post-Soviet splendour

For an agonisingly long stretch of time I’ve been saving all my pennies in order to explore some of the former Eastern bloc. So, in light of my imminent departure I thought it might be fitting to drop a few photographical delights in place of my usual scribbling:

Richtung Berlin/A Soviet Legacy/41 Gymnasia, Angus Boulton

Russia, Andrew Moore

Motherland, Simon Roberts

Soviet Roadside Bus Stops, Christopher Herwig

And for those who can’t stand that sort of thing, I bring you... Absence of Water, courtesy of Gigi Cifali.

My apologies for not adding any fake commentary; I’m currently in the middle of pre-packing adventures (today it’s jotting down those essential phrases I’ll probably never use). So, just in case anyone out there gets their kicks from examining the linguistic nuances between Belarusian, Russian and Ukrainian, here’s a phrase I’ll sadly never get to use, translated by Omniglot into all three tongues:

Мой паветраны човен поўны вуграмі

Моё судно на воздушной подушке полно угрей

Моє судно на повітряній подушці наповнене вуграми

Um, so yes... feel enlightened.

Staycation?

Oh summer in Boston--the subways crowded with boisterous Red Sox fans, the Common swarming with nocturnal creatures, humidity fogging up sidewalks and street corners from downtown to the 'burbs. Don't get me wrong--Summer is my favorite time of year. I've already begun to dread the winter as each deliciously simmering summer afternoon slides into night. Summer is the time for sundresses, the beach, ice cream, cookouts, and outdoor concerts.

Though I'm happy to bask in the Boston sunshine in the tiny park behind my apartment, I've got a serious case of wanderlust, and it's not helping that every time I check my Facebook account, I'm bombarded with notifications that so-and-so has added pictures from their vacation to Paris, or Rome, or Greece, or Mexico. Several of my good friends are having wild summer adventures--one is interning in Ghana, another is writing about the Olympics in Beijing, one is getting married and honeymooning in Tahiti, another is traveling the country doing lord knows what. I love getting caught up on their travels. I love seeing their pictures. I enjoy the postcards. But it's hard not to feel even more pent-up than I do during the rough New England winters.

I picked up The Weekly Dig the other night on my way home from work, intrigued by the banner on the cover--STAYCATION it beckoned in bright colors. The article made the promise to offer alternatives to a great summer vacation, for us poor schleps stuck in Boston. I was underwhelmed. First of all, the options were narrowed to our neighboring New England states: Connecticut, Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island. Suggestions included heading to Fenway, taking the commuter rail to gawk at big houses in Wellesley, going to the beach, eating pizza at Pizzeria Regina, and taking a "hike" around the Freedom Trail. I'm sorry, but even a trip to one of our neighbors doesn't classify as a vacation. I'm from Rhode Island, and I go down at least twice a month. It's no big treat.

The last several "vacations" I've taken have been 2 or 3 day affairs to major American cities to visit friends--of course, I always have fun, but I can't really say any of these jaunts can be classified as a true vacation. In August, I am flying to San Francisco to attend a week-long conference for work, and then taking a 3-day extension trip to Seattle to see a friend. I'm thrilled, since I've never been out wes before, but really? 3 days on a friend's couch and a week spent running around making photocopies and grabbing coffee for the higher-ups? Sorry, still not a vacation.

I'm ready for a real, leisurely, sun-laden, get-me-a-daquiri kind of vacation. And since it's clear I won't be getting one of those for quite a while, I am taking suggestions on how I can equate a similar feeling of relaxed bliss here in Boston. Anyone have any suggestions?

Listening

Greetings from Korea (insert postcard of neon crosses lighting up the Busan skyline here). I've been thinking, probably unsurprisingly, about communication. Maybe it's that I've been reading Joy Williams's The Quick and the Dead, with its fantastically strange dialogue (review pending), or maybe it's just the whole idea of two weddings, one Korean and one American, or maybe it's that I'm revising a story about cannibals that try to stop being cannibals after a little loving contact with a group of Europeans, I don't know. But communicaton seems all the rage these days.

It's a strange thing. We read so much fiction by authors who were ostracized in their youths and who write about ostracized characters, yet it seems especially true in stories that people need people to talk to. (Unless you like those stories with only one character--I generally don't.) This doesn't necessarily mean people really get to communicate, but it means they're trying. I re-read Carver's Cathedral recently, and what struck me about the collection is how much more grace seems offered to the characters than in his earlier stories, and how that grace comes through finding someone to communicate with. I don't mean to say these stories are better--I actually prefer the earlier ones--but stories like "Fever" and "A Small, Good Thing" allow characters to connect in a way that some of the earlier stories don't. This seems to give the book a more hopeful take on life.

So, since I'm in a hopeful mood, full of Christmas spirit and eggnog, I think I'll give my cannibals a chance to connect . . . just before they eat each other. I guess what I meant to talk about was how giving your protagonist someone who will listen to him can be a great thing for fiction, but oh well. Instead, I'll recommend some recent lit mag releases (shameless plugs and more!): Redivider, MAR, Black Warrior Review's sad animal issue. Read.

Travelling Friends

Heather's post yesterday got me thinking about travel what it means to be open to new experiences. I spent the academic year of 2000-2001 abroad in England, and during that time I made several trips.

Perhaps the best trip I took was to Ireland, with a close friend who was also abroad on the same program. We spent a few days in Dublin, then headed to Kilkenny to spend a night. It was near Christmas, so there weren't too many other tourists about, but in our hostel we chanced across an Australian several years older than us, who had been traveling through Europe for several months and had rented a car.

Because he exuded kindness and gentleness, the two of us decided to hitch a ride with him, just to the next city. Five days, four towns, and one Irish breakfast later, we were friends.

The Aussie and I have continued corresponding over the following years -- he's been through Europe several times, worked for the Australian government, and now is doing charitable work in Cambodia (he keeps a wonderful blog about his experiences). Although we haven't seen each other in person, I feel like I know him, and am glad I followed my heart and got in that car.

Also in today's news, why we need more women on the Supreme Court...

And this one time, at band camp...

Imagine yourself happily packing a backpack, stuffing only the essentials (including two "Do not open until May 24th!!!" cards and a mysteriously wrapped gift) inside, passport in hand, ready to depart for your four day birthday vacation to Madrid. It's your 33rd, so naturally it feels like a big deal. And though you're slightly bothered that your phenomenal partner had not really been in the picture when you originally booked the trip, and thus is not going, you're never-the-less excited to head over to Prestwick and catch your flight with friends.

Now, imagine that one of those friends has invited Michelle from American Pie to join you.

I'm not going to whine and complain about how my long-awaited trip to Spain was turned into a circus by a 15 year-old in a 23 year-old's body...Instead, I am going to use it as an opportunity to share some insight on travelling abroad. I share this with an open heart to any and all who have never left their hometown or country, and just aren't aware.

1) Americans, thanks to Mr. Bush, are really not terribly loved anywhere outside of the US these days.
2) Even if you are not American, if you sound like one we get the blame for any idiocies you commit (likewise, you get our stereotypes, so be prepared).
3) Though it is terribly exciting to travel outside of your comfort zone, drawing attention to yourself in a foreign country--aside from being humiliating--is a safety hazard (this means that wearing big flags on your backpack or having your friend video-tape you dancing on sacred grounds is a no-no).
4) If you do not speak the language of the country you are in, eat whatever the waiter puts in front of you--because chances are, you're the one who got it wrong.
5) When promotional people call to you on the street ("Chicas, chicas, gratis cervesas..."), don't insult them by yelling at them, accusing them of trying to pick you up, or saying "I don't drink beer!" They really could care less whether you do or not. Simply, they want some pretty girls to sit in the taberna so that paying men will come on in.
6) Finally, understand that you are not on home ground anymore. The rules have changed--your tea might have milk in it if you don't specify otherwise, vegetarianism might be a rare occurrence, and not everything is going to have an English translation under it.

I know that it's hard sometimes, we live in our own little worlds and get our culture from the boob tube...but if we want to lose the stereotypes of being loud, arrogant, and assumptive, we Americans need to step up. The accusations come from decades of documented poor behaviour, and it's our duty not to perpetuate it. After all, really, are you going to a foreign country to eat pizza and burgers? To speak your native tongue? Why bother? Immerse yourself in the culture and see it as a learning opportunity. Lean into your discomforts.

(Oh, and Canadians--if you're dead set on making an ass out of yourself abroad, please make sure you have a nice big maple leaf on yourself so that some of the blame is deflected.)

Jostling pregnant women

Grrrrrrr.

Isn't it just common courtesy to offer your seat on public transportation to a pregnant woman who has just stepped on? I recently started taking the T to work again (for those of you who aren't from Boston, that's the subway), and boy did it make me angry when not one, but two pregnant women had to stand, attempt to hold on to the bar, juggle a briefcase, and try to protect their precious bellies from the jostling of the busy rush hour T traffic. I was standing, too, or I would have gladly given up my seat for them. But it amazes and disgusts me that so many commuters "pretend" not to notice (nose in a book, furiously texting on their PDA, or sitting with their eyes closed) when a pregnant woman gets on.

I swear I almost ripped a man's head off this morning when he didn't offer an obviously pregnant woman his spot. I gave him the evil eye and shook my head disdainfully at him, but he didn't seem to notice that, either.

Is this view anti-feminist? Some men would say so. Afterall, why should they give up their spot for a woman? Isn't it first come, first served on the T? I suppose that the woman doesn't have a right to the spot, and she should not be treated as ill or weak just because she's pregnant, but hell, why can't people be a little bit nicer? It isn't about being a woman in this case, its about being a person who is carrying a heavy load, whose feet might hurt, or who might be feeling nauseous or exhausted. I'd give up my seat for her.

Boston needs to tune in to Tokyo. I read on Feministing that last summer, Tokyo rail companies began handing out badges to pregnant women who take public transportation.

Pretty brilliant if you ask me. Sounds like a good way to shame all of those serial ignorers into paying attention and doing the right thing. And even without the badges, don't let me ever catch YOU reading or daydreaming so hard that you don't notice someone who is right in front of you, or your ass is grass.

Airport Security? What a Joke.

Over the weekend I flew home for the first time since the “liquid bomb” scare. I looked up the regulations on the Internet, arranged what I considered liquids in my plastic baggie, and headed to the airport.

I’ve been flying long enough to see the changes in security measures. I didn’t take of my shoes seven years ago – now I do. I used to always carry my own water bottle – no more. And I certainly always carried my $10 facial lotion, and that’s what caused me trouble this time.

“Too big,” the security agent told me of my 4 oz. bottle. “That’s a liquid?” I replied. Of course it is. She added I could go back out to the ticketing line and check my bag, then go back through the security line. I admit, I was a little angry. Okay, I threw a fit, and told her to just throw it out, and thanked her for making all the passengers on my plane more secure by getting rid of the offensive stuff.

I realize people go through this every day, and many have already made adjustments – they always check bags, risking luggage loss rather than deal with the rules, or they don’t bring any toiletries and buy them upon arrival. Many people feel the hoop jumping is justified if it makes us safer. But it’s the implicit accusation that I’m doing something wrong that annoys me. I’ve brought this lotion aboard many planes, and suddenly I’m plotting a bomb attack with it? At the airport, we’re all guilty until we successfully make it to the gate.

Maybe if the new security measures actually worked, I’d feel better about it. But since my boyfriend got through with the box-cutter he’d accidentally carried with him from work, I have a hard time believing any of the new measures are more than bureaucratic nonsense. We are still at the mercy of those who wish us harm, and airport security is practically helpless. The sooner we accept that and find other ways to change our world, the better.