mountains in my blood

Somewhere between Lyon and Albertville, France

17 février 2013

Naked vineyards climb snow-covered slopes. Slopes that are angular and rocky. Not soft and rounded like the mountains I come from. Occasionally, a small, ancient castle—perhaps intact, perhaps in crumbling disrepair after centuries of standing tall—slides into view, as though it’s no big deal to be a castle, still claiming a vantage point that assures no marauders can approach unseen. Roofs of all sizes are pitched steeply, ostensibly to keep the heavy snow from collapsing them, but even pitched roofs can eventually succumb to the heavy, wet whiteness, it seems. Along with and sometimes on top of castles, broken roofs, too, have slid past, each scene in view for only seconds—oh, look! now there’s a tall, narrow waterfall outside my window, gushing melted snow—as the train zips on its merry way.

Albertville, France

Even if my weekend in Albertville (site of the 1992 winter Olympics!) had been terrible—which it wasn’t—the weekend jaunt would still have been worth it for the train ride alone. On my Friday exit from Aix to Albertville, views were mostly muted and monochrome, but beautifully so, hinting at the weather that had brought the previous night’s pillowy snowfall. As I return south today, the sky is clear and bright, making the landscape’s every color seem more fully itself: the white, white snow; the deep brown/black of disrobed trees; a blue, blue sky; the warm stone-brown of still-lived-in old houses; multitudes of shutters flaunting bright greens or light blues, cherry browns or apple reds.

And as I observe families of homes huddled together in the shadow of the rocky heights and wonder how the shadows and the beauty mark the lives inside those homes, my train takes me back to other places where I’ve wondered similar things.

Kalongo, Uganda

Suddenly, I’m back in Uganda, wondering about the people of Kalongo who live in the austere but beautiful shadow of that strange, rock-mountain that towers over their round, thatched roofs. And then I’m in Cape Town, South Africa, where Table Mountain marks life for inquisitive four-year-olds such as my cousin’s daughter and for residents eager to return home to the security of their mountain’s austere but familiar footprint.

Cape Town, South Africa

Next, the snowy Alps and the cultivated slopes transport me to the mountain villages I visited while trekking in India’s stretch of the Himalayas. Especially that particularly heart-claiming village where the people were so very friendly and their terraced farmland, so high up, was the picture of order and hard work and healthy harvest. And from there I am back in the Appalachians that birthed me, back in scenes I was reminded of in India.

Uttarakhand, India

Just as certain qualities of urban centers are a culture all their own no matter what nationality marks them, so it is with communities tucked into mountain crevices. I felt at home in Northern India partly because it reminded me of home in Northeastern Tennessee, where a drive along curvy mountain roads showcases sheds of patchwork tin and sometimes-dilapidated barns with partially-intact roofs, clinging to life a little longer in solidarity with their older cousins in the Alps. 

Upper East Tennessee, USA

adventures in living cross-lingually

Street cleaner in Madrid. This gives you an idea
the scene. photo by Jose Angel Astor

Tuesday afternoon I stepped out of my building to rush through centre ville's lovely maze of narrow streets to my afternoon French writing workshop in a much less aesthetically pleasing classroom south of centre ville at Aix-Marseille University. I quickly reached the end of my block, turned the corner, and slowed minutely while I fumbled with my phone, trying to call my French language exchange partner to update her on our post-class meeting time.

Then I realized the "Mademoiselle" I was hearing was aimed at me. Normally here, strangers don't speak to or acknowledge each other on the street, unless asking for directions, and I was sure the street cleaner man (I don't know what they're called here) with his fluorescent reflective vest and rolling trash can had to know these streets better than I do.

My feet paused their rushing, though my brain was still trying to make that phone call and get to class on time. The man of 50-some years had a friendly, kindly demeanor, but unfortunately, I didn't understand at all what he said to me. He wasn't asking for directions, and when his French didn't fit the one contextual situation that seemed possible, I was lost. Plus, my head really didn't have time to stop rushing long enough to have a real conversation with him, and I still have to concentrate very hard to have any hope of understanding.

So I confessed that I didn't understand and apologized that my French isn't very good. To which he then repeated the one word I did understand: "le tableau." A painting. He proceeded to pantomime what a painting was and gesture down the street, where there were no paintings, billboards, or even graffiti in sight. Okay, sir, I understand this conversation has something to do with a painting, but what? Alas, he never explained--or I never understood--what he was saying to me about this painting.

Finally, 30 seconds later (which feels much longer in such little quotidian street scenes) we both admitted defeat. I apologized again for not understanding. He's said good-naturedly, "Ce pas grave." (Basically: No worries. It's not a big deal.) And my feet commenced rushing with my brain.

But the rest of the way to class my brain had a mystery on its hands, one that will never be solved: What in the world was this man saying to me? Why did he stop me? None of the possible scenarios I can imagine seem the least bit plausible: He's an artist and wanted to paint my picture? Unlikely. He was hitting on me? Unlikely, as he was more grandpa than casanova. He's selling paintings? Unlikely, no fine tableaux were wedged between the trash can and broom on his rolling cart. I look like someone in a painting? Again, unlikely, as he'd seen me for all of 5 seconds before calling out "Mademoiselle." He's a scout out looking for blond girls to be painted by the artist who has an atelier (workshop) down that street? You got it: very unlikely. He wanted to know if I had any paintings to throw away? All together now: unlikely.

Does anyone out there have any plausible scenarios to contribute? Just because "ce pas grave" doesn't mean I'm not going to be curious about this for a while. And is "I was practicing French on the streets of Aix" an acceptable excuse for being late to class? With a little more time, a little less rushing, I might have understood. Would my teachers have been proud when I walked into class bearing a painting of myself that was going to be thrown away unless I bought it while scheduling a date with the street cleaner man and the artist down the street?

danger: ‘tis the season of riptides

This morning a very nice technician from France Telecom came to open up the phone line for my new French studio apartment, a critical step toward finally gaining internet access here at home. I’m glad he came this week instead of last week because last week I was in whatever stage it is of the language learning process that makes you feel like you’re drowning anytime someone addresses you in the language you’re learning. The kind of drowning where you stop trying to remember how to swim and just feel panicked as you sink.

This stage took me a little by surprise. After two heady weeks of being amazed at how much I could actually understand and communicate here (the bar was really low, so imagine the way a 3-year-old communicates: far from correct but finally using real words and more intelligible than her 2-year-old self—I could only hope my mistakes were as cute as those of your favorite toddler!), I suddenly felt like I couldn’t understand anything—or at least anything spoken at normal speed by anyone with a French accent (i.e. REAL French versus the slow, sometimes-stuttering version spoken by the various stripes of non-francophones I’m often around).

I entered week #4 here fully prepared to drown for the next three months until I reach that magical point I’ve been hearing about: the point where the French fairy godmother waves her magic French-English dictionary, dropping French dust all over your head, and suddenly everything (or at least a whole lot of things) makes sense. I wasn’t relishing the drowning, but in my best moments I was prepared to push through and stay alive somehow (drift wood, anyone? Sea turtles willing to give me a ride?). It helped my resolve to get a little extra sleep this weekend. Sleep is almost as magical as fairy godmother dust.

Happily, so far this week, I’m instead floating again—not swimming yet, but not drowning either. So when Monsieur France Telecom Technician and I had an entire conversation in French, I think (perhaps wishful thinking) I understood the most crucial points: the line won’t be operational for two more days, and it’s the telephone company I’m using for service who will give me the phone number for my landline. He said a few other things in those sentences, but I’m just telling myself those things weren’t critical. The past two days have held other similar moments of mostly understanding. I’m still spelling R-E-L-I-E-F the English way, but I once again have hope I’ll eventually think it in French.

But I can’t go through the drowning moments without having my already strong sympathy magnified for non-English-speaking immigrants to the United States. Again and again here, I’m struck by the tables that have been turned. It’s as though when we read through the play the first time, I played one character. Then, just to mix things up, the director told my fellow actor and me to trade roles. Like any good actors, we’ve been expected to completely identify with whichever character is ours for that reading.

In Nashville, I donated household goods to a free garage sale for international students arriving for grad school at Vanderbilt University and needing to furnish their new homes. Here, I’m the international student who is the grateful recipient of other people’s cast-off and loaned items.

In Nashville, I assisted with English classes for Somali Bantu refugees, guided the occasional non-anglophone Starbucks customer through an order, and tried to speak slowly in conversations with new international friends whose English was so much better than my French is now. Here, I’m the one stumbling through sentences and replying to kind (or not-so-kind, I’m really not sure) statements with the glassy eyes and hesitant nod of one who is trying to understand but clearly has no idea what the person has just said.

I’ve felt like I’m drowning despite having a whole lot of preparation for the deep end: I arrived here with a base of French from three years of study in high school and college; I’m educated and know how to study and learn; I’m a words person, so I get the different roles different words play in languages; the language I’m learning operates on reasonably similar terms to my native language, shares an alphabet, and even shares quite a lot of words; transitioning between cultures is quite easy for me; I’m in a city where there are a lot of people (almost too many!) who speak my native language; and I’ve had tons of assistance from friends of friends from my home country or from other English-speaking countries. All that, and I’ve still felt like I’m drowning in the French ocean.

If you’ve never drowned, it can be very hard to imagine what it feels like. You might even find yourself hearing of the latest drowning and be thinking, “Well, why didn’t you just start swimming?” “Why didn’t you call for help?” “Why did you go out in that water in the first place?” If you’ve never drowned, you might not realize that panic can make your limbs forget they know anything about swimming if they ever knew how to swim in the first place, that no one was paying attention to the call for help, and that sometimes the scary, unknown waters are still better than the shore.

Immigrants sometimes get a very bad rap in the U.S. (and in lots of other places, too). Especially around the issue of whether they’re learning our language or not. And sometimes I think it’s just helpful to trade roles for a little while—either in reality or in your imagination—to try to understand how hard language learning is. I’ve met people in English classes in the States who never got to go to school in their home country and never learned to write or read in their own language, so now they’re not only trying to learn English, they’re also learning how to read and write and hold a pencil for the first time in their lives. And I think I’ve felt like I’m drowning? Sheesh. It’s amazing so many of those new to our country ever manage what English they do learn.

I’m fully expecting to have other weeks of drowning, but I’m hopeful the water-pruned skin and tired lungs will be worth it a few months from now when my French is good enough to help some other newcomer understand what Monsieur France Telecom Technician is saying. ALL of what he’s saying. And this week, I’m immensely grateful for a rest from the drowning.

real life house-hunters international - no fluffy reality tv here

Aix Cathedral - credit:
  http://www.provence-luberon-news.com/ 

First episode: Oh So Naive
Viewers meet freelance writer Kami Rice who is amazed to have the unexpected opportunity to study French for the fall semester in beautiful Aix-en-Provence, France. In late June, from the comfort of her happy apartment in Music City, USA, she begins her housing search online. She first thinks she can get off easy by renting from a friend's landlords, but the location of their house isn't going to provide the immersion experience Kami is searching for as she embarks on the quest to move beyond elementary level French and to write from within this old, inspired city in southern France. She turns down that first place in early July after thinking she has found the "perfect" French studio apartment in the large 18th century home of an artist. In email exchanges--with lots of Google Translate assistance for Kami--the painter says the studio is available. Within hours, Kami replies that she wants to rent it. [close-up of happy, excited, hopeful and NAIVE Kami]

Episode recap: Dejection
It's been three weeks, and Kami still hasn't heard back from the painter. She doesn't know how business works in France, but she doesn't think the deal has been sealed yet. Now in the midst of packing up her happy Nashville apartment, she's getting worried. She finally asks a friend to help her call the painter. The painter doesn't know who Kami is. The studio is no longer available. Thus Kami is launched into weeks of Google Translated emails trying to find housing. Her French is not good enough for making phone calls. The only replies she receives are from landlords whose places are already rented. Watch this episode online for all of the dreadful ups and downs and hours and hours and hours of behind-the-scenes footage of Kami viewing what seemed like every apartment available in the city of Aix. All the cute places she saw online back in early July seem to have been replaced by dreary, tiny, ugly, windowless compartments that are completely uninspiring for even the most uninspired writer. The one happy point in this episode came when generous donors told Kami they want to cover tuition for a second semester of French classes. She can stay in Aix until June! But this also ups the ante on housing.

Episode recap: Dead Ends
On the ground in Aix! Kami is sure her housing search will turn a corner now that she can view apartments in person. Along the way she has learned cultural tidbits such as that the French prefer to do business in person or on the phone. Email is not their strong suit. She tries to fight back against dejection by viewing all of the dead ends as a cross-cultural exercise that any true expat/world traveler must go through eventually. This only helps a little. A new French friend calls lists of apartments for Kami, to schedule appointments, but only manages to schedule two appointments after leaving many messages, encountering full voicemail boxes, and finding that many places have already been rented. French housing is reported to be always difficult. On top of that, again and again, Kami hears that housing in Aix is especially tight this year, so tight it's made the news. 40,000 students descend on the city this time of year. Kami's student visa and poor French are no match for them.

Episode recap: In the Heart of Centre Ville
46.5 hours after arriving in France, Kami steps inside her first available apartment for a viewing. A friend of a friend has come with her to translate with the landlord. Kami is already taken by the location deep in the downtown/center of old-town Aix near the ancient cathedral. Despite all of the "very old" surrounding the studio, the inside is refreshingingly new. Very new. Completely redone. No one has ever slept on the futon before. The kitchen and bathroom are beautiful - especially compared to the awful pictures Kami has seen again and again. The space is small but lit up beautifully by two large windows that welcome sun from late morning until late afternoon. The landlord says 27 people have viewed the apartment!!! [sped-up shot of many people entering and walking through the apartment one after the other] However, he's particular about who he rents to. He wants someone who will take care of all the newness. He's only considering 3 of the prospective tenants. Kami makes the cut.

Episode recap: Waiting
Kami and her helpful new friends call the landlord the next morning to tell him she would like to rent the place. The day goes by and he doesn't call back. The friends say that the French typically keep their work and personal lives separate, so if the landlord doesn't call back by supper time, most likeky he's chosen someone else because he won't call once family time begins. Kami views another apartment. It's fine but not as nice, and the friend who goes with her is concerned about the poor security of a ground-floor window with no bars on it. Kami then wanders the centre ville the rest of the afternoon/early evening, her first chance to explore without being on a mission to get somewhere. She falls in love with it a little more. She walks down the street near the cathedral to check out the first apartment's location again. But she's no longer hopeful it will ever be hers. As the sun sets, she wanders into a cafe to order her first French coffee on her own. [insert funny clips of Kami trying to order a vanilla latte and ending up with cinnamon hot chocolate instead] She checks her borrowed cell phone for the time. What? A missed call from 7 minutes ago? The landlord's number?! She calls him back. He tells her something in French. She apologizes that she doesn't understand. Can she have her friends call him, she asks? He switches to broken English and asks her to bring documents to a meeting with him tomorrow. She thinks she understands the documents he's asking for. She finishes her hot chocolate and stops off at the ATM to collect the first round of cash for the deposit, in case he wants it now - she's hopeful but senses that this apartment is not a certainty for her yet.

Episode recap: Patience
As Kami walks through "old-town Aix" today to meet the landlord, she discovers that the weekend flower and veg/fruit market is just minutes from her hoped-for new home in the middle of the narrow labyrinthine streets of the old city. "THIS is just where I've hoped to live," she sighs in the voiceover. She arrives at Number 16 and begins chatting with the landlord in a mix of English and French while waiting for her friends to arrive to help translate the fine details. The landlord drops the news that she is not the only candidate for the apartment. [shot of Kami's face falling] The number of renters he's considering is down from 3 to 2: Kami, who is looking for a 9-month lease. And a student who wants to rent the place for 3 years. [Audience groans. Of course the student will win. What landlord wants a 9-month renter over a 3-year one. But wait...] Then he tells her that her desire to pay cash makes her competitive against the 3-year person. [Take that, you mystery competitor.] He also likes her personality and seems intrigued by her writing work. [Wannabe writers sometimes take pity on real writers...like the time Kami was pulled over by a cop who had been a creative writing major.] He seems to want her to have the apartment but has to check over everyone's paperwork. He says to bring financial records for Kami and the friends who have agreed to serve as her guarantors (very common requirement in France) to his office on Monday. On Wednesday, he will call to say "oui" or "non."

And that, folks, is where we stand. Plenty of real-life suspense going on here. Will the next episode be "Moving In" or "Resuming the Search" or "Giving Up and Returning to the U.S."? Stay tuned to find out.

greetings from the mumbai airport

I would have waved at you while I took this picture with my webcam or tried to situate myself to avoid the glasses glare, but that might have drawn more attention than I want. I've holed up for an hour or so in a very nice coffeehouse at the Mumbai airport as I wait for my flight to London. It's been several weeks since I've written in a coffeehouse, so I instinctively jumped at the chance to do it this morning/afternoon.

I was going to work on another project while I munched on french fries (from the KFC down the hallway) and my vanilla steamer (called "hot vanilla" on the menu), but as usual in airports I've been too distracted by all the interesting things around me to do any real work. It might be said that I'm in love with airports. They're really some of the most interesting places in the world...but then I think nearly everywhere is one of the most interesting places in the world, so perhaps my superlative doesn't really say much.

By the way, you're witnessing a moment of travel budgeting success: having just enough foreign currency to cover your needs until you're on the plane, but not so much that you leave the country with $10 worth of rupees you'll never be able to use. After my fries, steamer and the bottle of water I plan to buy, I'll have just 5 rupees left, which is worth, well, hardly anything in dollars. But what a relief to find that I had just enough rupees to get the essentials before my 10 hour flight. Yay!

So, interesting, distracting thing #1: When you order here, they ask your name so they can call it out when your drink's ready. That's good. Not unusual. Except this is the international terminal with names from all over the world. And nearly every name the barista calls out in his Indian accent ends up sounding the same to me. And apparently to other people, because no one's jumping to get their drinks. Speaking of names, I've decided that no one in the world should have a name longer than three syllables. When you add a fourth syllable, the name immediately becomes too long to remember. Take note please, parents of the world. :-)

Interesting, distracting thing #2: When I entered the coffeehouse, a woman--probably in her 50s, maybe British--I'd seen in line to check in for my flight, came up to me and said something I didn't understand. Turns out I think she was asking if I was "Jude." She's was looking for another woman and had thought a coffeehouse would be a good place to meet. She sat here for a little while and then left after finishing her drink. But a bit ago I saw her walking past with another woman. Apparently, that's Jude. Glad they found each other.

Interesting thing #3: This isn't distracting because it was observed on the rather long scenic bus tour I got traveling on the airport bus from the domestic terminal to the international terminal. There's a ton of building going on at this airport right now. Big stuff is being built. Pretty interesting to see all the workers. One of the buildings had a sign saying it's a parking garage. Does anyone know what the others are? India's on the move?!

Interesting, distracting thing #4: I overheard two British guys talking here in the coffeehouse's comfy chairs (when they parted ways it sounded like they'd just happened to run into each other here), and it sounded like one of them said something like "America won't let me into their country." He looked harmless enough, so now I'm curious whether that's what he really said and if it is why we won't let him in.

I guess that's enough interesting things to make you feel like you're here with me right now. It's about time for my last bathroom break on Indian soil this go-around (not on the literal soil, of course) as I saunter toward Gate 10. Catch ya from the next continent.

writing, writing

Additional written fruit of this visit to India can be found at InterVarsity's Emerging Scholars Blog, where I'm one of the summer's guest bloggers. Two more installments will make their way there this week and next.

July 25 installment - Heading East: Kami in India

August 1 installment - Do We See the People or Their Poverty?

Taking the night train from Coimbatore to Chennai with Sheela.

I told Sheela it felt like we were having a slumber party...but I had to explain what slumber parties are.

Twilight on the beach in Chennai = cool and peaceful.

John and Jenny helped Sheela show me some of the ancient temples (i.e. 1500 years old and more) in Tamil Nadu state.



Recreation of traditional village homes at a cultural center.



coimbatore, chennai and more

Adventures have abounded since last I wrote. I've ridden in more autos, seen more beautiful buildings, learned that the bright house paint I've been admiring is intended to ward off evil spirits, eaten traditional Indian meals with my hand (turns out lefties can eat right-handed when silverware is not involved), tried to learn how to keep my dupatta (scarf) on my shoulders when I bend down to unbuckle my shoes, re-sprained my ankle, and met many lovely people.

I spent last week being immersed in Indian culture while being hosted by the good, good folks at Bishop Appasamy College of Arts & Sciences in Coimbatore for half the week. Then one of the faculty members and I took an overnight train into the heart of humidity in Chennai for the rest of the week. It's all been great, and I'll have to save more reflective comments than that for another time.

Enjoying a cultural dance program at BACAS.

More tradition during lunch provided by BACAS's catering department.

Banana leaves make great plates! Lots of "gravies" to mix with the rice.

When ice isn't available, cold bags of milk and curd work really well.



Flower seller in Coimbatore.



week 1 in India: a few of my favorite things so far

I love riding in autos (full name = auto rickshaws). I love the way they allow me to see this place, be outdoors, and feel like I'm really in the middle of the culture. I'm also oddly enamored with the flow of traffic here. It doesn't feel quite as chaotic as other places I've been where road rules aren't quite as orderly as in the States, and beyond that there's an odd, beautiful choreography to it all -- a choreography via which somehow everyone mostly successfully and in one piece gets where they need to go.

As we drive around, I'm realizing that I really like a lot of the architecture in this city. It's a refreshing change from the cookie cutter neighborhoods that seem so popular among U.S. developers these days. Facades of homes and businesses here are often interesting and beautiful, with a whole lot of attention paid to artistic details and with interesting angles (instead of plain box shapes) and colors, all of which are right up my architecture alley.  



Endless fabrics to select from, and salesmen eager to show
them. I'm a naturally a slow decision-maker, and all the
options sure didn't help!

Fashion is big business here, for good reason. I had not intended to add many Indian pieces to my wardrobe and, so, borrowed some Indian kurtas from Nashville friends to wear while here, but it's challenging to resist all the beautiful fabrics and embellishments now that I've arrived. My one planned purchase of a salwar kameez turned into two salwar kameez suits and two kurtas while my friend and I shopped yesterday. Shops and shops of beautiful clothes abound in the commercial district. I am humored by the fashion contradictions here, though: modest clothing for women (mostly kurtas, salwar kameez suits, and sarees) is intended hide their curves (to keep men from stumbling or something, I guess), yet it's a male tailor who measures you for your hand-made salwar kameez and men who sell women's lingerie. And sarees can leave quite a lot of midriff flesh visible, but that's apparently perfectly acceptable, even though you're supposed to wear your dupatta (scarf) with kurtas and salwar kameez to add another layer to hide bosoms that are already fully covered by material. 

 

Decisions, decisions. I purchased the shirt hanging on the door on the far left. I didn't purchase the orange shirt I'm wearing. So hard to decide!

Striking a pose in our salwar kameez. My green one plus another for me and one for my friend were sewn by the tailor's stitchers within two hours of our dropping off the material.



     While they're still definitely in the minority here, I have seen more Muslim women wearing full black burqas than I have other places I've been. The tailor shop that made my salwar kameez (the green one above and another) also had several burqa-wearing customers. When one of them passed by me to leave the shop, we exchanged smiles, which was just a nice moment of human connection and interaction, especially since I've been generally avoiding much eye contact with people until I learn a little better what's appropriate and allowable here. When I later happened to recount this moment to the friends hosting me, I suddenly realized how odd it was to say we exchanged smiles when all I could see of her face was her eyes. But unless her eyes were lying, her mouth was smiling too. And the moment of connection over the bridge of our smiles is now one of my favorite experiences so far, because for a moment I shared life with someone whose life is really different from mine.

no cannonballs please

~~late Thursday, July 21~~

I’ve only been in India for three days, but already I feel behind. There’s so much to learn. Not least of which is the Indian head-bobble, which I have already fallen in love with because it’s really real (at least here in the south) and is itself a language that offers an unavoidable lesson in the power of nonverbal communication. I never realized before how much I rely on shaking my head no and nodding it yes until those yeses and nos don’t translate quite correctly. And until I can’t quite read what other people’s shakes and nods mean. And this is just the tip of the iceberg of what fascinates me here.

My feeling of behindness is rooted in knowing I have limited time to learn everything I can. Spending six weeks away from home—four of them in India—is a luxury many people can’t enjoy. Still, four weeks isn’t long to learn a place. This ticking clock makes me instinctively want to jump in. Whatever that means. Yet, there’s a level at which jumping in (I’m envisioning cannonballing off a diving board, creating a big, huge splash in my hurry to get into the water) is contrary to my observer, contemplative nature and, really, contrary to what makes someone a good culture crosser.

By hanging back a little and patiently observing for a bit, learning a few rules of this place during a meantime that masquerades as unproductive, slipping in becomes more possible. As much as I wish that I could literally slip into an Indian identity and bobble my head through a day as an insider in this culture, I can’t. No matter now authentic my Indian kurta or salwar kameez, I will not blend in here. So I’m left with waiting, listening, and observing as my slipping-in tools. Patiently.

And then I wonder if this is part of what the Bible means when it says that love is patient. Is patience how I love this place that’s let me, courtesy of granting me a visa, in to share life for a little while? This wonder has sent me scurrying to look up that famous (among many) love passage, 1 Corinthians 13. And now I’m struck by something more: the power of this whole passage as a guide for entering into a place that is not our own, that is different from home, that can feel disorienting and strange, whether that place is another country, another county, or another person’s home.

Try it yourself. Think of going somewhere new and strange, a place—or even a person--that might normally elicit criticism, critique or fear for its strangeness. Then think of using this as your lens: “Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly [ahem, American tourists who act like they own the world and give American tourists everywhere a bad reputation]; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness [thus, there’s still room in love to recognize that not everything in every culture is pure and good just because it’s “culture”], but rejoices with the truth; bears all things [even when people laugh and stare at you?! even when it’s culturally inappropriate to eat with your left hand even if you’re a lefty?! :-)], hopes all things, endures all things.”

Such a lens kind of changes everything. Here’s hoping I’ll manage to be patient enough to learn a little and love much.

the travel blog lives again

July 12, 2011 - Café Nero, Cathedral Street, Borough of Southwark, London

It’s moments like this that there’s no question whether I hope to live in this city one day. After an early morning meeting with a new friend with whom I share an alma mater and a sense of fit here, I have time to sit, to write or read or think, before making my way to London’s western edges to visit friends of friends. I don’t know who wrote “It’s a Small World” or where the person wrote it, but it seems like that title should be the theme song for this city on the Thames. All clues indicate that if I'm ever here longer, an iota of effort will provide me with a very long list of potential friends here who already know people I know.

I’ve climbed the steps to Café Nero’s “additional seating upstairs.” Only one other person, book in hand and earbuds blocking out the pleasant piped-in classical music that’s adding to the moment’s perfection for me, is sharing this spot with me, though two others have just arrived.

Through the wall of windows to my left, I can see one of the brick-paved walkways that winds through the Borough of Southwark here on the southern bank of the Thames. This particular alley is called Pickfords Wharf. Now at 10 a.m. tourist-looking types are beginning to take over from the business-suited wayfarers who dotted the bricks half an hour ago.

Mixed in with my window view of Pickfords Wharf's newer bricks is a somewhat crumbly but beautiful wall, formerly an integral part of some building but now just jutting out from younger architecture, ostensibly suggesting that its stones are still necessary, like an elderly person condescendingly and sympathetically given a task on the sidelines that isn’t really needed and that anyone younger could do better and faster.

The wall dates back ages ago and is fronted by a spot of green space that may be one of the places around here where excavation has unveiled structures left behind by the Romans. I stopped to read the plaque at that spot last week but already can’t remember any details other than that the bricks and stones are old--old by European terms not American ones—and that I really like that wall.

The mishmash of time continues through the windows straight ahead of me. To the far right and almost touchable from Café Nero’s doorway, is the Golden Hinde, a ship or a replica of a ship that’s important for some reason. A pirate ship? A merchant ship? A circus ship? (The red and yellow striped decorations make this seem plausible, though I won’t be wagering any money on that option.)

I’m not sure what its story is as I did not stop to read its plaque when I wandered by last week (and clearly might not remember it if I had). And there’s no googling for details since Café Nero appears to be without free wi-fi. So the Golden Hinde simply increases the intrigue of this cozy, creative moment and serves as a pointer toward the Thames, which is just yards away with its waters flowing around the silhouette of the book-reading person who separates me from the window.

Occasionally, speedboats, police boats, canal boats, and others skim its surface, dashing with or against the current. The buildings fronting the far side of the Thames from me are also a mix of old, old and newer architecture, including the distinctive Gherkin with its elongated egg-shape decorated in glass behind an old unidentifiable-from-here classic columned building.

Red double-decker London buses add well-timed splashes of color as they cross London Bridge (which is not falling down) and disappear into the maze of tan and gray buildings. More-muted color is added to the scene by the green algae climbing a few feet up the river’s retaining wall across the way.

Not adding color is today’s weather. It’s gray this morning and cool, but perhaps the sun will yet make a way through the clouds. Gorgeous days have been leapfrogging gray days since my arrival here last week. Still, even the gray manages a loveliness here. And I’m glad this go-around to be seeing London by daylight. My previous visits were in February and October-December, when daylight manages only about 8 hours of glinting before darkness takes over.

It’s been strange to return here and find that this place is no longer quite foreign to me, but it’s also not quite yet as familiar as home, resulting in the subconscious yet weighty tension that comes when the polarizing categories—such as “home” and “away”--we unintentionally use to help us understand the world don’t work. A little of the inner tension was relieved several days ago with conscious realization of the cause of the inner quibble. All too often strict categories muddy our understanding of the world rather than aid it.

But, what then? Create a new category? Perhaps “foreign home” or “almost home” or “place where I have to relearn the cheapest way to ride the trains”? Or instead become comfortable with the in-between? Let London be what it is for me today even if that’s different from what it is tomorrow or even a minute ago? Let it be free to shift between categories, thus shirking them and freeing me from trying to create a definition? Does that help? Or is naming, defining, categorizing an unavoidable, inescapable part of being human?

As I head out now to catch my next train, I’m anticipating the effects of another category mismatch: summer clothes in Nashville and summer clothes in London equate two different clothing categories rather than one. And I think my packing relied a bit too heavily on the first. My reflective wanderings through Café Nero’s windows haven’t yet bought enough time for the sun to find a hole in the clouds. Add in the breezy wind that’s ruffling tourists’ hair, and the word “blustery” seems nearly apropos. I’m not sure I’m wearing enough layers to be comfortable in blustery.

Yet, despite any uncomfortableness, I’ll still be glad I’m here even if I’m cold when I step out the doors (and I really, really dislike being cold) and even if the tension from non-fitting categories persists. Given the choice between comfortable and uncomfortable, the best choice isn’t always the former. Choosing only comfort can cause us to miss out on a whole lot of good. Again, categories are rarely tidy, accurate inventions: getting to "good" sometimes requires being okay with some "bad."

So there you go. Give me a window, a bit of time, a mocha, and some old bricks mixed with new ones, and my inner philosopher is sure to come begging for an audience.

(Photos to be added later when I have a faster internet connection!)

what's your CQ?

I caught the tail-end of an interview on NPR's On Point yesterday. It sounded interesting. Po Bronson was one of the guests. I've not yet read any of his books, but with sincere reading-intentions I did check one out from the library once and read the intro before the book reached overdue status (that's worth something somewhere, right?). I'm intrigued by and appreciative of what I know about his approach to writing, reporting, and people. Due to all these factors, I hit up http://www.npr.org/ to find out what I'd just missed.

Among the topics du jour was Bronson's recent Newsweek article: The Creativity Crisis. It's a fascinating article that dredged up memories of taking IQ tests as a seven year old to see if I qualified for my county school system's gifted program. It also dredged up memories (from much more recent files) of things I observed about education systems while traveling abroad.

For whatever reason, I asked quite a lot of questions of my hosts, especially in Africa, about what education looks like in their locales. Maybe I did this more intentionally once I learned that African school systems in the former British colonies I visited are mostly based on the British system in terms of nomenclature for grade levels, etc., which means the terms aren't completely interchangeable with those of the American system. The British system never completely made sense in my American head, mostly, I think, because no one ever offered to draw me the diagram my visual self needed (all that A-level and O-level stuff doesn't seem to have an accurate American parallel). Eventually, though, many questions later and even sans map, I managed to get the gist of it.

I also had opportunity along the way to spend brief bits of time in schools. The bulk of my exposure was in Uganda where I assisted an aid organization with distribution of some school supplies, including at some schools that had been bombed by LRA rebels; toured and interviewed students at a private school; taught a class of 50-some students for almost an hour; and saw some study materials when kids on an island in Lake Victoria showed me what they were studying. In Zimbabwe I spent two weeks interviewing students at a university. In Ghana we spent time in villages where our guides described the changes Ghana was making in their public education system and the challenges of helping people understand the importance of it. In Haiti I visited a Save the Children summer program set up to prepare rural children to begin kindergarten in the fall, interviewed some older school-age children, and spent time on the grounds of a private school interviewing its founder/director. In London I participated in a junior high career day (students lost a fair bit of interest in my career path when the learned how little we writers make :-) ).

There's just something about understanding schooling that is one of the foundational pieces for understanding a culture. One of the observation gleaned from my educational question-asking in Africa three years ago and more recently from Africa-educated friends who now live in America is that the education systems in the parts of Africa I visited (particularly in Ghana, Kenya and Uganda) are very much based on memorization and rote learning. Training in problem-solving tends not to be a regular facet of mass education in these countries.

And, unfortunately, that reality bears out in many of the contemporary challenges that plague these particular countries. People complain of infrastructure that isn't maintained, systems that aren't effective, and other problems that can result when situations inevitably arise that require some imagination to solve, situations for which the rote answers that were hammered into them during their formal education aren't adequate. This is the state of things not because of lack of ability in the people but because they aren't taught or encouraged to think freely, to think outside the box, to figure out innovative solutions. Freedom and encouragement are key nurturing elements for creativity. Doing things as they've always been done and following the pack are not.

These observations all jive with what is described in Bronson's Newsweek article. The disconcerting evidence presented in the article indicates that while countries like China are making the switch from rote, memorization-based learning models to creativity-building models, American education is reverting to a less imaginative, more straight-laced model.

I'll throw my hat into the ring of agreement to say that based on my cursory observations abroad of the way lack of training in creativity impacts societies, this shift does not bode well for America. I agree that it's imperative for our own future problem-solving good and for the good of the rest of the world for us to re-incorporate creativity while we still can. Start by reading the article and then thinking of ways to solve this new crisis. Don't be surprised if you also find yourself wondering what your own creativity quotient, your CQ, is and how you can grow it.

being welcoming

You never know when you'll run into a good story. Who would expect that an errand-in-the-middle-of-rush-hour to replace a headlight you just noticed was out (I got tickets the last time my lights burned out before I noticed they were out, so there was no time to spare this time) would turn into a gem of an interaction?

As Lloyd helped me replace the worn-out headlamp, he happened to say something about welcoming people to America. He told me this as we walked out to the parking lot of an auto parts store not far from my house in the more immigrant heavy part of Nashville. There's a lot of Spanish spoken in this store, and probably some other languages too.

Lloyd prefaced his welcome-to-America story with a story of his own lack of welcome somewhere outside the States: As a soldier, years ago it seems, he was out and about somewhere in Europe when a man standing with a girlfriend asked Lloyd if he was "Americano." Lloyd, in his military get-up, said that he was. And the man spit in his face. Lloyd, as he tells it, is a redneck, so he charged the man. But the man's girlfriend held them apart. Some welcome.

Fast-forward to sometime more recently: Lloyd was helping a customer and asked the man where he was from. "Laos," the man replied. And Lloyd said, "Welcome to America!" And the man started to cry. Lloyd was afraid he'd said something wrong. But then the man explained, "I've been in America for 19 years, and you're the first American to welcome me here." Wow.

That gets you in the gut, doesn't it? Our pride in being American should translate into welcoming new people into our midst. Unwillingness to be welcoming sure looks a whole lot like insecurity and a whole lot like not loving our neighbor as ourself. How would you want to be treated if you were the new person in town?

keep following the news from Haiti

Blogs from folks I crossed paths with while in Haiti in '08:

Life of a Blan in Haiti
Lemuel Ministries blog
Hopital Bienfaisance/Promise for Haiti

If you're looking for places to donate, here are some reputable options that, because they're small and well connected locally, can get aid to needy people more quickly than some of the big organizations. These are all organizations I worked with while in Haiti and can vouch for.

Hosean International Ministries - housing earthquake refugees in facilities at the camp they run; also working to increase the capacity of their schools in order to get displaced kids back in school; supporting needs at Hopital Bienfaisance; helping with the airstrip in Pignon that is providing another way to get relief supplies into Haiti (since the Port au Prince airport is so clogged)

Hopital Bienfaisance - well-equipped hospital in Pignon, which is outside Port au Prince and has been treating earthquake victims

Lemuel Ministries - one base in Port au Prince and one far outside; also connected to and helping affected ministries and missions closer to PAP

Michael and Karen Broyles - friends who hosted me in Haiti; Michael stayed for a couple weeks after Karen and Kaydence were evacuated; now Mission Aviation Fellowship pilots are rotating through in Haiti; MAF is well-positioned at the PAP airport, where they already have offices and a hangar; they are supporting a flow of relief personnel and supplies and helping with evacuations

Broyles: specific Haiti relief needs

Mission Aviation Fellowship - providing key logistics, communications equipment, and air support in the Haiti relief effort from their long-standing base of Haiti operations


Christian Reformed World Missions - my friend Jenny works for this org but happened to be in the U.S. when the earthquake hit; they've been in Haiti for a while and have a solid network there

One last blog to mention:
Emily Troutman - I don't know this person but her reporting from Haiti is very good. She was there shortly before the 'quake, had left, and is back again.

poetry

I'm reading my way through E.M. Forster's A Passage to India (and need to speed up my reading since my third renewal is almost up, which means I'll have to give the book back to the library soon). For those who've not read it, the novel is set in India during the time of British rule and chronicles the relationships between various Indian and British characters.

I was recently struck by the following passage:
"[Aziz] held up his hand, palm outward, his eyes began to glow, his heart to fill with tenderness. Issuing still farther from his quilt, he recited a poem by Ghalib. It had no connection with anything that had gone before, but it came from his heart and spoke to theirs...The squalid bedroom grew quiet; the silly intrigues, the gossip, the shallow discontent were stilled, while words accepted as immortal filled the indifferent air...Of the company, only Hamidullah had any comprehension of poetry. The minds of the others were inferior and rough. Yet they listened with pleasure, because literature had not been divorced from their civilization."

I happened to mention this passage this morning during the wide-ranging discussion of a faith & arts book group I'm part of. We've been reading Lewis Hyde's The Gift and somehow this morning we came to discuss the way the easy access of entertainment has affected people's patience with and access to real art. I confessed that I sometimes wish I could gather friends at my house on a Friday night to read poetry aloud together, because poetry should be communal and audible, but the few times I've sacrificed my coolness ;-) enough to suggest such a thing, there have been no serious takers. :-) Which made me think of this passage. I don't know whether this respect for poetry was ever really true in India or whether it is now, but whether in India or elsewhere there must be places where I might not have such a hard time convincing people to partake of a poetry night. Perhaps I'll get to find those places one day.