, I would need a mother. I clapped and said that I had one of those, she just wasn't on the boat with us. Maia looked rather doubtful and reminded me on a few occasions that I needed to have a mother in order for this to work. I'm sure Mom is up for it - just have to get her a list of her duties. Fourth, I needed a prince. I asked if she knew of only princes because I'd been looking for a really long time and I sure couldn't find one. She giggled hysterically and said there are no princes here only DADDIES! Well there you have it.

Pushing the point I told her that if she did happen to come across a prince she should send him my way - at which point she threw in another caveat ... the Prince was named Eugene. Eugene? I'm supposed to find a Prince named Eugene? Now I don't know about A Land Far Away but there aren't many princes named Eugene wandering the streets these days - at least not in my neighborhood. Clearly I have my work cut out for me, but I guess it's good to have goals.

AIR RAGE. Argentina.

First, I would just like to say the tone of this post was brought to you by United Airlines. United: Preferred flyer of Oompa Loompas, Amputees, and the Lollypop Guild. If you don’t get there and look like hell, next time you ride in cargo for free.

So, Argentina. That's pretty freakin' far. And when you work for a company that refuses to acknowledge the existence of business class, it's a really really long way. By the time I arrive to the airport I'm in no mood for human interaction of any kind. Well, Argentina has recently decided to raise money through a gotcha tax as you arrive in EZE (the main international airport in Buenos Aires). They say that this amount is in no way a visa but in fact just payback for three crappy governments (Canada, Australia and the U.S.) who have the gall to charge Argentina’s citizens a visa fee. As you enter the terminal now you are immediately herded by nationality into hastily erected payment quarters so that you can be subjected to the $131 fee. There is no warning of this fee before you arrive, no notification on your airline ticket. Not even a mention in flight before you land. Luckily, others from our office had gone before and sussed out the situation post-Jan 15, 2010. So, if you are planning on heading to Argentina, you may want to re-consider and go somewhere else without a reciprocity tax (a.k.a. ”Screw You” tax).

And then there was my immigration officer... Given my unlucky status as an American and requirement to pay the Screw You tax I was near the end of the long line of our flight to come through. From what I could tell everyone ahead of me was also from my flight. So after waiting in my second line of the three line day I come to the immigration officer who decided, with one look, that he hates me. “Flight number.” Jesus, I don’t know, as I try to pull out the correct piece of paper out of my backpack with the 4500 different pockets and zippers. Usually at this point they try to help you out, “where did you come from?” knowing that there are probably only 1 or 2 possible choices for you to choose from. As the airport clearly only had one international flight per provider he could have suggested “United? American?” and used his knowledge from there. No he hummed while I cursed and dug out old boarding passes from the wrong flights. After I successfully located the flight number on a balled up boarding pass crouching in the seam of my backpack I moved onto customs. As I followed the signs to the outside I’m fairly certain I passed through customs without getting searched as the strange looking step-child of a family of Mexicans that I latched onto. I certainly got a raised eyebrow but no one said a word and no one ever even took my customs form.

I did finally make it through the rigmarole and managed to hand over a large portion of the cash I had on me through the various airport schemes. There was of course the ridiculous exchange rate booth, with “no commission” and the “official taxi stand” operators who grab your bags and beg for tips. Finally, I was in a cab and on my way to the domestic airport for the next leg of my flight.

Argentina is a mishmash of cultures and I've had the pleasure of visiting a handful of times. They took the foods of Italy, the superiority complex of France, the anal retentiveness of Germany, and threw it all together to create their own anal retentive, taxation and rule crazy, but never on time, striking mess with the party vibe of Brazil and a cowboy history flowing just beneath the surface. I've got to admit it is a blend that has benefits and makes for a great country. The food in Argentina is amazing, combined with the culture and cafes of any good European city, buildings that are well thought out and neighborhoods that are well kept. The people may believe they are better than you, but they are are kind and open to strangers.

These internal conflicts of Argentine culture were evident to me in the orderly traffic on the motorway as I crossed the city that wasn’t at all phased by a motorcycle speeding in the breakdown lane going the wrong direction. Argentina is like that straight-A kid you remember from High School who followed all the rules, but was moonlighting as a stripper for extra cash. You’d never know it to look at her except for the nipple ring that occasionally showed through her top.

I was fairly certain I had asked for the right place but the price was high and my invoice said “Aeroparque” not “Aeropeurto” ….and we were driving, and driving, and driving. The travel agent had said 25 minutes. The flight attendant said 20 … so at 45 minutes I began to get concerned I had miscommunicated something along the way. We drove through the “Parque Norte” (North Park) and I got even more concerned, as we had entered onto a picturesque boulevard that was lined with trees, following the coastline paved with residential speed bumps. Lord help me where have I asked to go?? I was just about to ask for some clarification on the whole “Aeroparque” (literally air park) and “Aeropeurto” (airport) issue. When finally, against all odds, and reaffirming my belief that my Spanish wasn’t so bad that I would end up in a different town I spotted the telltale blue sign with an airplane picture on it. Turns out Aeroparque was a good description, as the airport is lovely, built with the neighborhood in mind with one whole wall of windows overlooking the boulevard and the water beyond. Woo Hoo! I had arrived.

Trying to find a small enough bill to tip with, led to another episode of cursing and swearing my way through my backpack only to realize I didn’t actually have a smaller bill, and thus Part 24 of handing over all unsecured cash to various members of the airport community. A tradition of traveling that truly never ceases to irk me because I’m always, without fail, too tired to fight …except for that time when I was in Cairo and the guy locked my backpack into his trunk after I’d argued with him about the price and then just left. I out waited him, 45 minutes sitting in his cab acting as if nothing was unusual until he relented on the price and took me to my hotel. Alas that is a story for another day.

Upon my arrival at the domestic airport, I managed to get out of line twice after the monitors cycled past the name of the airline that was supposed to be represented at the counter. My slowly awakening mind finally realized the monitor was alternating between two names. Duh. It’s a monitor and I was treating it as if someone had carved it into an ancient piece of stone. When I reached the counter I was met with a quickly spoken question outside of my comfort zone to which I announced “Calafate?” (the city I was trying to get to and my best guess at the first question the airlines usually ask). To which I was greeted with a withering stare and “your passport.” Type type type. “How many bags?” she said in heavily accented English. “None”, I don’t do checked luggage. Our U.S. airlines have lost their minds with their silly fees, and I refuse to take it anymore, so I had everything down to my hiking boots and work clothes shoved into a tiny carryon. “I must weigh it.” …. Du du dududu 21 kg between my carryon and my backpack and a heavy winter jacket. “No more than 5” she says. “What!?” “No more than 5 kg to carry” … Aerolinas Argentinas? Are you shitting me? 10 lbs I’m allowed to carry on? That’s basically a laptop? But did I say that? Did I turn into one of those Americans screaming about stupid foreign rules and customs? No. I started pulling things out of my carryon, knowing this was a battle for another, less sleep deprived, day.

All I’m saying is, if I were president of the world I would get all of the crazy ass airlines and government agencies into a room and I would lock them up there with one word “Decide”. Pick one set of ridiculous virtually pointless rules, that will apply to all the airplanes and airports in the world. Either we have 2 carry-ons or we have 1 (I’m talking to you England). We will have 30 lb carry ons or 10 lb carry ons (crazy Argentina Air). Water bottles or no, shoes on or off? Post security water is okay or still bad? Plastic bags or in your carryon? Cell phones during taxi or no? … And while you are at it demand that ever plane out of production from this day forward can hold the same size carryon. I want an end to gatechecking! Who’s with me?! It’s a revolution! But for now I will just have to do with my camera, a non-functional blackberry, and a laptop without wireless access … because everything else was checked.

CHARLOTTE. A Dating Life.

I'm being stalked by eHarmony.

If a man ever sent me this many emails by now I would have a restraining order, but the problem is I'm leading Dr Neil Clark Warren on. He sends me an email with ... "WE FOUND YOUR MATCH!!!!" and with that many exclamation points I can't help but open it.
Once they see that I peeked they know at some point I will be: drunk, recently rejected, and on email ... it's the eharmony "perfect storm". Then they will have me. I will happily, desperately, hand over my credit card information and dole out the a minimum $60 / month to be able to "nudge" my perfect match.

However, the more I play "hard to get" the harder Neil looks for matches for me, and the more desperate the search becomes ... it's been 2 months and Neil's gotten more and more vague about what these matches could possibly have in common with me and they seem to live farther and farther out into the North Carolina countryside (read: the hills) and I don't mean The Hills with capitals and a great opening theme song, I mean the hills where Dairy Queen and Waffle House are considered gourmet.

A recent match:
Billy Joe (48) 4'4" self-employed,

Billy Joe likes walks down his driveway to get the mail on Tuesdays, lives with his mama and spends most days washing windows for tips at the local gas station.

Billy Joe says: "I'm looking for a woman who can move in and take care of me and mama. I ain't got time for no fatties, and I'd like her to have teeth. I don't want a woman with more then 4 of her own children."

The three things friends would say about Billy Joe:
literate,
good with a gun,
once traveled to Memphis.

Things he can't live without:
his mama,
NASCAR,
running water, and
beer.

Wow, thanks Neil that's hard to resist but for now, I'm still sober and somehow I think I'm going to have to pass.

POEM. To A New Baby.

In her belly you did surely grow,
But what you would be we still didn’t know.

If you’re a she, as I’m sure you will be,
You’ll be named Lisa, as you’re named after me!

Perhaps to consider, the thought that I’m wrong,
If this should happen then I’d vote for Shawn

Into the future your whole life will be,
Oh the things that you’ll know! Oh the things you will see!

A doctor or teacher, it's hard to be sure
Perhaps to disease, you’ll find the cure

Movies and music you’ll have all your own,
You’ll laugh at our stories of Walkmans and car phones

We await your arrival with excitement and awe
But no one’s as psyched as your mama and pa

Even though you babies, you do cry and poo,
You, little baby, are a little dream come true

BOSTON. World Domination Got Ugly.

When I was twelve I joined my mother on a take your daughter to work day.  I was really excited to see where she worked what she did all day, who she talked to.   And when I walked into the sparkling lobby with the glimmering marble and shiny elevator doors, I think I was hooked.  Next to my drab building where I spent my days in school, this was a beautiful place, full of people that looked like they were important somehow and they all rushed around as if there was somewhere that really needed them to arrive.   I wanted to be that important to something.  As a 12 year old the feeling that someone is waiting desperately for your arrival and thoughts, it was, for me an amazing selling point on the business world.

So off I went first to an undergraduate degree in Economics, where I learned that everything was perfectly predictable if only the world was predictable.   However, in a world that is not predictable, we can still draw graphs without being tied to scales on the axis and make overarching statements, that the more something is demanded, the higher the price will rise, unless that high demand is met with more supply in which case the price will stay the same, or alternatively the high demand will cause supplier to overcompensate driving down prices temporarily, until a time that they are unsustainable, driving competitors out of the market and increasing prices again, unless of course the government won't allow it and then they will stay low ad infinitum.   So in a nutshell that was my undergraduate degree.  I was hoping that would be enough that people would find me important and I would rush around and they would start asking and respecting my opinion.   However, with a B average in Economics and 4,500 classmates I was virtually unemployable as anything more then a part-time burger flipper or Olive Garden waitress. (image placeholder)

With the details of my dreams of greatness slowly coagulating into a solid but malleable mass, I was asked to join a group of test gerbils, to try out the new Master of Accounting program.   In return for my participation I would receive 90% of my tuition and the opportunity to increase my value from that of part-time burger flipper - living in my parent's basement between the Barbie Dream house and 12 gnarled boxes of Christmas lights - Olive Garden waitress to CPA – real honest to goodness letters after my name.   If that didn't make me important, I don't know what would.

Nearly 2 years after graduating with my undergraduate degree, I started working as a tax accountant at one of the largest public accounting firms in the world.   My first tax return ended with my supervisor pretty much redoing all of my work while I was relegated to be staffed on the left over returns or work for people that no one else with any power would.   It was a depressing scene in that first year.  I had been allocated to the one kind of tax I wasn't interested in … individuals.   I was assigned based on - wait for it - the B in my last name.   It was the first in my class and the Individual group was the first on the list of departments, so off I went.   Soon it was all I could do to get myself unchained from my department without pissing anyone off – but the only manager who was patient enough to deal with my distinct inability to really focus on details was himself a manager in the international individuals department.   Finally, in this department I was worthy of rushing, I eventually accumulated some staff to help me and I was close to meeting my goal of importance.   But I was worried I couldn't be important enough? (image placeholder)  I mean how many famous international assignment services tax managers are running a Fortune 500 company?  

In order to reach my goal I would have to breakoff schedule and make a quick pitstop at Servicetown, USA.   It's a popular place to stop these days on your way to any high profile graduate program.   However, this destination is growing so popular that sometimes you need to work pretty hard to get in, especially if you are hoping to get paid while you are there.   My destination was the TFA neighborhood of Servicetown.   I had signed up, interviewed, speeched, and dazzled my way into Greenville High School, much to my mother’s horror.  I raised the average age in Servicetown by a couple of years, and was happy to share the wealth of life experiences gained from my 4 years partying legally in bars instead of frat parties.   It was a two year stint, and it was mighty hard work, but at the end of it, I had what all but the most dedicated find at the end of their trip to Servicetown, a letter of acceptance.   In my case it was off to Business School back in Philadelphia.

My MBA built on my knowledge of charts and graphs and broad generalizations.  I redefined myself by the rules of this new game, where leadership came in four flavors, everyone lived in boxes and were desperate to get out, and team members should feel free to critique you at any point in order to foster your personal and professional growth.  I came out of two years with some Cs Ps and a new appreciation for Excel shortcut keys.  I could voice an opinion strongly and without any real foundation, and best of all ... all those charts and graphs I had learned about during my Economics degree I could now translate into 40 colors and make into an animated three-dimensional chart that talked(image placeholder). 

But the biggest learning I took away from business school is the importance of having friends.  However, you should no longer have only "popular" friends; you should have friends evenly distributed across all the strata of social acceptance levels from homeless man to presidents alike.  During your MBA you find out the more connections you make the better.  However, if you are the type of person to really develop deep friendships with a few key people, you may find yourself in trouble.  As your social connections may have many, detrimental, "redundant links" and there is nothing more worrisome then the dreaded redundant link ... if I know 1 person who knows all the same people as another well then why the HELL would I spend any of my time (and time is money) talking to person number 2 since he/she is no more valuable then person 1 in my social network.  Rationalize your social networks, RATIONALIZE!  It's all about efficiencies across all aspects of your life, if you are not efficient then you are destined again to never be important and never be truly respected within the corporate world.

The most depressing learning of my advanced degree was that even in a top rated school there simply weren't enough good jobs to go around and you were forced to battle it out like a scene out of Mad Max, or like in Waterworld when people wanted freshwater and they couldn't drink out of the ocean, yeah, like that almost, except without the water so much, or the post-apocalyptic outfits, because well mostly people just shopped at Banana Republic.  But I fear I'm getting away from my story, of how I was struggling my way up the corporate ladder towards a job with real meaning and responsibility.  A way to shape the corporate world as I knew it. (image placeholder)

In May of my second year I received confirmation that I had climbed one more step in a long ladder to corporate greatness, or the ultimate destruction of my very soul (depending on who it was that you are talking to).  Where had I landed and who had I stabbed in the back to get there?  Well, I managed to find a small place in a little strategy consulting firm (read:  you have a question? we'll make up an answer) and was absolutely thrilled that my long term plan of 2 years consulting followed by a move into the corporate world, quickly followed by world domination.  As for those I'd stabbed in the back, well rest assured they were a fully redundant connection and of absolutely no value to my future.

It was a great start; it seems that in order to really be effective at telling someone else the answer you need to develop your own code language to make sure your client never knows that you are just discussing your dinner plans.  The tags and ghosts, and standards ... I never knew I had any bandwidth, only time ... and write down what a random person thought in quotes and suddenly it became "color".  Manhattan, wasn't just a place, it was a chart that no one could explain, Harvey's balls were all over the place, and if your bars weren't stacked you weren't trying hard enough to pack as much into a single loop as possible.  When the haze of random words, that were used in place of very common, easily understood words, finally began to clear and I found myself looking for Bandwidth to accommodate a weekend shopping trip I thought ... this is a little strange, but I feel like I'm getting somewhere.  Certainly everyone important must speak a language no one else understands.
(image placeholder) 
When I began I slept easily knowing full well, that when they had hired me they had not just hired a former CPA/teacher/endless student they had hired a person looking for success.  Unfortunately, they had also hired someone who was very much used to having a life of their own as well ... hmmm.  Depending on your perspective work life here was definitely in balance as long as your life was your work, then you were 100% in line 100% of the time, and I worked with many who were thrilled about it.  They could talk about their ability to bring their work home, and call forwarding, as well as the power of the internet to allow them to have a life at work and to work continuously at home.  In my master plan, it was never written that world domination would be quite so much work.

The lowest point occurred at the saddest part of the day ... dawn.  While in many cultures dawn is equated to rejuvenation, and a re-awakening of the world.  Dawn in the business world merely means that you have lost any chance to spend more then a few minutes in bed before returning to work, with even less brainpower.  So my personal lowest point occurred just as I was realizing I had hit the 100 hour mark ... there were no taxis to be found at this hour and all I wanted was to be home in bed.  About a block up I spotted a blond woman, about 26, getting into a cab, the cab pulled away and I turned around again, hoping to spot another from a new corner.  And just as I thought the cab was about to take off it pulled over and the girl climbed back out ... the cabbie inside yells - you go to Lynn Street?  I was thankful that a co-worker had called me a cab and got inside.  When I noted my thanks, the cabbie stopped me and said, "no, no" I drove you last night - I drive you home again.  It seemed my bright pink jacket and a propensity to tip my drivers well, had earned me a reputation with the few drives that were stuck with the night shift work.  What do you do when the night shift cabbies know you?

What do you do when you are so sleep deprived that no alarm clock in the world can rouse you to meet a 6am flight?  When you are expected to check documents for errors at the point that exhaustion has your eyes slamming shut involuntarily?  When you leave work and sleep for 23 hours?  When you cry at work more than once a week?  How does world domination look when you are just aren't "owning" your position?  When you are being told that you just aren't good enough? When person after person says it again and again?  World domination starts to look pretty grim.  World domination starts to look like a pretty lame plan. Screw world domination. I quit. I'm going home and taking an f-ing nap.

AFRICA. Understanding PMS.

You may think you understand PMS but that's not the kind I'm referring to. The kind of PMS I will discuss here is the Primitive Mood-altering Showers of Africa. There are different levels that need to be understood in order to fully appreciate the magnitude of PMS's impact on the women and the world in general.

Level 1:
The tease. You were expecting a hot shower, but after 5 long days and you walk into a dark dirty shack with a fire-warmed gravity shower in a corner filled with territorial spiders. The water is luke warm at best and it is like trying to wash your hair in a rain shower.

Level 2:
The annoyer. It is 25 degrees out and again, you have not bathed in 3 days. You are forced to choose between an outright revolt by your tent partner or showering in an open air shower that anyone interested in looking can see right through. The water is hot, but your neighbor is that guy on the trip that is always singing showtunes off key.

Level 3:
The tear jerker. How to get someone happy to cry ... almost guarenteed. Put them in a hot shower when it is in the low 20's and then break the thermostat on the water heater ad let it go ice cold just as they put shampoo into their hair. If you want hysterical crying then just at that moment someone should open the outer door letting in a cold blast of air.

Level 4:
Warning, those experiencing level 4 PMS should be left alone for at least 4 hours before approaching as they can become suddenly violent and unpredictable. This is a shower that is as cruel as they come. The bathroom is bright and cheery ... welcoming and clean.

You find the anonymous and highly disturbing "Mr Toilet" poem posted at the back of every door as a reminder to keep the toilets clean. There's even loo paper readily available. The water is hot and has pressure. You lather up and put shampoo in your hair then start the arduous task of attempting to shave off a months hair that has grown on you legs. The water pressure suddenly weakens and you turn the warm tap in a vain attempt to relive those glorious moments of water ... when it weakens further you brace yourself for the icy cold water you will have to endure, but when you turn the cold water tap you find yourself stunned by the fact that there is just no water at all.

The tears come as the grim reality sets in that you will have to wipe off the soap and shampoo with your formerly white towel. A white towel can can only be described currently as "off white" displaying a wide variety of browns and other dirt colors. Just when you've completed this horrendous task - the final kick in the gut, the water returns just as you have gathered your belongings and turned to leave.

AFRICA. Adventures in 2006.

5/30/06

greetings from namibia, currently in Sakamond, Namibia (on the west coast of africa in the Namib Desert) the birthplace of baby Jolie-Pitt yesterday (I'm so glad that Angie held out so that I could be here for the birth). In other news ...

1. Threw myself out of a plane at 10,000 feet today over the Namib Desert. very fun. very beautiful. much less scary then bungy.
2. Drove a Quad bike thru the desert this morning at about 60 km/hr lots of huge hills and good bumbs, only nearly ate sand once, didn't flip my vehicle like some others in the group.
3. Went sandboarding this morning from a dune that was about 400 ft high and went straight down, apparently you get upto speeds about 88 km/hr ... again, very very fun. Glad I didn't break my neck.
4. Yesterday went to a seal colony 300,000 seals ... yes the size of Rochester! it was unbelievable, of course i took WAY too many pictures, that I cannot send due to their size, after many many tries. Also hiked up the world famous (apparently) dune 45 one of many many many giant red sand dunes that cover an area of 32,000 hectares!! it is unbelievably beautiful.
5. Two days ago I hiked up another dune, took an hour, lots of wheezing in the dry air but really great views.
AND THE LIST GOES ON. Like bush camping under the shadow of a giant bolder, it was beyond amazing.

Must say. namibia, very very unexpectedly cool. and really easy to get around, I will come back and do it on my own. i will say however, that i should have been a little more respectful of the whole "winter" thing. the desert apparently gets very very cold ... we've been out camping in the middle of no where now for a couple of days in temps that are getting into the 20s ... even in a 3 season sleeping bag, not freeing to death requires me to basically wear every single piece of clothing that i own.

The group is fun, i'm being very anti-social. i think i'm just socialled out. it is 9 english women, 2 aussies, 2 dutch and me ... everyone is about my age which makes it fun, i just wish i felt like partying all the time, i think i'm getting a rep. i just want to be awake to enjoy everything, so i haven't exactly been greeting the dawn with a beer in hand.

My tentmate is Carrie from Bath. She is a vet nurse and hysterically funny, she's the most fun english girl i think ... and reminds me a bit of you Carrie! We have a crappy tent that refuses to "pop" so we swear and kick the damn thing and then whine until the guides do it for us.... that helps.

There's really way too much to tell, unfortunately besides brushing the wire out of my braces one day and losing my water bottle while dune 'leaping' in the desert I haven't done anything too crazy or stupid ... but lucky for you there is still time. i wish this wasn't such a boring email!

Well the baboons were certainly entertaining at the Cape of Good Hope. They break into cars there in such of a sweet snack. We drive up and this large male baboon jumps into one of the tour trucks and what does the guide do? he closes the door locking the baboon in .. not sure what the purpose of that was other then to piss off large strong baboon. Apparently if you try to picnic there they will climb a tree over you and pee on your sandwich so that you drop it on the ground and then they run away with a urine soaked snack ... mmmm yummy.

6/2/06

Yesterday was going to watch wild cheetahs being fed and when trying to get the perfect picture I fell off the truck. Yes people I fell off the truck right smack in front of hungry cheetahs being fed raw meat. Hmmm.... Needless to say I moved pretty quick and made it back in the truck before most even noticed I had fallen!

6/3/06

Greetings from Etosha, Namibia. This is our first place for game drives and so far so good. Yesterday we saw about 47 elephants around a waterhole, even some babies. Managed to get some good pictures without falling in. Apparently now I'm the entertainment of the group. Sounds like I won't be able to stay that extra week which is a disappointment, but I just found out my next hotel nights are in over a month ... so I'll probably be ready for a break from camping by then.

While some people on this list may dissaprove ... contending it is not REAL camping, the facitilities here are amazing. It is basically a compound in the middle of the game reserve. We are the animals in the zoo. They basically close off the gates at sundown to keep the lions out (someone got eaten a couple of years ago ... oops). Apparently the Lions were up and roaring all night keeping everyone awake. I've given up trying to get any sleep at all without my earplugs. The jackels are running rampant around here, stealing shoes, but are pretty much harmless and the waterhole that is just outside the compound is all lit up at night. We got to see a couple of lions and 5 black rhinos (including a baby!) come for a drink after dark.

My camera has been nicknamed "baby" by the group, i.e. "Lisa's Baby" ... most are terrified to touch it. They are starting to understand my sense of humor and have taken to mocking me. Also we have instituted a rule in Uno that you are not allowed to apologize for dealing someone a crappy card ... in fact if you say "sorry" you have to pick up another card. I'm glad I can be such a positive influence on the group.

Let's see ... every time I'm off line I think of things I've forgotten to mention. How about a top ten list of things I've learned, in my last 10 min. of internet time.

10. Cheetahs don't like sunglasses
9. You can find Magnum ice cream bars in any African village, no matter how small.
8. Rock paintings are NEVER interesting, even if they are 3,000 years old.
7. No picture is important enough to get eaten by a cheetah for.
6. Winter means its cold ... even in Africa
5. The smellier your shoes are the more likely they are to get eaten by a jackel
4. Its okay to pee in public
3. 6am is early no matter when you went to sleep.
2. 300,000 seals smell. Bad.
1. $3.30/day can feed me with second helpings.

Okay people. That's about it. Feel free to email me, I like to have the mail to read. For those that have and now feel dissed by my lack of individual response ... SORRY! I'm at an expensive place, but in Livingston I'll have lots of time to catch up on my real replies.

Hope all is well, hope you are having fun ... when you wake up without your nose frozen solid think of me!

6/6/06

Windhoek, Namibia ... the capital city apparently (yes my ignorance is
overwhelming at times)

Well after 45 minutes of trying to get onto my email account, I
finally gave up and moved over here to the "largest internet cafe in
Africa" ... well I'm not sure it is really the largest at all but at
least I can get onto my email account. So I promised a long note for
you all today ... so here it goes.

I brought my journal so that I could see if anything in particular had
happened that you might all care about, that I had forgotten to
mention previously.

Well, the first piece of big news is our leopard spottings have gone
thru the roof! In the 5 years our guide has worked he's only seen 2
leopards. As a truck we've seen 4, including a cub! ... unfortunately
for me I have only seen two, but one of those allowed me to get a
fabulous picture, that hopefully will turn out okay.

Last night was cold, really really really cold. It was not really fun
to sleep in all of your clothes, especially after a few days of 80
degree weather and lots of shorts. So last night, I had my ear plugs
in, as usual. And apparently my tentmate Carrie was in a battle
against her sleeping bag, with me completely unaware. After shivering
and worrying that hypothermia might actually kill her she slept in the
tub of the bathroom poor thing. Meanwhile, I was happily tucked into
my sleeping bag wearing everything I owned with only my nose peeking
out into the tent.

I also never mentioned that there is a petrified forest here in
Namibia. It is filled with Pine trees, now you may scoff, but I
always thought petrified trees were still standing up, so I was very
surpised to be walking around a bunch of rocks with a strong tree
resemblence, but since I had never been before I guess it was still
good, especially since the entry fee was only about a dollar.

The amount of game here in Namibia is absolutely unbelievable! We
have just seen hundreds and hundreds of zebra, giraffe, and elephants,
we don't even wake up for them anymore since they are so prevelent.
One cool thing at the last campsite was the fact that there was a
mongoose family that greeted everyone as they came into the
campground. They were so cute! They ran up and said hello and then
went on their merry way back to doing whatever it is mongooses (yes,
apparently the plural is NOT mongeese) do all day. We also had a
family of worthogs that lived there as well, they were a little more
interested in eating our food then the mongooses and would gentlly ram
your behind through the chairs as a "Hey, you know I wouldn't mind a
part of that sandwich" ... this head butting was not appreciated by
some in the group and the poor Pumba's were run off. Needless to say
Hakuna Matata has been going through my head for days now.

In all the excitment of falling into the cheetahs and nearly getting
eaten (those new to the list, I'll have to fill you in later!) I
forgot to mention my other accident. We went canoeing in the Orange
River (apparently named for the dutch "Orange" family, not the color)
and you know when you are in moving vehicles of anytype with women
steering, there are bound to be issues. Well, two in our crew
although appently believing they are strong canoers didn't get the
whole gist of steering, and while Carrie and I were going at a pretty
good rate of speed we were rammed into a bush. Carrie's reaction was
smart, she dropped the paddle and dove into the canoe to shield her
from the branches ... what did I do? Well, I did battle one on one
with the bush, and the bush won. I had all sorts of defensive wounds
on my arms and nearly took a swim in the ice cold river. However, all
was made slightly better when I turned around and saw that the two
that had rammed us had soon after capsized their vessle and were
floating down the river .... hee hee.

I've decided I'm definitly retiring to Namibia, it has all the
amenities, and I've been totally overwhelmed by the amount of animals
in Etosha (named after the salt pan that covers a couple 1,000 acres),
its nearly as good as the crater ... did I mention the 14 lions and
the giraffes drinking at a water hole (really cool pics). There are
beautiful houses you can rent just inside the park (within those
"compounds" I was telling you about with "barriers" that my house cats
could overcome if the right meal was put on the other side). They
have kichens and outdoor seating, everything those who are
"anti-camping" could ever want.

Okay, I have a little more time to answer some emails you all have
sent, I'm going to try to do that for a bit. We are off to Botswana
next (news to me) ... the Okavango Delta. Oh and I'll just throw this
in at the end ... apparently there is some new unnamed disease that
our tour leader mentioned in the same breath as Ebola kicking around
here. We are going into the hot zone ... so I'll try not to bring any
viruses home. No tourists have died, just the locals, so I'm sticking
to my tent and keeping the cipro tablets near.

6/13/06

Greetings from Kasane, Botswana ... just on the outskirts of Chobe National Park. We are here for two days. Yes, it has been a while. My attempt to gain internet access in Maun was failed, and very very sad. Seems we have indeed left Namibia and the comforts of South African wealth behind. Although Botswana is one of the richest African nations, much of that wealth is poorly reflected in the availability of different services (as we have found out!)

Spent the last few days in the Delta. No not that Delta, the Okavango Delta (for those confused, yes the Okavango Delta is created by the Okavango River (this caused some confusion for those in our group). This is the only river in the world to end in a desert, in this case its the Kalahari. And keeping to our theme this trip of ... yes Africa does have winter. We camped out in a frigid 22 degrees one of the nights. That is DAMN cold in a tent on the ground when you get up before dawn!

We survived and are now well on our way to the equator ... hurray! It has been downright balmy here at Chobe Safari lodge, and it is all I can do to stop from being eaten alive by the mozzies (mosquitos). Speaking of which, my tent is perched about 25 feet from the crocidile and hippo infested river. We are supposed to "look around" before climbing out of our tent at night ... yeah. I don't think so ... apparently sticking to the other theme of our trip "how animals can kill you" ... a crocidile recently pulled someone at this campground who foolishly kept their door open out of their tent and all that was found was his head, great. Why does our tour leader Chris tell us all of these things when so many of us are taking Lariam (an anti-malarial that causes vivid nightmares) I'll never understand. However, instead of nightmares about Crocs I just had a dream that my tentmate Carrie was German and refused to talk to me in English anymore.... obviously the scare tactics are no longer working on me.

Speaking of another close call, apparently a group that went to the Delta a week before us were canoing along in their dugout canoes ... now these are REAL dugout canoes. We are talking about out of trees that grow in the Kalahari ... the Kalahari being a desert does not grow really big trees ... the canoes hold two people and a pulla (who is basically like the gondala guy) ... who steers you along. You are about 2 inches above the water line and constantly being bailed out. Okay. So a week ago another overlander trip like ours was heading out for their canoe trip in the afternoon (since the morning consisted of a pre-dawn 10 mile hike across the animal-free delta area (yes 4 hours walking in the sand ... no breakfast, AND they woke me up at 5:30am) .... ANYWAY back to the afternoon

So in the afternoon a week before our own trip the canoes headed out to see the hippos. Well, apparently they came across one that was out of its "domain" (the words of the safari manager) ... well Hippos kill more people then anyother animal in Africa so they are not the funnest animals to accidently run into. The hippo flipped the canoe over and even before the overlanders could react their Pulla (guide and canoe captain) took off faster then a cat with its tail on fire. Leaving the stranded foreigners to figure out how one reacts to a wild and angry Hippo. Again, according to this safari manager ... the Pullas reaction to "flee" was "unfortunate"... hmmm anyway since the Hippo was out of its domain it just ran away again, the manager also chose this moment to let us know that if it had been a Hippo in its own territory "it would have made sure no one was left alive" ... yeah. Thanks for that. So after that lovely bedtime story we head out to see hippos ... IN THEIR "DOMAIN" in DUGOUT CANOES ... we were within feet of them at some points and my tentmate Carrie got so scared she nearly threw herself out of the boat and tried to swim for shore (poor girl) did get some great pictures of Hippos trying to scare us out (and they did a damn good job I must say).

Overall however, the delta seemed mostly overrated, even with the perspective of a flight over it, there was not a hell of a lot living there and you can only go by foot so the ground you cover is minimal, although the fun of being within a couple of feet of giraffes in the wild is pretty cool. This morning it was back to the old 4x4 way through Chobe. Another early morning game drive, but it really paid off we saw a couple of spotted Hyenas, literally drove through a large herd of Buffalo (the second most dangerous animal in Africa) and then topped it off by spotting 4 of the 40 lions that live in Chobe. To put that in perspective picture spotting 4 of the 40 german shepards living in Delaware in a 3 hour period ... very impressive, and they were really close which made it all the cooler.

Next it is off to Zambia and Livingston and Vic Falls, since we are spending a week there I'm probably going to go into Zim to try and get shot at by the locals ... just kidding dad. Most of the other companies are still traveling there, so I've been assured it is relatively safe. I'm going to try and get to some of the parks I missed last time as well as a chance to buy some of the rock sculptures I love.

I'm sure you'll be hearing from me a lot in Livingston since I'll be there for 7 days with no planned activities. Have my fingers crossed the water level will be low enough for whitewater rafting and there is the new "Gorge" jumping that sounds fun so I'm going to do that with the "youngins".

6/16

Well had another two "adventure days" ... after today I think I'm sticking
to the manis and pedis for a while. Well the Livingston side of Vic Falls,
not really pretty, not really a nice town, and filled with "dodgey boys" as
our guide calls them. However, lots of new adventure things to take
advantage of since I left including the gorge swing, absailing, and a zip
line over the gorge.

So that was yesterday. Myself and the German Andrea signed up for the all
day, all you can do package. So that meant after a brief orientation we
were free to take advantage of all the different fun stuff to do. Started
with the regular absailing down about 80 meters (that's pretty freakin high)
... unfortuately once you get down there is no escalator up so we had to
hike back up the gorge (did this 6 times for a total of 130 stories of
climbing by my calculations). Then it was on to the "superman" zip line,
they hook you up to a harnass on your back and then you run 5 meters and
jump off a cliff and go flying out to the middle of the gorge, very cool,
very unscary, no walking involved! Then it was back to the absailing
station for "forward absail" okay this one is a little intimidating, you
have a full harnass and a rope to control your speed and then you run down
the face of the cliff face forward! Ran pretty fast and heated up the
gloves they gave us pretty good, it was a bit scary but in the end fun.
Last but not least, the gorge swing. Basically bungy except with out the
bounce. You jump off a cliff and fall until you hit the bottom of a
pendulum and then you swing back and forth in the middle of the gorge.
ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING ... I went 4 times! One forward, one backward and two
tandems with Andrea backwards (ahhhh). In the video the look of terror on
my face after we push off is priceless. Now suffering from whiplash due to
two bad jumps, I'm quite the picture of health, and my leg pain from
climbing the gorge all those times hasn't even kicked in yet!

So I decided to take it easy today and do rafting down the level 4 Zambezi
(basically level 5 is the highest you can do without always dying) ... it
just opened up today because the water levels have been so high, so the
water was very fast the rapids were much smaller the the whirlpools were
"huge" ... so anyway had my first really close call with any of these sports
when I fell off in a rapid in which our guide "could not guarentee our
safety -- do not fall off the raft" ... yup fell off. Almost held on until
we hit a big wave and the "oh shit" cord got pulled out of my hands and the
raft ran over me ... so that was a little scary because I couldn't find the
edge of the raft ... slightly worse when I DID find the edge of the raft
right in a downward current (probably not a full on whirlpool or I wouldn't
be here) so that pulled me down even farther and I just couldn't seem to get
up, even opened my eyes finally to make sure I was actually swimming UP!
but I was still like 5 or 6 feet down. Finally it just spit me out and I
popped up choking and very ready to come home. A wonderful kayak came and
picked me up and dropped me onto another boat until I could catch up to my
raft. I was very very very shaky but luckily it was one of the first rapids
of the day so that by the end I really had fun, fell in once more "on a safe
rapid" with no real problems.

So there ya go right with the theme of "almost" and this trip. I'm not sure
I mentioned the drunk guy that almost would have run over us in our tent if
not for a small guard rail right outside that he smashed into at a pretty
good clip, or the next morning when a high caliber bullet flew within 2 feet
of a girl from our truck brushing her teeth (about 10 feet from me) at 8:30
in the morning ... we actually heard the damn thing fly by ... Kasane,
Botswana ... not exactly a place for the kiddies!

So basically I have the B[rendk]amp luck, weird bad things happen but we
always come through unscathed! ... although i think I may have used up all
of my 9 lives by the end of this trip.

I'm off to get ready for our going away dinner, but I will write tomorrow as
I plan a VERY lesurly day nursing my wounds and trying to get my back in
shape again so that I can move my head.


6/21

Hi again from South Luwange, Zambia our latest national park adventure.

This one should be a goodie, night game drives .... oooo ahhhh. We
are also basically camped across the river (no swimming due to crocs
and hippos --shucks) from the park so its "anything" goes in the
wildlife kingdom as we have safety platforms positioned strategically
around the campsite in order to avoid being run over, trampled,
attacked, or eaten by those animals we've come to know and love.

Apparently my reputation has quickly passed onto this new group now
joining us (we are down to a group of 10 after Livingstone ... they
all left of natural causes). The game of "abuse the token American"
has reached a fevered pitch as they find new and more hilarious ways
to torment me including a ban on Americans in any safety platform
(from our Zimbawean tour leader) ... to this I replied "everyone's
always picking on us Americans that's why we are forced to bomb your
countries" ... this was well received by all (even by the painfully
shy Tanzanian cook). In fact any Anti-Bush humor seems to be the key
to the hearts of the African people ... in all of my travels I've
never experienced the directed level of distaste people have for him
as a president. But threatening to call Bush and have their resident
countries bombed never really fails to get a laugh.

However, less political, when we were briefed about the safety
platforms initially I think I asked a smart question, "what if we
climb onto a safety platform in a tree to escape the elephants, only
to find a leopard waiting?" apparently leopard trumps elephant in a
strange game of rock paper scissors and I was told the right answer is
"jump" from our resident Masai warrior/driver/lion spotter. I didn't
proceed onto the more difficult combos of leopard in tree, lioness on
ground ... hmmm I'll have to bring that up at dinner. And yes, my
education continues here as I have been learning hiphop moves from a
real Masai (how cool is that!). In fact I'm told I am even pretty
good for a white girl.

For all you frat boys reading along, one last social commentary ...
posted in the toilet is a sign asking all residents not to leave
TP/loo paper lying around. The reason? apparently Baboons are
working on the same level as 12 year olds and fraternity freshmen, if
presented a lose roll of toilet paper they will happily climb a tree
and chuck it from one to another and watch joyfully as it unrolls
around the branches.... hmm prehaps we are a little more closely
related then previously imagined.

Finally, if you find yourself pelted by nuts while trying to eat your
2,345 sandwich lunch don't drop your lunch and run. That just what
the vervit monkeys want you to do (so they can come and steal it) ...
luckly they at least are a little more clean about it. Apparently in
one park they climb a tree and urinate on your sandwich hoping that
you will react accordingly and then swoop in to steal it ... smart
little buggers aren't they?

I know I said finally but there was just one last note, mainly to
those picking me up from the airport. After washing what appeared to
me to be still fairly clean trousers and turning the wash water black
3 times over I realize that my self-image my be slightly skewed, so
I'll wear my Wharton t-shirt home and you should just look for the
tall African-American girl with braces coming off my flight from
Newark.

Hope to talk to you all soon! Fill me in on interviews, life changes,
moves, Bon Jovi ... etc etc. Heck even world news (with the exception
of the world cup which I have been watching very closely).

BELGIUM. Banks and Boogy

BANKS... It's Friday night after work and I'm keen to get some cash out in order to fully enjoy the sites and sounds of "Liege Dance Party: Love is the Answer." However, Citizens Bank had other plans for me. My American, shortsighted bank, in their infinite wisdom has decided to shut off my card in order to "generate a call". For those who don't speak "Bank" let me translate for you. "Generate a call" is code for shutting off a customer's card in order to inconvenience them enough to force an irate call into your customer service center. Rather then contacting them using the myriad of contact information collected by you, their bank, they wait until you contact them in order to ask whatever question drove them to turn your card off in the first place. In my case it took three international calls and almost 2 hours to get a new card dropped in the mail and have my current ATM card turned back on. My call was "generated" because of my replacement ATM card failing to be forwarded causing the question regarding my whereabouts. I was scolded many times by my bank for not informing them of my travel plans. It seems that my itinerary needs to be forwarded to my bank as well as friends and family because, International Travel still holds an aura of mystique for the US Banking system.

While Monday was spent sorting out everything with my home bank, Tuesday was spend getting everything together to open an account in a Dutch bank. ING was the most impressive and most efficient at driving me out of a bank. At the time of the greeting, and finding out I was an English speaking American, was enough to start the grilling process on all of the documentation I would need to open an account followed by the dramatic search for an opening in their appointment book a sigh, and the revelation that there were no openings for a week.

Given this was the fifth country that I'd open a bank account in, I was not naive to the process. I knew the games to play in opening direct deposit accounts abroad. Rule 1: Never admit that you will be leaving the country permanently in a few short months and at which time you will immediately close your account a virtual guarantee that the bank will lose money on you. Rule 2: Use the receptionists to get you an appointment since they don't know that you are a money losing foreigner. Rule 3: Be Prepared.

In the US "Be Prepared" might merely mean brining your drivers license and a few dollars to open the account. Those who try that approach here are ushered out the door in minutes and told to make an appointment for the following week. To be prepared here requires all of the following in order to ensure the account is opened on the first try. Passport, letter from employer documenting your work, utility bills or better yet a lease documenting your address, your work permit, tax/social security number, and if you want to guarantee your success, bank statements from your home bank documenting your assets. If you follow these rules you to can get a bank account in a single day, even in Europe.

BOOGY ... The whole beginning of this saga started as a trip to get out of Maastricht for a weekend and enjoy a little time in Liege, a city that I had passed through on a number of occasions on the train, but had seen only the platform and construction surrounding the station to this point. The Dance Party was an annual event that turned this small city into an open air dance club with 35 rooms and all the same blaring techno.

The event was kicked off as a parade down the shore of the Canalise River. It was a cross between Mardi Gras and a slow moving truck convoy making its way to the city park. The Mardi Gras part meant that people were throwing things at you (in this case instead of beads there were club fliers), and some of them were naked, but that is where the two diverged. The truck convoy refers to the use of 35 Mac trucks to pull the floats. All of which were spewing diesel fumes, foam and water onto onlookers, and the scantily dressed teenage girls who jumped into the streets to follow behind. Our dedication to the event was significant. We stood and watched all 35 trucks go by and even managed to catch a few fliers. When it was over we were confused by a map printed half upside down and instead followed the crowd along the shore back to our hotel and a cool shower.

Walking along this huge roadway you felt a kinship for the many strangely dressed local Belgian teens, families and the rare tourist. When we arrived at the hotel to steal a bit of cool air before heading off to the next round of dancing we spent some time sitting on our tiny balcony watching the goings on below. While the largest part of the parades followers had long left the route and was in the park enjoying the next phase, there seemed to be an endless flow of parade refuges finding their way down the street. It soon became clear why some of them had taken so long to find their way here.

First came "Shopping Cart Guy" whose inventive friends were obviously torn between staying with an unconscious friend or moving down the parade route to enjoy the next wave of activities. His friends had found an ingenious way to achieve both. They had commandeered a shopping cart somewhere up the road and put the unconscious friend into it. Over the course of the journey they had also prevented more litter from building up on the street by piling their empty cans and bottles on his stomach giving the strange appearance of a homeless persons cart in NYC. They continued on, occasionally slapping their friend to ensure he was still with them and finally disappeared out of view.

Only a few moments later "Light Blue shirt guy" came weaving down the far sidewalk - a danger to pedestrians walking near him as he desperately tried to keep his balance. Unfortunately, for Light Blue Shirt Guy balance was not the only issue he was forced to confront with the pants that just would not stay up. It seems that somewhere along the way he had unbuttoned them and had never remembered to reverse the process. So he stopped to pull them up and together, seemingly to address the button issue but the concentration required for such high level function seemed gone. So he would let go again walk three paces until his pants were again around his ankles and then start the process anew. This continued for most of the time he was within view of our balcony seats. Until finally he seemed to get his pants fully under control (we cheered from our balcony seats) only to walk face first into the light pole bouncing of as if made of rubber.

We eventually found the energy to venture out into the quickly cooling evening air to enjoy the rest of the events planned. Now these weren't the most inventive events. Instead of the parade moving by the onlookers, now the parade trucks were parked and the onlookers moved by the parade. Again the music was mostly the same and the flows of people prevented creating enough space for really enjoyable dancing.

At 10pm ... the final phase. Now instead of techno music being played through speakers on a mac truck, techno music would be played from speakers attached to 3 fixed stages, where DJs could showcase their talents with the aid of a huge projection screen behind the stage. We stayed through 1 round of DJs, 3 rounds of frustrating drink lines, and 1 round of dinner lines. There were lines for everything, made only more complex with two forced currency systems that required the purchase of separately issued drink and food tickets with different values and lines. When it was finally time to leave at 11:30pm our nearly 30 year-old bones were aching and muscles were screaming for relief. It was a cool breezy walk back to the hotel were I washed my blackened feet and passed quickly into unconsciousness dreaming of ATM cards and disco balls.

MAASTRICHT. Summer Internship.

It was just one of those days. I sat down at my little desk, pushed into one corner of the office here in Holland. I had arrived bright and early in an attempt to get on the Internet to plan and book next weekend's side trip before my boss came in and realized I don't really ever have anything to do. I was just about through all of the required reservations screens when suddenly the phone rang and I was informed that I was "meant to be in training 10 minutes ago" ... oops. I quickly untied the sneakers that I was still wearing, slid my feet into one of the six pairs of heels hiding in my otherwise empty bottom desk drawer, and headed downstairs to the library.

For the next seven hours I was tortured into near submission, with only sheer will to get me through. No, it wasn't the physical pain one normally associated with torture, it was instead the mental anguish that accompanies the process of actually getting dumber. My "induction" training included such valuable discussions as Why Customers want Good Service, How to fill out a Package Slip, and my personal favorite and the finale of the show What to do if a Coworker is Taken Hostage (including helpful hints like: call the police, don't go near the hostage taker). When it was all over I was left confused, and afraid for any other people who might be put through that in the future but I was determined to put it behind me.

Apparently, their evil plot to make me dumber worked. At 6pm I left my desk and took the elevator down to the first floor where I hope to sneak out the back, equipped with an electronic revolving door. Let me give you some more information about this door, since I've never seen anything like it. It doesn't actually revolve. It is an electronic door that when you swipe your ID allows the door to go 2 "clicks" clockwise putting you onto the street. If you are on the street and attempting to get in then it allows you to go 2 "clicks" counterclockwise allowing you to enter the building.

Ok. Well I swiped my lovely ID card never looking up and was allowed to go 2 "clicks" clockwise only to look up and see a glass wall had been slid across and dead bolted into place blocking my exit. As I mentioned earlier ... this is like no other revolving door you're ever seen. Since I can't get out I instead try to click backwards (counterclockwise). WRONG. The door only clicks COUNTERclockwise if you swipe your card from the outside so I'm trapped. Yes, my dear friends and family your Lisa was trapped in a revolving glass doorway. Until, that is, I could get the attention of some random employee outside who could swipe their card and let me "click" back ... oh but it gets better.

A kind Belgian woman comes along INSIDE and tries to come to my aid by swiping her card and pushing the door. Unfortunately, that simply left me completely in "the dead zone" now, and the door was getting angry. It sensed someone in there and started to swing back and forth 1 click right, 1 click left ... 1 click right, 1 clik left, forcing me to walk back and forth, pacing like a caged lion to avoid the door smacking me on the head. And by now the crowd has gathered ... looking on in awe at the trapped American in the glass revolving door. Pointing and discussing how on earth to get me out all the while the angry door swings back and forth trying to cleanse itself of me. Feeling the beginnings of a panic attack coming on I found myself starting to gasp a bit just as a beautiful security guard approached with a magical and wondrous key to free me. And how was I to know it was only the beginning of my evening's surprises?

The walk home was uneventful. I stopped at grocery store, and even finally found some stamps (finally)! I got home tired and in a bad mood. Looking forward to an evening of cooking and relaxing I changed into my pjs and unpacked my groceries. I was 90% through cooking my pasta and sauce when the doorbell rang, immediately followed by someone entering and yelling "I'm coming in with a housemaid". I immediately thought, "what an odd time to bring in a cleaning service?" while I desperately tried to clean the disaster that was this tiny kitchen. But when the "housemaid" was introduced to me it became horribly clear that she was hear to stay. Yup, this lovely day was to be accompanied by the arrival of a housemate to my previously empty apartment. Now my food is smoking and I'm running all over the apartment trying to collect dirty clothes from the bathroom floor and everything else that had accumulated in my 2 weeks there. Could my day get worse?

Apparently yes, although at least I got a good laugh from it. As I sat downstairs watching the conclusion of "American Princess" (do you guys get that over in the states?). I hear this pounding and banging from upstairs. All I could think was, I hope she's not always this noisy --when suddenly "LISA!! LISA!!" came from the top floor (glad she remembered my name, because I was so confused at the time I missed hers -- yes I'm living with the "unnamed Dutch girl"). Anyway, I go upstairs to find my brand new housemate trapped in the bathroom. Oops. She'd broken the key off in the door. Yes, it was 9pm and my brand new housemate was trapped in the bathroom, and all I wanted in the entire world was to go, relax and see who was to move on to the next round of the "American Princess" selection process. Instead, the "housemaster" was called in and useing a hammer and chisel, removed the entire lock rendering the door powerless. "Free at last" (I knew how she felt).

MAASTRICHT. I'm Going to Disney World!

Sometimes I get the sense that I may actually be working in Eppcott Center. It’s nearly four o’clock and I just walked through the thick haze of smoke and laughing French accountants lounging by the coffee machine in sophisticated casual wear and designer shoes smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Walking back I hold my breath through the six strides it takes to get across the “coffee” corner and I find myself again surrounded by the harsh calculated movements of Germans in their three piece suits barking orders to underlings back in Bonn. Perhaps of course this is a bit unfair given my lack of understanding of the German language, since to my untrained ear all the conversations seem unpleasant in nature, while in fact they may be speaking only of the weather in Munich.  As I sit back down at my desk I overhear two Englishman proselytizing on the many deficiencies of “the continent” including pushy customs officials and a lazy workforce. Only to myself do I comment that to Americans they are all Europeans. At this point in the day a allow the undercurrent of softly spoken Dutch to wash over me lost to understand more than a few of the anglicized words like “workflow” and “implementation.”

Lunch was a different story however, as I sat at a table in sea of accented English. Seven non-native speakers searched for commonalities and conversation in the only language they hold in common, English. With eight nationalities represented it was as diverse as the UN: Italian, Turkish, Singaporean, Finnish, Belgian, Dutch, Brazilian, and of course, myself your friendly local American. On the downside, while working at Eppcott would mean getting to enjoy Memorial Day and the 4th of July I’m left with the stingiest of holiday allocation combined with a timing of this internship leaving no remaining European bank holidays to enjoy during my three months here. It seems for the Dutch everything historically exciting took place in late April and early May just before I began.

European Sophistication?

I love the bicycles of Holland, unlike the desperation and poverty of the third world, the Dutch and their bicycles seem classic and joyful. In places like India or Africa , bikes are ridden by people in ragged clothes with a day's supply of wares strapped to their backs while here bikes are ridden by ladies in skirts , sitting up properly-their shoulders back , dressed in fashionable clothes alongside men in suits and leather shoes. Women with a baby strapped on the front and a toddler behind. In the developing world bikes seem to illustrate the determination and desperation of humanity to scratch their way out of poverty , here it is a sophisticated choice, an opportunity to bask in the sun and enjoy a beautiful day .

And yet this seeming sophistication lies in stark contrast to a local grocer's endless promotion of Hamstre Wekend ... who in the marketing department elected a rodent to represent their store? And as if just the name and the endless commericials featuring your favorite rodents weren't enough. They greet you at the door of everystore? Waving happily and pointing you inside. I may just be taking the imagery too far but I couldn't help trying to visualize a NYC grocer nomintating a Rat as the store mascot and forcing some unsuspecting 16 year-old summer temp to wear the suit, wave, and hand out coupons for cheese outside your average Manhatten Fresh Grocer.   

UC APPLICATION. For the Love of Diet Coke

I would imagine the sun rose just like any other day ... given my near certainty that there has yet to be a day where the sun has not risen - but I digress. On this particular day my life would be changed in a significant way. For the world, it was a day that would begin to reduce the value of morning coffee. This is the day that would bring forth the invention of Diet Coke.

Unfortunately, I can’t really be more specific in the whens and whos of this most monumentous event. Because this day, like hundreds of others, is shrouded in a veil of corporate secrecy. Over the course of my research I found many websites of dedicated fans such as www.jonsullivan.com, but for all their D.C. knowledge and resources, they offer no names or dates. Coca-Cola Corporation has built no monuments, given no credit. There seem to be no names at all associated with this most awesome creation, and the faces have been lost to time.

The creator eludes me ... who was this individual, or was it a group? Is there a small plaque dedicated to them in the Coke’s Atlanta headquarters? Did they understand the addictive qualities and the joy it would bring the world? For a product that inspires this kind of loyalty and dedication, how can we have no name to the inventor that brought it to us?

Am I merely a case of highly successful marketing turned bad? Do I suffer from an addiction? The signs are there. A material percentage of my weekly wages are spent in support of my habit. Every desk and workspace seems destined to drown in the sea of empty cans that accumulate behind and underneath. I need a can as soon as I wake up, and with every meal from there. It is as much a characteristic as my height and eye color, the red and silver can clasped in my right hand is just part of who I am.
And then there are the more subtle symptoms of addiction, including skillful avoidance of questions regarding the state of my health and diet, as well as consciously disregarding stories of its carcinogenic nature and the possible long-term damage to my liver.

It is for this reason that I hope that I can be boxed up and shipped back to the beginning of a new age, a time just before the world would come to know sweet cold refreshment without the 150 calories of guilt (only the distant ache of irreparable liver damage). I would find the person or people whose work has given me such happiness, and simply say, “thanks”.

MISSISSIPPI. Xmas Twenty-Oh-Three.

Dear family, friends, and random strangers,

This year has been another exciting chapter in my life. I’m finishing up with Teach
f[o]r America and moving on from saving the children in Mi[ss]issippi to adventures in business school. I was accepted at W[h]arton just a few days ago, and am about 90% certain I will be returning to Philadelphia to start the two year MBA program there in September. When I was confronted by my abandonment of good works in order to be "the man" I really had to be honest and admit that "the man" paid much better.

"The children" (14-20 year olds) keep me constantly challenged and entertained, because apparently I work them too hard and purposely keep my room "hot as an oven"... "Ms B! Ms B! Ms B I’m ‘bout to fall out. Why you keep it so hot up in here?," they shout. "To torture you, and make you miserable and hinder your ability to learn," I tell them. "What’s ‘hinder’?" ... ahh sigh.

Upon returning to the Delta this August I was greeted with a roster of 30 children in "Keyboarding" with a room of 6 working computers ... when I brought this issue to the attention of the administration I was told that perhaps they could "share". So I have a new technique for keyboarding that requires oversexed, sweaty teenagers to sit one next to another and type using one hand at a time.

In reality it hasn’t been all bad this year. My computers did eventually get repaired (I finally had 18), and I made nice with a counselor who magically makes all my bad children "disappear" into other classes ... when asked where, I have to honestly say ... I don’t care.

Along those same lines, in the news there was recently a case where two teachers in Florida were arrested for duct taping their children to a wall. Those of us in T[F]A were applauding those teachers for their restraint and ingenuity and really cannot understand where they went wrong (judgmental parents I suppose). I now take out the duct tape and often tell my students that story in order to inspire them to "be all they can be".

As far as a social life I am still trying to figure out where I can buy one at a good price. The mulleted hair cuts and gun racks of the Mi[ss]issippi Delta men has done much to encourage me to seriously consider lesbianism. Hopefully, the men situation will pick up at business school, where at least if I’m not financially successful, he may be. Please feel free to send any friends, family, or males of any kind my way. I’m single with low expectations.

Much love to all in the New Year!

Lisa

LONDON. Hostel Life

This lovely hostel definitely comes alive at night. Last night I walked into a scene of about 20 people chatting and drinking in the main stairwell (a.k.a. "the lounge"). Two locals had followed closely behind me and were walking in to yell at the night manager for the guitar music that had apparently been coming from upstairs in the hostel and driving them nuts next door for hours on end over the last two weeks.

The manager said it wasn't from our place but as I rounded the fourth floor I realized it was coming from my neighbors room, and as I walked into my overcrowded hole I was greeted by Robbie "the Scotsman". In his boxers on the top bunk smiling at me while smoking a cigar in bed he yelled out, "hope you like guitar music" to which he immediately followed up with a shout of, "stop that fucking noise!"

Introducing himself as Robbie, the Scotsman part became evident with his following comments about the "bloodiest ugliest fucking city in the UK, perhaps the world" (and London resident for the past 5 years). He was fairly quickly cutoff by Englishman Kevin whose eyes peered out from beneath the baby blue blanket he'd been issued upon check-in. "You just believe that Scotland is superior in every way" ... turns out Kevin is an ESL teacher who is currently trapped in this "shady shithole" due to his financing difficulties. Brad, "with the very American name", failed to join in the conversation, I do believe out of a fear he might say something that would lead the islanders to throw something at him. Basically, although Kevin didn't believe London was a "complete shithole" I was still definitely mistaken when stated that London was a great city.

Later that evening I earned back any points I'd lost when my feminine wiles made me a success with my 5 male roommates, because the party that was had previously been down on the ground floor "lounge" moved up to our neck of the woods around 2am. I was soon irritated enough to stick my head out the door and plead for them to move it back down to someone else's backyard (let them deal with it). I was thanked by the Spaniards for the "beautiful smile" I used to make my request (little did he know I was merely squinting to see in the bright lights).

Apparently this compliment was partly in reference to Robbie's previous attempts to move the Spaniards by opening the door and shouting "shut the fuck up you stupid wankers" ... In fact as a prize for my loveliness it was requested that I immediately join them in order for them to get to know me better. I declined, given my distinct lack of clothes and sleep and promised to join them this evening instead.

Well I'm off to see ... "Home Again", a new musical. I'll let you know if the Spaniards take me out on the town this evening.

MISSISSIPPI. Why are they all singing?

Am I on an "American Idol" ? Why are all of my students suddenly auditioning to five or six different tunes, almost with out fail completely out of key ... and all as Mavis (our typing software) pushes them merrily through their lessons.

As I yell out orders like, "be quiet! we are not in the cafeteria" from the comfort of my padded chair at the front of the class I can't help but wonder ... why am I obsessed with making these kids do so much for a grade in Keyboarding?

It's an obsession that TFA has pushed upon us since the application process, the need to exceed every expectation. It is an obsession that TFA tattoos on our forehead as we leave our summer in Houston and it is an obsession that keeps me coming up with interesting things to do with my kids during their 2 and a half hour typing classes.

INDIA[NA] JANE

Hello all. Well, today was my first real outing by myself. Promit's parents are wonderful and I'm having a great time here with them. Promit called today and I informed him that I'm electing myself as his replacement. I could definitely get used to a chauffeur and housekeeper that does everything from make your bed to leaving cold water by your bedside after turning down the bed for the night.

The rest of my journey is pretty much finalized. We have been dealing with a travel agent here that is setting everything up, including about a million flights and hotels. There isn't much by way of tours according to her (given the strange time of year) so mostly it will be me, a 3 star hotel and a driver ... needless to say the dreams of $40 a day were soon dispelled.

I could probably argue, but I figure that they know better than I when it comes to what to expect ... and given the distinct LACK of any other foreigners in the country I think finding reliable sources of transport to get around the sights might indeed be tricky. Not to mention the fact that you very quickly become accustomed here to being treated like royalty ... "yes madam," doors opened for you. People running ahead to get the car door open... very nice. I didn't know I had it in me!

Anyway. Driving in Mumbai isn't as bad as I had been told. In fact even in my first real cab of the day there have been very few near misses. I think the problem seems to be is that everyone here understands the code of constant horn blowing that comes across as simply utter chaos to any outsider! It is deciferable if you really pay attention.

Anyway, onto my journey. I went to Elephanta island ... after paying for my "luxury" 1 hour boat ride I joined shuffle, and was shuffled right on to a third class ferry, (minus the promised guide) and full of Indian tourists who looked at me as if I must be mentally deranged to be on this boat. Noone spoke. They just stared.

upon arrival to the island. I was still under the impression this was indeed the "luxury" crowd, and chased the rest of the boat down, because I figured they held the secret to our illusive guide ... so when a guy came up and send "I guide you" .. I breathed a sigh of (temporary) relief knowing that all was well, and these ancient Buddhist carvings would soon be explained to me without further cash outflows ....

HOWEVER, soon it was very clear this gentlemen had it only in his MIND that he should guide me while in fact ... I had been gypped and there was actually no guide accompanied my "luxury" vessel (only to find after trying to board another 3rd class ferry for the return journey and being hurried off that I was on the wrong boat).

... Ooops

How were the caves you ask? Confusing. Lots of really long names of people related to Buddha and various other deities, killing, marriages ... Given I had no guide I did my best, and decided instead to go get some lunch. The one fun part about Elephanta was the fact that here in India I am very much the equivalent of a rock star. Everywhere I go people stare and say hello to me, not to mention that I had 3 different families pose to have their picture taken with me ... strange.

I love to think of myself appearing in family albums across the nation. I could be some sort of American Mascot for India. Promit seems to believe it is due to my height.

I also took my first cab ride. Uh. interesting. There were exhaust fumes poring through the glove compartment (funny how I don't remember that in most diagram of the exhaust systems in my cars). And black smoke poring out the back... but this little old man, God bless him, had that pedal down to the floor as we took off into Mumbai traffic horns blaring as we went from 0 to 30 in 5.4 minutes. Hell it was a 20 minute ride that came to a grand total of a buck twenty. How can I complain??

Time for bed for me. I have to be up early and finish off my last day here with some chores. ... I'll leave you with this parable from the Indian History Museum this afternoon...2 Brothers fighting for the key to happiness and success. Their parents (deities of some sort in this case) said "He who goes around the world 3 times shall be the recipient of this great key". Well one brother hopped onto the back of his eagle (or some local bird) and started off on his journey. While the other brother who only had a hippo (i.e. large local creature) knew he could not possibly beat his brother. So instead he walked around his parents three times and asked for the key. They said "you haven't done as we asked, why would we give you the key??". He returned some nonsense about his parents indeed being the center of the world and he could see no further. Well, what kind of parents would argue that? And he got the key. While his brother was out there slaving around traveling around the world 3 times and stopping at all the temples along the way to pray for guidance.

How did THEY interpret the moral? ... sometimes brains can overcome physical lacking, and you parents are important .... blah, blah.

How did I interpret the story? ... suck up to your parents successfully and you will find nothing but success.

9/11. A Poem.

Our Mother Liberty stands sentry to the gates of America
Yet watches helpless as her children tumble from a cloudless sky

Brothers and sisters all - a nation of castaways and slaves
never to forget
our shield of freedom was pierced by hate.

Their incomprehension some solace
We know Democracy isn't bound by buildings
it lives within us.

Helpless and blinded by sorrow and pain
We turn again to Mother Liberty

May we find strength in her embrace.