The Nature of Language

A couple weeks ago I was cleaning out a box in the basement and I came across this little blip I wrote while I was studying German in Berlin. I think it captures nicely how swallowed up my life was at that point by language. It is one of the few things that I've written that I still like after a couple years have passed. I'm putting it on the blog for your contemplation and so that I don't lose it. :)

The Nature of Language

Language is so much more than the sum of its parts. Nouns, verbs, and adjectives don't come close to touching the real meaning of a languages.

Language is about communication, not just talking. Language is about understanding what was meant, not just what was said. Learning a language isn't like learning anything else in the world, because to master another language is to open the door to another world of people. Sure, there are rules and facts and structures. But language is more about feelings than facts. It's more about expression than precision. A language is a living organism; always growing, always changing. It requires time and energy. Like a good relationship, constant upkeep is necessary for ultimate enjoyment.

Language allows us to access one anothers' thoughts. Like an international master key, language stretches across borders of time and space to connect us. It is stronger than appearance or misunderstanding. In the hand of a master, language can overcome race, religion, prejudices, and stereotype. It can end wars, heal hate, restore love. If we let it, language can make our world a better place.

Grad School Graduation

Friday was my third graduation ceremony. I'm happy to report that I managed not to fall or trip or anything else awkward and embarrassing during my two minutes of fame. Here's a picture of me with the two TESOL profs, Dr. Seaman (whom I'm passing) and Dr. Pierson (whom I'm about to hug). There were only about 45 graduates (it was only for the grad school), which was good because the chair of each department gave a little 60-second blurb about each of his or her graduates, so it was plenty long anyway. Fortuantely the profs were mostly kind and didn't say embarrassing things like, "Leslie has really made BIG IMPROVEMENTS since she came to Wheaton!" or "We really hope that Leslie manages to find a job in her field after she graduates..."

I'm really not finished with school until this Tuesday night; that's when my final final (hopefully of all time) will be over, so the graduation thing was a little anti-climactic. But it was still special because my dad, his wife, my sister, and brother-in-law all made the big hike north to watch me on my big day! Here we are, pretending to be pilgrims and puritans, though we are neither.

In other news, Friday marked my last day of work as a cleaning tech with Missy's Maid Service. That job has been an answer to prayer and a real blessing during my time at Wheaton. I am not, however, sad to hand in my cleaning supplies. :) Tuesday will be my last day monitoring recess at the local grammar school. Sigh! The end of my known employment! Yay! Boo! If I show up on your doorstep begging any time soon, you will know that my full-time employment search is not going well. I'm looking for something temporary from January through May. Then hopefully I'll move back to Ohio and prepare to move to Ecuador and teach ESL at Alliance Academy. Of course I haven't been offered a position yet, but I'm still operating at this point as though I had.

Though I would love to write more, my bed is calling me. I think that a Sunday afternoon nap is critical. I'd hate to miss that...

Calling All Modern-Day Robins

Last night I watched Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves, one of my all-time favorite movies, and it got me thinking, where are all the present-day Robins?

Not that I think men should start wearing leather shoulder pads and pretending to be a famous British historical figure without a British accent, mind you (and keep in mind that though I can poke good-natured fun at this movie, you may not...kind of like how you can insult your little brother, but no one else can...), but seriously, is it too much to ask that a man be loyal and noble and willing to risk important things in pursuit of a woman he loves?

A couple years back I finally caved to the peer pressure and stopped wearing my ring (a plain, silver band) on my ring finger. Friends told me that men would see it and assume I was married. I say, is it too much for a guy who might be interested to ask around, or even ask me, "is that a wedding ring?" That's not exactly like proposing, is it? I mean, Robin of Locksley was willing to die for Marian. He even said so:

Marian, "You came for me!"
Robin, "I would DIE for you!"

Well ok, maybe it is a little old fashioned and out of style, but it shouldn't be. Because deep down inside, I believe that men want to be the brave, conquering heroes that women wish they would be. So what's the problem? Why can't we as a society figure this thing out and live life like we mean it?

But what do I know? I'm still single...

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence

I love Christmas carols, especially the sacred songs. My favorites are O Come, O Come Emmanuel; What Child is This?; O Holy Night. I like these because they seem to exude the heritage of the season - our connection to generation after generation of persevering saints; waiting patiently - and sometimes impatiently - for the fulfillment of God's glorious promise.

He would send a Messiah; a Savior to rescue us from ourselves. Five hundred years of heavenly silence preceded the Christ-child's earthly arrival. Five hundred years without an encouraging word. Years of oppression for God's Chosen People. Years of uncertainty and second-guessing. Maybe it was just an old wives' tale. Maybe we're just fooling ourselves. Maybe, maybe...

And then the moment; recognised by most in hindsight, but by a few, hand-picked servants immediately. Labor pains. A bed of straw. Eternal moments for Mary and her new husband as they struggle together through the wonderful and terrible process of birth.

He was here. Ten fingers and ten toes. A perfect baby boy. Truly perfect, the first and last child to be precisely that. The virgin sings a lullaby. God becomes flesh and dwells among us.

What about this miracle is NOT sacred, I ask you? What about it is not a little melancholy? Born to die. Born to take on the punishment of the whole human race. Born to be the sacrifice for the sins of Leslie Elizabeth Foster. Born for me. And you.

Last Sunday we sang this hymn, which is believed to date back to the 1st century AD. To think that people who actually walked with Christ may have sung this hymn, along with me and the congregation of Blanchard Alliance Church. All of us connected through centuries of triumph and failure, spiritual drought and overwhelming times of revival. They, awaiting Christ's coming; we, awaiting His return. Bound by bonds of Love to the One who gave all for us.

This carol says it all. Mortal flesh all; Christ deserves our allegiance, our shouting with joy, and our silence. We owe Him our somber, reverent silence as well.

May you make time to sit before your King in silence this Advent season. No other offering than your time and your adoration.

Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence

Let all mortal flesh keep silence,
And with fear and trembling stand;
Ponder nothing earthly minded,
For with blessing in His hand,
Christ our God to earth descendeth,
Our full homage to demand.

King of kings, yet born of Mary,
As of old on earth He stood,
Lord of lords, in human vesture,
In the body and the blood;
He will give to all the faithful
His own self for heavenly food.

Rank on rank the host of heaven
Spreads its vanguard on the way,
As the Light of light descendeth
From the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish
As the darkness clears away.

At His feet the six wingèd seraph,
Cherubim with sleepless eye,
Veil their faces to the presence,
As with ceaseless voice they cry:
Alleluia, Alleluia
Alleluia, Lord Most High!

Thanksgiving Report

Thanksgiving breaks stats:

-four cities, five states, nearly 1500 miles, $175 in gas (much of which was supplemented by my gracious father), and three family get-togethers (two with my own family :) ). Good times. Sore butt. Yay for holidays!

Thanksgiving break highlights:

-I caravaned with Wheaton friends Kristy and Elizabeth all day Wednesday to Kristy's family's place in Cleveland, TN (just north of Chattanooga)to enjoy Thanksgiving with them, as my families' celebrations were scheduled for Saturday and Sunday. We stopped for gas just north of Indy, and during our brief filling-and-emptying stop, Kristy and I each had separate "Yay! We're out of the cold city and back where people acknowledge you and treat you like a person!" experiences. My cashier saw me walking past the women's restroom and said, "Ya walked right past it, honey!" Then after taking my first installment on the Turkey Day Gas Fund, she reminded me "Have a good Thanksgiving, honey!" I left the gas station with a warm glow in my Chicago-frosted heart. I was still driving, but I was already closer to home.
-Our 10 hour trip dragged into 12 hours, due to the heavy rains that pestered us all day.
When we finally arrived at Kristy's house, we were road-weary and more than ready for the warm reception we received. This was my first experience living with a family in the south (I've been to the south, but you don't really start to understand a culture until you get the insider-experience of living with the locals). Kristy's mom and dad, Dawana and Don, were exactly what I expected in my tv/movie/stereotype of downhome, good southern folk. Don was quiet, but told me all about his deer hunting and the local legend of "Poor Ma", pronounced "poehmaw" by those who know. Poor Ma is a bobcat that's been in the area since Don was a kid. Some nights you can hear her screaming- just like a woman's scream. Don and his brothers and sisters used to be threatened with Poor Ma when they were lolly gagging outside too long on summer evenings, "If y'all don't get in here, Poemaw's gonna gitcha!" DaWana says some people claim it's a woman screaming, without a head. We all silently pondered the difficulty of screaming without a head for a while.

-Thanksgiving with the McClanahans was a treat. Most of the dishes I recognized- turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes, rolls, creamed corn, and a plethora of desserts. We also had cornbread dressing (not to be confused with stuffing, as I was to learn) and okra. Both were really good. The dressing was solid, and cut and served in little squares. Not at all like the soft, moist bread-dressing I've grown up on. But I liked it. Went back for seconds, in fact.
The best part of the meal was interacting with Kristy's family. Her aunt came, and a cousin and her husband, in addition to her immediate family. It was much smaller and quieter than the Foster gatherings I'm used too. Phrases like "fixin' tah..." and "Are you serious?!?" "As a heart attack" abounded, and I snuggled into the warm, familiarity of a family that was so comfortable together that they hardly noticed the invasion of a well-intentioned Yankee.

-I enjoyed the beautiful scenery and realized how much I miss stores like Wal-Mart, Big Lots, and local grocery stores.
I also enjoyed Friday shopping in Chattanooga with Kristy, Shelly (Kristy's sister), and Elizabeth. I was a shoppin' machine!!

-Friday afternoon I packed up and headed north. After 6 hours on the road, I arrived a little after 11pm at my cousin Jodi's house, I accepted her wonderful hospitality of the use of their guest suite by immediately showered and falling into bed. :) The next day we had a little visit time, together with another cousin, Sheri, before the hordes began to arrive for the Foster Family Thanksgiving. Per our usual mode of operation, we grazed until it was time to eat, then we ate, and then it was back to grazing until supper time. :) The guys watched football, and we put together some new picture boards for Grandma and Grandpa, who'd just been moved to another nursing facility. We ladies did a little Christmas shopping before dinner. After eating I headed north again, stopping on the way to visit G&G in their new pad before truckin' on home to Ada.

-Sunday morning I headed to my favorite church in the world, Union Chapel Missionary Church. It was, as usual, SO GREAT to see everyone. It was a quick visit, but long enough to put a little more family love in me before heading to my sister's house in Bellefontaine for a House Family gathering.

-Uncle David and Aunt Janie have been in the area for awhile, vacationing from their home in Oregon, so it was especially good to see them. It was also my only chance to see my brother and his family, including my wonderful nieces. We had a good visit over lasagna before it was time for me to head west.

-I hit the road (again) just before 3pm and started west. The raindrops literally began as I pulled out of the driveway, and continued for about five hours. :) But it was still a good trip. I made good time and came home to my roommates, who wanted to watch a movie, and far be it from me to dissuade a movie-watching opportunity! :)

Thanksgiving break reflections:

-1500 miles alone in the car gives one good thinking time. I thought about home vs. everywhere else. I thought about how when I was at home, going to Ecuador seemed like a terrible idea, but when I'm away, it seems like a good plan. I thought about how most of my friends at home are moving or have moved into a new stage of life- married with children, and how that distances them even further from where I am. And pondered what that's going to mean for our relationships. I thought about speed limits. Who decides which stretch of highway should be 55 and which should be 60? And is there really a difference? I thought about country people vs. city people.
I thought about the furry tail that was tied to the antenna of a car in my church's parking lot that morning, and how I would never see that in DuPage County, IL, and what a shame that second thought was. I thought about why some regions are just friendlier than others, and how the suburban lifestyle is so pursued and so overrated. How I'd rather be poor and live in the country than living high on Michigan Avenue.

-My future came up about 75 trillion times during the trip. I understand that people are curious, and even if they're not, it's logical to ask a near-graduate about their future plans. I wouldn't mind so much if I had something to say. But on the way home I tentatively decided to start packing. I think maybe I'll move home after graduation and look for a temp job, hopefully just through summer, when I hopefully will move to Ecuador and teach at a school there. Lots of uncertainty, but at least it's sort of a plan. And I know I should start packing.

Well, enough rambling for now. Real life is calling and I have things to do, places to go, etc. The break was wonderful, in spite of the long miles, and I'm excited to enjoy the advent season. Only 28 days 'til Christmas!

The Garden Rake

Last Sunday morning I woke up in very little pain, which is really nice, and I decided to take a morning constitutional walk. Generally I reserve such walks for weekdays, but since my back has occasionally prevented said excursions, I felt up to it. I put on my tennies and coat and headed out into the beautiful, crisp, fall morning.

About a third of the way through my normal route I saw a big pile of trash, apparently waiting for the weekly garbage collection (which wouldn't come for four more days). There were a couple boxes of junk and some odds-n-ends, crap, basically, rightfully put in the garbage. But then I noticed a big trashcan full of old tools. There were some old snow shovels (the metal kind, that weight 20 pounds BEFORE the snow is added) and some unidentifiable stuff, but what caught my eye was a perfectly good garden rake.

Two thoughts immediately crossed my mind:
1. This is the suburbs; no one even HAS a garden; why do these people have a garden rake?
2. Why are these people PAYING MONEY to throw away a perfectly good garden rake?

Scratching my head at the incomprehensibility of these strange suburban creatures, I took a quick look around to be sure no one was watching, and grabbed that garden rake right out of their trash can and tossed it onto my shoulder, continuing on my merry way.

So, if you or someone you know has need for a nice garden rake, please let me know. Because, of course, I live in the suburbs too, so I also have no garden and therefore no legitimate need of a garden rake.

So good things are happening in my life. Specifically, I just finished the first of three parts of my comprehensive exams, which determine whether I will be awarded a master's degree in December, or just a lot more loans. It went well, and I feel quite confident that I will pass. :)

I also have had a mostly good back day thus far, for which I am quite thankful. Since the weather started cooling off I've been dealing with a hurty back again, which I don't like one bit. It's similar to last year, but different, too. Unless I'm remembering wrong. Anyway, I'm trying to exercise and drink lots of water and tighten my muscles a lot, in hopes of avoiding a replay of last year's fiasco, which eventually involved me quitting my job and lying on my back during lectures, as I couldn't sit for an hour at a time. Yuck.



In other good news, I had a great week-long road trip/visit in Ohio and Indiana during fall break. I got to see Josie in Cleveland, along with her hubby and their adorable little Reagan. Here's a picture of us together. I'm her favorite "aunt". This is actually not the best picture of her, but it's the best one of me, so I'm using it. But I guess in Reagan's defense, I'll post a better one of her, too. Here.

So after leaving the Land of Cleve, I drove home and spent time with my lovely family and "home friends". Here's a picture of my adorable niece, Devan, and her goofy dad.
This was at a family dinner at Josh and Michelle's house. I spent the night with Dalen (my other adorable niece) and Michelle and Devan the night before, and we had a great girls' night, complete with Fat Jack's pizza (which I occasionally dream about) (well, that's an exaggeration, but I do miss it) and a fire in the fireplace, which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Childhood. Security. I taught Dalen how to blow on the fire when it's burned down low and you add a log, to make it blaze back up again. She was really excited about that. :)

On the way back to the burbs of the Windy City, I stopped in Winona Lake to visit a couple of college friends, Liz and Jessica. We had a really nice, relaxed visit. It was great to catch up a bit. Liz is a mommy twice over now, which is pretty hard for me to wrap my mind around. And Jessica is working on a master's in social work right now, which seems to be keeping her busy.


Then it was back to good old Wheaton to continue working on my never-ending research project. That Saturday we had a post-Halloween party at our house. We six, and Augustine (our honorary house member) all dressed up as Miss USA pageant contestants. In the end, the best state won. :) Here we are, looking pageant-y.

Now I just have a 10-pager, another written comp section, and the verbal comp section to go, and my life shifts into "normal" gear again. This is a gear that I haven't really experienced since, uh, maybe June. So I'll be happy to get back to it. After that I can focus some more on the little details of what to do with my life after graduation. I'm currently looking into teaching ESL in Quito, Ecuador, working with World Relief in Aurora, IL, and teaching EFL in Northern Iraq. But stay tuned, because these ideas seem to fluctuate on a daily basis.

Now I'm going to go to the video store and celebrate the completion of the first part of my comps by renting Elizabeth. The sequel is at the cheap theatre, but I've yet to see the original, so I'm going to do that first. Whee!

Just So You Know

I have no doubt that you've been checking and re-checking my blog, to see if I've posted anything new yet. Well, the good news is that I WANT to post something new. The bad news is that I really can't. I should be finishing my research project. But as soon as I turn it in, I'm going to sit down and write about what's been going on in my life over the past two weeks, complete with pictures that will prove that it was worth the wait. :) So stay tuned!

The Mexican Pizza

A funny thing happened to me today in the Taco Bell drive-thru. I had just finished my final assignment before fall break, and had dropped it off at the prof's office. It was about 8:30 and I was rewarding myself by buying supper at Taco Bell.

As I pulled into the drive-thru, I noticed that the car ahead of me was a pick-up truck from Michigan, and the guy in it wasn't bad looking. No one in the passenger seat. All good signs. I rolled down my window and ordered.

Pulling around the corner to wait for the nice TB people to take my money and produce my Mexican pizza, I looked at the guy in his side mirror. He was looking back at me (always an awkward moment) so I glanced away and suddenly, blaring out of the truck came the strains of a heavy metal song. It was so loud that I whipped back around to look at the guy again. Still looking back at me. I'm thinking, is he trying to impress me with his music? Cause I like music, but not this screaming-into-the-microphone stuff. Then I catch a few words, "You have a beautiful face..." Awh!, I think. By now I am totally convinced that he's playing this song for me (I was perhaps delusional from hunger). He's still looking back at me in his side mirror.

The "musician" (in quotation marks to indicate my generosity in using this term for this particular person) continues on and the next word I can make out is the f-bomb. Woah, uh, not really into that...I'm suddenly NOT impressed. The cursing screamer has cancelled out the pick-up, the midwestern roots, the cute guy, and the beautiful face comment. All gone in a flash of profanity.

I rolled up my window, looked away and turned up my own music. Tim McGraw drowned out the cursing screamer and I drove off to enjoy my low-quality Mexican-American fast food.

Mature, Adult Decisions...

Things to do this afternoon:

Option A:
-print off, read, and highlight remaining two sources for paper on AIDS in China for Public Health & Nutrition Class
-Copy, edit, analyze, and 'chunk' fieldnotes from last 3.5 hours of observation for Research Methods Class
-Finish reading Discerning Spirits for History of Christianity Class
-Start research for paper on God's Heart for Women for Theological Foundations of Mission Class

Option B:
-Check email
-Check Facebook account
-Take a nap
-Write in blog

Hmmm...tough call...

Deep Thoughts on Finals

I am taking a productive break between assignments. I just finished my review of Footprints of God. Then I folded and put away my laundry, put clean sheets on my bed (even rotated the mattress, go me), emptied my now-somewhat-smelly lunch bag from Tuesday and put the cooler thingy back in the freezer so it's ready for tomorrow. Now I'm writing before I go back to reading. I have an article to read so that I can fill out this form about it...

It's week six of eight in the quad (a quad is half a semester, and most of my classes are a quad long) so it's just beginning to be 'gear up for finals' time, and I'm already tired. Not a promising situation. But the good news is that during the second quad, which is also the last eight weeks before GRADUATION, I only have one class and comprehensive exams. So this should be my last crunch-final time. Hopefully forever!

(insert host of angels here, singing the "Hallelujah Chorus")

In the meantime, it is the time of season for that annoying niggling thought that rises to the surface of my consciousness every once in a while. The thought says, "You should be doing research for those three papers. They're all due in the same week, and you're going to be up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle if you don't get your rear in gear now..."

I hate that thought, wise though it is. It's not so much that I don't WANT to work ahead. It's more that I'm trying to keep my head above water to get THIS week's assignments done. It seems a bit presumptuous, arrogant even, for assignments two weeks in the future to be nagging me already.

Sigh.

I suppose one day I'll look back at this time with fond recollection. Perhaps even longing. But for the record, I never missed school during the three years between undergrad and grad school. In fact, as finals season came and went I often gave thanks that I was no longer involved.

Now if I could only find a job...

Off to go read an article.

The Flashback

And so at church during worship someone came from behind me and hugged me and when we pulled back it was Ginny Hempleman, my friend's mom, and friend of my own mom, who's going through chemo for breast cancer.

Her hair was just beginning to grow back and even though I knew via email that she had lost her hair, I hadn't pictured it in my mind. I hadn't prepared myself emotionally for it.

When I saw that hair, so distinctively woman-going-through-the-hell-of-cancer, it vividly flashed me back to dealing with that with my mom. She did chemo twice. Lost her hair twice. And those were the times she survived.

I immediately started to weep. Not cry, but sob, uncontrollably. I hugged Ginny again for a long time...through that song and into the next...while I tried to get ahold of myself. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying to pretend the whole half of the church behind us wasn't watching (they went through Mom's cancer with us- as close as blood family, and they surely understood), trying to fight off the memories that flashed through my mind, snap-shots of a gruelingly difficult season for my family.

It was unreal how shocking it was. Like a sucker-punch to the gut I didn't see coming.

Later, when I had come back to the present and stuffed down some of the raw emotion, Ginny said, "I brought back memories, didn't I?" I nodded silently. She said, "I know. But you need to know that I'm doing ok. I really am."

I used to think that I would get over it. Not that I wouldn't miss her eventually, but that after awhile it wouldn't hurt so much. At the funeral people reassured me with words like, "It'll get easier. Just give yourself some time." I'm not so sure. Maybe I haven't given it enough time? Or maybe we just convince ourselves that grief does get easier. Because if we thought it wouldn't, there might be two caskets to bury.

I just realized that I can put pictures within the text of my message, too! Not just on the column on the side! PARADIGM SHIFT!!

Wash Your Hands

Today was a GLORIOUS day. Glorious in the literal meaning, "reflecting God's glory"? This afternoon I walked out of the building where I had been for the past 7 hours into the cool, sunny, breezy fall day and was thankful to be alive. And thankful to have the health to walk home. Six months ago I couldn't walk to the corner, let alone a mile from campus to my house. I am exceedingly thankful for the return of my back health.

Anyway, my fingers were sticky from something I had thrown away a minute ago and I was wishing I could wash them. I was walking past a big hole which had been dug by the electric repair guys, and I suddenly had a childhood flashback. I was in a field somewhere with my family and Uncle Mark. He and Dad were farming, and Mom had driven us to wherever they were to tell them something or give them something. Anyway, Uncle Mark, probably having just fixed something on a piece of equipment, was using some of the loose soil in the field to "wash his hands" which Brittony (probably about 8), Josh (about 5) and I (maybe 7) found to be quite ridiculous and comical. "What?" Uncle Mark says. "Don't you know you can wash with dirt? This is good, clean dirt here. It'll clean you right up."

It's funny what sticks with us; the lessons we learn from the people in our lives. I remember Grandma Foster teaching me how to put pants on my Barbie Doll; you have to put BOTH feet in at the same time, or it won't work. Even at 4 years old, I noticed how Grandma showed me and told me at the same time. Then she took the pants back off the doll and told me to try. It was magic, I tell you! Those pants slipped right on!

Little snapshots of life. Teaching moments. I remember my dad and me at Edgewood Skate Arena; he glided smoothly around the rink. I clung tenaciously to his hand and basically walked along beside him. (I didn't skate a lot as a kid...) He said, "It's like a dance. Just move your feet to the music, long strides..."

So much teaching. And no wonder- think of all the stuff we have to learn; most of it within our first 18 years! Walking, driving, filling out government forms (yikes!) deciding what you want to do, learning to dress your Barbie doll... Can you imagine, all this stuff crammed into our brains and we're still only using a small percentage of its capacity, according to scientists. I wonder why God gave us so much more than we use? Is that significant?

Well, speaking of learning things, I have books to read and review. More information to absorb. But if things get too tough, I may just go outside and wash my hands in some good, clean dirt.

Wisconsin and Grace

Last weekend two of my Wheaton friends, Beth and Elizabeth, were scheduled to take part in a triathlon in Devil's Lake, Wisconsin. Two friends and I had decided to join them and camp out at the park, in order to cheer them on and get the heck out of Wheaton. (ahem) I mean, to cheer them on and explore a new part of our beautiful country. Sadly, two hours before we were scheduled to leave for WI, Beth got a call telling her that her friend had gone into labor. Beth's training to be a doula (kindof like a childbirth coach/helper/person) and had agreed to go with her friend to the hospital. It was hard to watch Beth make the sacrifice- she'd been training all summer for the race- but I was proud of her selfless decision and especially her fantastic attitude.

The rest of us piled into two cars with our gear and trucked it north to the great state of Cheese and country, Wisconsin. Since it's September, and we're heading north, so we're anticipating cooler weather. What we hadn't expected were record-breaking low temperatures in that area our first night- it was 30 degrees inside our tent Friday night. Some of us (Sasha, from St. Croix, US Virgin Islands) had it worse than others. :)

Anyway, race day dawned bright and early for me. We went to bed about 1am; I got an update call from Beth about 2:30am; Elizabeth's alarm went off at 5:30am; and I finally forced myself out of my warm sleeping bag at 6:45. Those lumps of earth under my sleeping bag seemed to grow during the short night. After a breakfast of cold bagels and cream cheese, we headed out to watch the race.

Swimming was the first event, and after much wandering about in a sea of otherwise sane-looking men and women dressed in spandex and wetsuits, we finally located our favorite athlete. We got a couple minutes to chat with Elizabeth before her heat (willingly) jumped into that icy-cold water. [pause here for eye-rolling at the strange things people will do in the name of sports]

The excitement of the day was tempered by the sudden death of one of the participants. As my friends and I awaited Elizabeth's arrival at the end of the swimming section, we saw two lifeguards pulling a man out of the water. He was unconscious and I ended up calling 911 to get an ambulance. After 20 minutes or so of doing CPR, they finally loaded him onto a stretcher and drove him away in the ambulance. After we returned home we found out that the man had died from a heart attack. 55 years old, avid triathlon participant. It was a stark reminder of how fragile life is.

It's strange to think of someone dying in an event like this in the States. We've worked so hard to make everything so safe. Helmets, seat belts, water-less hand sanitizer. No kidding, at the restaurant on the way to the park there was "toilet seat sanitizer" in the bathroom- you put some on some TP and wipe the seat down before you sit!! When I compare that to the bathroom situations I've encountered overseas...I just have to laugh! We try so hard to stay safe, but when it comes down to it, nothing is certain but death and taxes (as my dad would say).

Anyway, Elizabeth did a fantastic job in the triathlon. We were all so proud to watch her cross the finish line! Afterward our star sat munching on her sub sandwich, shivering in my sweatshirt and told us about how preparing for and running the race reminder her so much of her spiritual walk with Christ. Hard work; discipline; incredible rewards. It was a joy to experience it with her.

Now I'm back home in the real world. Juggling papers and book reviews, house-cleaning and recess-monitoring, trying to eat enough fresh veggies and make sure I get a little exercise each day, getting up early to spend time with God. Sometimes doing well at everything. More often faltering in one way or another. Makes you thankful for grace, doesn't it? A Father who forgives and forgives and forgives. And then the next time I blow it, He forgives me again. Even for the same sin. Even when I didn't take it seriously. Even though.

God's been teaching me about grace. About how bad I am at it. In a devotional once I read the quote: You will never show anyone more grace than God has already shown you." I keep finding that whenever I'm struggling with an issue in someone else, it's a reflection of a similar problem in myself. Yuck. It's been a depressing and yet illuminating revelation. It's hard, but good for me. Like eating salad and working hard at a job I don't like. Not fun, but good for me.

Grandma Nell's Whirlygig Cookies

Due to the high demand, here is the great cookie recipe! It makes about 3 dozen cookies...unless you like the dough as much as I do... :)

Cream together:
1/2 cup shortening
1/2 white sugar
1/2 brown sugar
1/2 cup creamy peanut butter
Add to mixture:
1 egg
1 1/4 cup flour
1/2 t baking soda
1/2 t salt
Using two sheets of waxed paper, roll the dough into an oblong shape about 1/4 inch thick. Melt a package of chocolate chips and spread it evenly over the dough. Roll the dough up lengthwise, like a jelly roll and wrap the roll in waxed paper. Chill. Slice and place on cookie sheets (they can be close together- they won't get much bigger as they cook) and bake at 350 degrees until the cookies are light brown, about 7-9 minutes. Allow to cool for 3 minutes before removing from the sheets.

Exploring The Wonders of Barley

I like to cook, even though I'm only really successful about 1/2 of the time. I suppose I cook mostly because I like to eat, but I also like making other people happy, and it seems that most others like to eat, too.

Anyway, I tried to make a pork roast with potatoes and carrots like my mom used to do. It was for a Roosevelt House lunch on Sunday. I think I didn't give it enough time to cook. And something was wrong with the flavoring. I was sorely disappointed. The girls were gracious, though.

The whirligig cookies I made for dessert helped to make up for the sad meal. If you've never had whirligig cookies, yours is a sadly lacking life. These are without a doubt the best cookies in the world. Yes, the world. I challenge you to find, on any continent, a better cookie. It's peanut better cookie dough swirled together with chocolate. Oh, yum.

Anyway again, that's still not the point. (sheesh!) I had leftover pork from the dinner, so I decided to cook it along with the bones in my crock pot and make soup. I like homemade soup and it's getting a little cooler, so soup is perfect.

Yesterday we cleaned out the basement at the Roosevelt House (stick with me, here; these stories are actually related) and in addition to the satisfaction of a nice neat and orderly basement, I scored a bag of pearled barley from Sarah. Her mom regularly sends her cooking stuff, but I ended up with the barley. I don't actually know the difference between 'pearled' and 'not pearled' barley. I had never cooked with, or even eaten barley, as far as I remember. Unless someone fed me barley overseas. Sometimes I ate things I couldn't identify, but those things were rarely grains. Mostly they were from animals. Once I thought I was eating rice noodles (which I like) and it turned out I was eating jellyfish tentacles (which, it turned out, I do not like so much; very chewy) Yuck.

So I decided to make pork and barley soup, even though I'd never heard of such a thing before. It seemed reasonable. I cooked the meat overnight and then washed and poured in the barley before I left for work this morning.

Barley expands. When I got home it was almost to the top of the big crock pot, and it had become about the consistency of oatmeal. Hmm. It wasn't exactly what I was expecting. But I watered it down a bit, added some carrots and spices, and am now munching happily away on my hearty soup. It's, um, somewhat reselmblant of elmer's glue, and only tasty if you're really hungry.

If anyone's hungry, I'll save some for you. I have a lot.

Unrelated story: last night I watched the movie The Holiday with some friends. This was my third viewing of said movie, and I would just like to say that I would marry the Miles character in a heartbeat. I keep asking people which of the two main male characters they would be interested in, and no one seems to agree with me, but I just don't understand that!

I will admit that the other guy (played by Jude Law) is hotter, but he's not as quality of a guy! Miles (played by Jack Black) is funny, sincere, super-musical, and just plain old nice. What's not to love!?! Too bad he's a fictitious character. :)

The People We Enjoy

Today on the walk home from school I passed a park with a small placard that said something about "the people we enjoy". I glanced at it casually as I walked by, but the depth of meaning struck me as somehow disproportionately profound for such words, and I went back to look again.

What a simple way to put it. I began to think about the people that I enjoy. Not surprisingly, the first person to come to mind was my mom. Susan Carol (House) Foster. Mom died two and a half years ago and at the time she was my closest friend. I know in my head that she wasn't perfect at all. But isn't it funny how death perfects people?

Anyway, imperfect as she was, I enjoyed my mom thoroughly. She called me Bunky, and I called her Shorty. Sometimes she would meet me at work for lunch, other days we would make trips to Meijer or Wal-Mart together. All my friends loved her, which is, I think, noteworthy. My mom was my hero, and my most important spiritual guide. She was forever supportive of me, even when I made various "I'm going to..." announcements that I know pierced her heart. She never made me feel guilty for going far away. But she was always so excited when I came home.

During my final homecoming before her Final Homecoming, Mom left a note on my table that said, "Leslie's Home! Whee!!" There was a little smiley face at the bottom. That was summer of 2005. That note got buried (quite predictably) in the pile of junk on the table, and I ran across it a few months later. By that time Mom had been diagnosed with a recurrence of cancer for the last time, and we knew her time with us was short. My whole world had changed. The note, which had made me so happy a few months back, made me equally sad the second time around.

There were days during Mom's last weeks that I was afraid I wouldn't be able to breathe without her. She had always been such a huge part of life. Always there. Always loving. The pain I felt as I looked ahead to life without my mom was physical. I hadn't known emotional pain could transcend its own realm and manifest itself that way. There are some lessons you'd rather never learn.

Anyway, it turns out that I am able to breathe without Mom. Some days it still hurts. Most days it's not a pain, but rather a sadness. She's still the person I want to talk things over with. I want to debrief with her about my day, every day. And how I would love to have her wisdom and advice about my life decisions.

After Mom died I wondered how long it would be before I stopped missing her so much. But after a couple years I've come to terms with the concept that I won't stop. I will always miss her, because I will always love her. She isn't here anymore, but she still is. I wonder if people in heaven watch us down here? I wonder if my mom sees me. I wonder if she's proud of who I'm becoming, of the choices I'm making. I wish I could ask her.

I can't imagine anything ever hurting more than losing my mom. But I wouldn't trade it; not even to take away the pain. Not even for that.

Fall Constitutional

I've started my own morning constitutional. Webster's defines 'constitutional' as, "a walk taken for one's health". For most of my childhood I thought the word had a different meaning. That's because each summer when my family would go camping, my father would leave our campsite first thing in the morning like clockwork. If we asked where he was going he would reply, "I'm going for my morning constitutional!" Hence, I thought a constitutional meant taking a dump in the morning.

The dangers of learning a language the natural way.

Anyway, my own constitutional adheres much more closely- exactly, in fact- to the denotation of the word. I've started walking a mile each morning right when I wake up. It's fast and easy and starts my day off right. I feel like I've accomplished something and it's a good time to pray.

Considering the joy with which I embrace each extra minute of sleep in the morning, I am quite proud of my accomplishment. But there are a few good reasons to set my alarm clock a bit earlier...

I love to be out in the world while it's still shaking the sleep off of itself. The sunlight making diamonds out of the dewdrops on spiderwebs. The birds reminding each other of the business of the day. The void which is the pre-rush-hour traffic lull. The cool, fresh air. It's like the deep breath before the day hits.

This morning the air was so cold that I could see my breath, which is exciting news because fall is my favorite season. I think I like it best because of the way it smells. Fall starts out smelling like hot sun beating down on the ripening wheat. Next it smells like greasy fair-food. Then it slides into re-paved parking lots and new crayons and sneakers. And the finale: crunchy leaves and bonfires.

How can you not love a season that smells like that?!

The Bathroom Door

Today at work I was walking down the hallway, past the rows of beige steel lockers, when I rounded the corner to see a tiny little person trying to push the girls' room door open. Let me emphasize 'tiny'. Like, maybe 40 pounds, soaking wet. Definitely a kindergartner. She was braced against the door like the human hypotenuse of a right triangle, pushing with all her little might in hopes of gaining entrance into that sacred sanctuary. By this time I had walked up to where she was. I was just about to ask if I could help when she suddenly stopped struggling with the door. She took a step back, looked up at the barrier in her path, and recalculated. I could almost see a little white thought bubble above her cute little head.

Noticing the metal piece on the left side of the door which indicated that the door opened in that direction, the little girl tried again, this time focusing her strength on the left side, rather than the right. As she pushed, the door slowly opened, allowing, at last, our hardy adventurer to pass through.

As I continued on my way I couldn't help but share in the girl's satisfaction. I pondered the deep things of life reflected in this common occurrence.

Sometimes even the simple things in life can seem beyond us. We're not big or strong enough to do some stuff alone. In those times we're blessed to have others around to help.

But there are challenges that we can conquer alone, if we take a minute to back up, think it through, and try again; attack the problem from a new direction. The door may still open slowly, but the point is, it will open. And we will be better off for having opened it ourselves.

Ah, the family photo session...

While I was home last weekend I forced my family to pose for a photo session. I have discovered the keys to a smooth home photo shoot:

1. do it AFTER you eat
2. pose the group in the direction of the tv, and leave the tv on, so that during the 15 minutes of obligatory aiming, arranging people, and figuring out how to use the timer (which hasn't been used since the last family photo session), everyone else can watch tv.

Why didn't we try that sooner? Anyway, I wanted to share a couple of the pictures in hopes that they will bring you a bit of the joy that they bring to me. Thanks to Tom (my brother-in-law) for taking and forwarding the pictures to me! Please note how adorable my adorable nieces are.

What's rounds on the ends and "hi" in the middle? Ohio!!

It's interesting to me that I seem to be incapable of titling an entry before I write it. I go into the "create a new post" part of the site and at the top is the title box, followed by the text box. So I automatically want to write the title first, which never works. By the time I finish writing and proof-reading (yes, contrary to popular belief, I do actually proof my posts...sometimes) the title is all wrong and I have to re-write it. So here I am, writing post number...10?...and I have finally caught on- write the title last. Check.

Custodial matter: I find it QUITE amusing that my all-time highest comment-gathering post was the one about prunes giving me diarrhea! HIL-arious! I HATE spelling diarrhea. What kind of a spelling is that, anyway? Are you TRYING to make us spell it wrong? Maybe it's French...French spelling is almost as ridiculous as English...

I'm home!! Oh, God bless the great state of O-hi-o! I write it that way because I think the phrase like that: "the great state of O-hi-o!" Today as I drove out of the bustling, asphalted chaos of the suburbs and into the lush, green farmland of Indiana, my little heart sighed. A sigh of joy. Yay for fields of corn! Yay for rolling farmland and cruise control because the traffic is light! Yay for guys with farmer tans and seed-corn baseball caps in old, well-loved, rusty pick-ups! Yay for flipping through the radio stations and every-other one being country music! I mean seriously; what's not to love about the country?

Yesterday I was sorting through the teachers' manuals at my job, and I happened to be working with the "exceptional student reports". Now, I would have thought that an exceptional student was one that excelled in academics. Au contraire, mon amie. At this particular school an exception student has ADHD or a speech impediment or had trouble focusing on the task at hand in 3rd grade. Anyway, lots of the students at the school seem to have been deemed 'exceptional' due to their asthma. Did you know that studies show that kids to grow up on farms and/or with pets have a lower incidence of asthma? It's amazing to me that the whole world hasn't moved to the country by now. These poor suburban kids! Their hyper-clean environments are crippling their own bodies! America, enough with the sanitization! Enough with the lysoling-to-death of our world! Dirt isn't all bad! Tolerance is key! (note: the spell-check doesn't recognise "sanitization" or "lysoling" as words. Can you believe it? Speaking of tolerance...)

Huh. Well, that was odd and passionate. Oddly passionate. As I was saying...I'm home for the weekend, and quite excited about my line-up of visitations! Tomorrow my dad's joining me for a road trip that will take me to visit all three of my grandparents and an aunt & uncle. Then in the afternoon I hope to visit some friends of the family, and my evening shall be a big, soft ball of Lima-friend game night fluff. Then Sunday it's off to Union Chapel, my favorite church family of all time, then a nice day-of-rest nap before I head to my brother's place (aka the house where I grew up) for a family dinner and swim-party.

Before I go I want to leave you with this thought. On Park Street in Glen Ellyn, between Roosevelt and Hill, there is a road that "t"s into Park that involves a stop sign for north-bound traffic on Park, but not for southbound. It's a two-way stop for three routes of traffic. There is no curve, or hill, or anything that inhibits visibility from either direction. There is very little traffic in general. Without a doubt, this stop sign is the most oddly-placed stop sign I've ever seen. Why is it there? Superfluous, I would call it. Definitively unnecessary. And confusing. Today I was headed south on Park, whipped through the intersection and as I passed a car that was stopped at the sign going the other way I had a moment of panic- DID I JUST RUN A STOP SIGN!?!? Nope. Just the weirdo "two-way stop".

Beware The Power of Prunes

Today I came home from work and sat down to check my email. As I was waiting for the page to load I happened to glance to my left, where we have a small shelving unit to store food. I was pretty hungry, and I saw a container of prunes on the shelf. Now I like prunes, but...you know...it's not exactly something I normally crave. But at just that moment the prunes sounded fantastic, so I grabbed the can and started munching as I looked at my email (note: Sarah Jones, I think they're your prunes, but I'll replace the can before you get back).

It's actually quite dangerous to eat while you're distracted by some other occupation. You run a substantial risk of eating more than you had intended. So before I knew it, my email was all read and the can of prunes was about half gone. I checked the nutritional value, just for kicks, and saw that I had eaten about four servings of prunes. Oh well, I thought. Prunes are good for you.

Fast-forward about two hours.

I'm in the basement watching a movie with Laura, one of my roommates. I've been noticing that my stomach has been growling a lot. Odd. Then suddenly I HAVE to go the bathroom. As in, NOW. I'm thinking, hmm, that's odd. I didn't eat anything that was old or anythi- ah-HA! The prunes!

About this time I have a very vivid memory from my childhood. It's of my father, happily munching away on a bowl of cooked prunes. "They'll keep 'ya regular!", he says with great enthusiasm.

Mm-hmmm. Regular indeed. Beware the power of prunes...

The Glory of a Good Storm

It's Monday night. I should be writing an 8-10 page reflection paper on my practicum experience. Or shopping for new car insurance. Or possibly cleaning my room. But instead here I sit, typing a blog which may or may not be read by...well, anyone. Except Brooke. Brooke will definitely read it. She's stuck in Mozambique and is desperate for comm of any sort, so she's almost certainly my most faithful reader. Perhaps there are more of you. It's hard to know, though, in this oh-so-anonymous virtual world of blogging.

My aforementioned friend would like it to be known that it was she who introduced me to Totino's Party Pizzas (see my profile on the right side of the blog). This was indeed a significant turning point in my life. I will forever be indebted to Brooke for this good deed.

In other news I think I might be allergic to the chair I have to sit in on Mondays at my summer job. I only sit in that chair on Mondays because that's the day I'm filling in for the secretary. And I seem to get headaches a lot on Mondays. Weird, huh?

It's been swelteringly humid in the greater Chicago area lately, and today we've had scattered thunderstorms. Now I will be the first to admit that I'm pretty hard on the suburbs, and here's an excellent example of why that is: the suburbs don't even know how to do a good storm! When you live in the sticks, you see a storm coming from miles away. You alert the family, close all the western- and southern-facing windows, perhaps stop in the kitchen for a snack, and still have plenty of time to head out to the porch to watch the show. The cool breeze brushes your hair back, cooling your summer-heated body as you point at the dark, ominous thunderhead approaching.

In the country, a storm is like a story- it has a beginning, and middle, and an end. You watch it approach with anticipation, like the slow and almost giddy trip to the top of a roller coaster's first drop. You relish the glory of it as it rushes past you, the lightning flashing close enough to give you goosebumps; the thunder making you jump in spite of yourself. You stay just close enough to the edge of the awning to get sprinkled on without getting soaked. Then you turn to watch it pass by, on its way to refresh the next county with its energy and its rain.

In the suburbs you get none of this. You get an advance thunderclap or two, and then you get the rain. If it's a really good storm, maybe there's some lightning. But the drama of the whole thing is missing. It's just...limp. Anticlimactic. Disappointing.

Hmm, well that was just depressing. Sorry, kids. I hope that you get to enjoy a robust, climactic storm sometime soon- a storm the way God intended storms to be- excitement and all.

My Best Friend's Wedding...and other things worthy of note

I really scheduled my month well. One of my two closest friends, Joy, got married on Friday, August 3rd, just four days after I returned from Spain. The reason this was a good plan (besides the fact that she is goofy-in-love with her groom and they have to go back to China soon so Friday was an ideal time for them to get married) is that it provided something for me to look forward to as I got ready to leave Spain.

Ah, looking forward. 'Tis something I do very well; too well, sometimes. In fact, Joy (who was my college roommate) was the first to introduce me to the concept that perhaps I look forward too much in my life. I'm always thinking ahead to the next fun thing, the next exciting trip or long weekend or holiday break. I suppose that's human nature to a certain extent. But on the other hand, if you're always looking ahead, you're always missing the journey, and the journey should not be missed.

Anyway, the wedding was great. Joy looked STINKING BEAUTIFUL and Richard was as dashing as one can be while looking all googly-eyed and smitten. Maybe that makes one more dashing, even...

And speaking of more dashing, what IS that fascinating transformation that takes place when a guy puts on a tuxedo? It's very close to magic. I don't care where a guy ranks on the Easy-On-The-Eyes-O-Meter, in a tux his number doubles. How does that work? Whatever it is, it seems to work for uniforms, too. And while we're on the subject, allow me to say that the whole black jacket/blue slacks thing that the Marines have going on is a puzzle to me. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT YOU DON'T WEAR BLACK AND NAVY BLUE TOGETHER! (even me, and I know a grand total of about 6 fashion rules) Clearly the designer was a single man, because if he had been married, his wife would have fixed that fashion faux pas long before it hit the ground. Fortunately for the Marines, their cool swords, white gloves, and reputation help them recover from such a uniform misfortune.

But I digress. I was going to tell you all that on my way home from Spain I had a 12 hour layover in London. I had reserved a hostel room for the night but on arriving in the city I realized that it was far, far away from the airport and that the whole system was a little messy and obtuse. I hate that. Anyway, I bought a ticket for the train which would apparently take me to the subway which was supposed to take me to the hostel, and I stopped a girl about my age who looked local to me to ask about platform info. This girl turned out to be my own personal South African angel. Jess, who was born and had lived in S.A. until she moved to London all by herself at 21, happened to be on my train (and when I say happened to be, I mean, thanks God for your help) and so we ended up riding the whole trip together. In that time she gave me directions for getting to the other airport (I flew into Gatwick and out of Heathrow) and we each talked about ourselves a bit. It was a really fun blessing.

And then I got to the hostel. Due to funding considerations I had reserved the cheapest room I could find- a bed in a 20-bed dorm room. Yes, that's right. 20. It was not my best night of sleep ever, particularly because I was a little paranoid about oversleeping and missing my flight so I kept waking up. But the trip to the airport on the tube was fun. The last line I rode is actually mostly above ground, so I could watch the scenery and think about scenes from Mary Poppins and Peter Pan. :) Even though I got to see almost nothing of the city, it really made me want to go back to the UK to visit. Not just London, but the smaller places, too, and also Scotland, Ireland, and Wales.

But anyway, back to the wedding. I was so blessed to have three friends from Grace come to stay with me this weekend for the wedding. Julie, Jessica and Liz (and Liz's adorable 6 week old baby, Margot) kept me laughing for three days. It was SO GREAT to visit with them.

I've recently realized that I'm moving into the baby stage in life. Back in mid-college I hit the marriage stage, and it took a while to adjust to all the weddings I found myself attending. But now it seems my group has started to transition out of the marriage stage and begun to procreate. It's all a little odd for me. I like babies (especially other peoples') but they do have a certain knack for changing everything. Lucky for them, they're so darn cute and squishy.

Alive and Well in Spain

Once upon a time, Leslie started a blog and was very faithful in writing in it until she disappeared from the face of the virtual blog world for two weeks. Then she resurfaced briefly to update her blog readers as to her well-being.

This is that update.

So I am, in fact, alive and well in my host-home in Spain! Today I completed the last of my teaching practicum hours and observations, which makes me unimaginably happy. I came to Spain with some serious concerns about teaching kids, and it seems that I was right- elementary isn´t my strong suit! The older the kids were, the better I did. I definitely had an easier time with my angelic Chinese high schools. Sadly, the cultures that tend to result in internally motivated, infinitely respectful students of this type are pretty much confined to the Far East, and far eastern cultures are much harder for me to deal with. So perhaps I´ll begin looking into the adult teaching possibilities that I can find.

That being said, the kids are a trip! All these little Spanish bodies, with hyper-energy (non-transferable to adults, as it turns out) and the standard foreign language phraseology:
Leslie: Hello, Carlos, how are you this morning?¨
Carlos: Finethankyouandyou?
Hilarious! Some of them can´t even say that much, but they´re having fun anyway, I think. The leaders here are really great. And I was blessed indeed to have a really good supervising teacher who has helped me IMMENSELY in my teaching. Here´s my biggest lesson learned during camp: learn to distinguish directed, noisy work from undirected, unfocused chaos. It seems they are not one and the same, after all.

In other news, God has blessed us with unseasonably cool weather for the first week and a half of camp. Apparently it should be in the high 90´s but we´ve been working with temps in the low 80´s and often a nice breeze. I hear-tell that´s about to change, but even so, the weather break has been FAN-TAST-IC!!

Funny travelling story #739: Leslie and Mel Come Home from Madrid.
It´s Friday night, and Mel (Melissa, a friend and classmate at Wheaton who´s doing the same thing here as I am), Misty (also a TESOL teacher, met her at camp) decide to go into the city to see the Thysson, a famous art museum. We saw a bunch of Van Gogh´s last works (so did we all know that he painted over 70 paintings and a bunch of sketches during the 70 day before he shot himself?? Artists…interesting people.) and then got some tapas (Spain is famous for these appetiser-sized dishes that are made into a meal). After supper we were walking past a little ally when my super-sensitive chocolate radar picked up a sign that read, ¨Chocolateria¨, and I dragged the girls back to see. We decided to get chocolate con churros, which is hot chocolate that is so rich and thick that it´s about halfway to the consistancey of pudding. Churros are, well, deep-fried sticks of…a sweetbread, sortof. Hmm. I think the closest thing in the states is CinnaStix at Taco Bell, except churros are to Cinnastix as those little chocolate coins you get at Easter are to the best European chocolate you´ve ever eaten. Aka, no comparison.

But I digress. After we had gorged ourselves on c&c, we headed back to the bus station to catch a ride home. Misty lives in Tres Cantos (a bigger suburb), so she took off on a bus before us. Mel and I waited for the single bus that went to Soto (a much smaller suburb which is just houses), where we both live. That bus came once an hour by that time of the night (we got the 1am bus…having not exactly met our goal of catching an 11 or 11:30 bus). Eventually it came and Mel (whose Spanish is considerably better than mine) asked the driver to tell us when to get off for Soto. He agreed. After riding for about 20 minutes and almost getting hurled on by the really drunk guy sitting behind us (pause to roll eyes at how annoying drunk people can be), the driver yells back to us, ¨The next stop is Soto¨. So off we get, and as the bus pulls away, Mel and I are realizing that this is NOT Soto, it´s Tres Cantos. We look around. It´s about 1:30am on a Friday night. We see a couple of guys coming out of a bar. We see buildings and trees and houses. No street signs, no one to ask for directions, and no idea how to get to Soto. The next bus comes in an hour.

So after a few minutes of steaming about the stupid bus driver and the stupid lack of street signs, we started walking. We walked, and we walked, and we walked. We walked through the ¨Zona Industrial¨, which means exactly what you think- factories. All deserted for the night, with chain link fences and huge, empty parking lots. I felt like I was in a scene from a horror movie. We decided to count our blessings and sing praise songs while we walked to get our minds off the annoying busdriver and the fact that any self-respecting mother would be fainting to see the two of us walking through the industrial zone at 2am. In fact, I hope Mel´s mom isn´t reading this…

Eventually, about an hour later, we reach our neighbourhood. Exhausted after a long week of camp and the long, unexpected trek home, we wearily bid each other a good night. As I walked the final block home, I though about how excellent my bed was going to feel. I walked up the front steps, put the key in the door, and…nothing. It wouldn´t turn. I´d been successfully using the key for a week at this point, and had, in fact, used it that morning to get out of the house. I turned and pushed and pulled and did everything I could think of, but no dice. It wasn´t working. It´s nearly 3am now. I literally cringed as I pounded on the door to wake someone to let me in. Dang.

The good news is that the next day as I was talking to my host-father (who had stumbled to the door to let me in), he asked me how I finally got into the house. He was so sleepy that he had forgotten the whole thing!

Speaking of my host family, they´re great. I feel like my butt´s going to grow into this seat, so I¨m going to sign off for now, but I promise to send more pictures and more news about the trip when I can. Hopefully, Monday, when I get home!

A Fine Day at the Beach

Today I took a bus to a coastal town about 1.5 hours from Granada called Aluñecar. The morning went suprisingly smoothly. First, in spite of not setting an alarm clock, I woke up in good time. (So far, the only really great part of traveling alone is that you can plan to do things like, ¨take the first bus available when I get to the station¨ and no one cares.) Anyway, I had planned to get breakfast at a little place down my alley (aka street) but realized upon emerging from my hostel, that the entire street was still sleeping. But you know, when you eat dinner around 9 or 10pm, and THEN start your evening, you really should still be asleep at 8am.

Anyway, the first cafetería that I stopped in had what I wanted, and understood that I wanted it to go, AND it was less than 3 euros, which means I didn´t have to break my only other currency (a 50 euro bill), which would undoubtedly have irritated the owner. Life was good! Then I didn´t have to wait on the bus to the station, and I even got a seat on the 9 o´clock bus, rather than having to wait for the 10 o´clock one. My easy morning continued as I couldn´t find my bus listed on the electronic placard, but asked a really nice lady who helped me out very kindly and without that not-so-subtle undercurrented attitude one often gets as a tourist of ¨Man, it´s hard to believe someone as stupid as you has survived to adulthood. Maybe there´s a flaw in that survival-of-the-fittest thing...¨

So off I went to my bus, only to be stopped in the aisle right by the driver´s seat. The guy ahead of me had been assigned a seat which was already occupied. Both of these guys were older Spanish gentlemen. Before I knew what was happening, the guy already in the seat starts jesticulating wildly and exclaiming all sorts of things I didn´t understand. At first I thought he was angry, but as this whole fiasco excelerated I realized that no one was really upset.

(if you´ve never visited a country that speaks another language, you´ve missed the joy of thinking someone is angry at you and then finding out that nope, people here just sound angry, because you can´t understand and you´re stressed out and scared. Really, they´re not mad, they´re just loud. Or maybe they´re not mad or loud, you´re just paranoid :)

So guy B (in the wrong seat) gets up, still expounding on something...presumably how it doesn´t really matter who´s in which seat anyway) and starts directing his jesticulation and verbal outbursts at guy C, who was apparently in guy B´s seat. So guy C gets up and proceeds to displace guy D, who is really supposed to be where guy E is sitting, etc., etc., etc. I swear, at least 6 people moved before it was all over.

In the meantime, here I am standing at the front of the bus wondering just how long this process could possibly continue and trying not to laugh out loud. I mean, it was quite amusing to watch all these eldery Spanish men and women resolve this issue together. The lady in front of guy B started saying, ´Arriba, arriba!´ (directing the guy to get up and move) and though I was trying hard not to smile, my eyes must have given me away because when she caught my eye she cracked a smile and I couldn´t help it. I started laughing.

Eventually everyone re-sorted themselves. I sat in a seat which was not mine, as mine was already occupied and you can bet your sweet bippy I wasn´t going to say anything. Finally, the bus rolled south.

The information kiosk was closed when I got there (dangit) but there were signs to the beach everywhere, so off I went. Soon after arriving at the beach a few things because very clear to me:

-the beach was not the nice, soft sand I had anticipated. It was a pebble beach, and I hadn´t brought sandals. Dangit.

-going to the beach seems to be a family affair in Spain. Lots of little kids, some of whom seem to have some trouble distinguishing between the sea and the toilet. Dangit.

-sometimes a one-piece bathing suit for a European woman is the bottom half of a bikini. I have experienced this before, but somehow blocked it from my memory and managed to be surprised again today. And while I have your attention, let me just say that I find it particularly ironic that the people who wear less clothing than average seem uncannily to be some of the people who should, perhaps, be wearing more. It´s almost like they got up that morning and looked in the mirror and thought, ¨Yuck. That´s not pretty. Well, misery loves company. Maybe I´ll go topless at the public beach today...¨ Dangit.

-there is apparently an ozone hole above the beach where I laid out today, as my skin -which, for the record, has gotten more sun than normal for this time of the year, so I wasn´t overly concerned about burning- definately got crispy-crittered during my time on the beach. ¨That explains all the beach umbrellas,¨ I thought to myself as I painfully picked my way back through the stones to the road. Dangit.

In spite of these minor setbacks, a good time was had by all in my party (aka, me). On the walk back to the bus station, an old man I passed on the street told me I was pretty, and at the bus station I helped a group of travelers whose Spanish was apparently even worse than mine. Sad for them, but encourging to me that there are mentally healthy people over the age of 4 in the country how are worse at the language than am I.

I have posted a couple pictures on facebook, should you care to see them. I wanted to get a picture of the feuding musical-chair players, but thought I might be pressing my luck, so you won´t see them. Sorry.

Leslie is introduced to La Alhambra

Sometimes you´re awake for two hours at night with jet lag, and then have to get up early. This morning was one of those times, but it was ok because I was getting up early to be a tourist, not to go to work. In general I find that not going to work makes my mornings better.

Being a hardy traveler, as I am, I decided to skip the bus ride to my destination and walk it. The guide noted the trip as a ¨20 minute hike¨. They weren´t kidding about that hike part. For those of you who´ve ´climbed a mountain´ in China, this was very similar. The path was paved with bumpy stones and kept to a steady incline for all twenty minutes. Despite the crisp, cool morning and low humidity, I was ¨glistening¨ right through my clothes by the time I reached the summit.

I should have known better: when one visits a fortress, one should anticipate climbing a mountain.

And a fortress was precisely where I was bound. Today was my La Alhambra visit. LA is an old Moorish fortress and palace that dates back to the 13th century. It was the final stronghold of Muslim rule before the Christians recaptured Europe. In short, it was a really athletic visit (no need for excersize for me today!) with fantastic views of the city and what I can only imagine would have been a really interesting and informative audio tour.

So THAT´s a story there. I had intended to shell out the 3 euros for the audio tour, but at the ticket place they didn´t ask me or have signs. I assumed that I could get one at the palace interance. (sidenote: when traveling abroad, one should never assume anything. Bad idea)

Because so many people visit LA each day, you´re given a ticket with an entry time (in my case, 8;30am) You´re allowed to enter the palaces between your assigned time and the thirty minutes following. After that, the scary guards won´t let you in, and you´ll have to buy another ticket and try again, if there are more tickets to be had. By the time I got to the palace entrance, realized that no one was renting audio guides, found an English speaking guest with a guide and found out that I should have rented it at the ticket place, I didn´t have time to go back and still get into the palace before 9am. Saddness. So I was stuck with my ignorance. That was really disappointing to me, but the trip was still worth the price of admission, even if I didn´t know what I was looking at. :)

In other news, I bought a purse. On the surface that may seem uneventful, but remember Good Reader, I bought it in a foreign country. So here´s what happened...

On day one of the trip I realized that I need a purse so as to look less like a tourist with a backpack, and to be able to keep a better eye on my goodies in a high-pickpocket area. So yesterday morning I looked at a couple of shops. I found some that I liked, and the nice owner informed me that my choice was 8 euros. That´s a little less than $10, which was definately more than the purse was worth. So, dusting off my bargaining skills from another epoc of life, I suggested perhaps he would take 5 euros (in hopes of eventually landing at 6.50). The owner politely replied that that wouldn´t be ok, then he said some stuff really fast in Spanish which I think involved him making a living and I know involved a lot more that I couldn´t understand. There was no mention of a price drop, which made me wonder if I wasn´t supposed to bargain here. Feeling a little bit embarrassed but not totally convinced that he wasn´t just being stingy, I thanked him, smiled and walked on. Slowly, of course, in case he was bluffing and wanted to call me back, having ´seen the error of his ways´. But he didn´t.

I kept going and checked his price with another stand or two (they all sell the same stuff) and sure enough, 8 euros seemed to be the going rate. So after my siesta (have I mentioned how much I respect a culture with a strong siesta-worldview?) I traipsed back down, determined to bite the proverbial bullet and pay the 8 euros.

As I approach the stand I think to myself, is this a new sales guy? That could be good or bad. So I ask him the price and he tells me it´s 12 euros. Funny how the price went up 50% in a couple hours. I checked the bag, but it was not any higher quality than when I had left it. So I said to the guy, I was here earlier today, and the man told me this is 8 euros. No, no, no! No, this bag is 12 euros, very beautiful, blah, blah, blah.

At this point I´ve let go of any remaining hint of shame at attempting to bargain in a possible non-bargaining situation. Fortunately, about this time the original sales guy walks up, backs up my story and tells his ambitious business partner to give it to me for 8. I smile triumphantly (even though I still know I´m overpaying) and walk away with my new purse. I anticipate having to re-stitch something before I make it back to the States.

I´m in Spain! Whee! I arrived at the airport in Madrid about noon on Monday and after waiting 45 minutes for my luggage to reluctantly emmerge from the conveyer belt, was off with Tim, one of the missionaries that is hosting the English camp I´ve come to teach at. Tim graciously took me to get local currency and protein before dropping me at the bus station so I could get BACK on public transportation again, for a 5 hour ride to Granada.

When I originally planned the trip, it seemed like a good idea.

Anyway, if you´ve ever wondered what happened to the world´s supply of olive trees, I found them. They´re in Spain, between Madrid and Granada. No kidding, yáll, I´ve never seen so many...well, anything...in my whole life. Olive trees out the wazoo. And they´re all in nice, neat little lines. I have pictures, but the USB port at this email cafe doesn´t seem to want to acknowledge my disc reader. Maybe the next time I write I´ll be able to add some pictures for your purusal.

So here I am, enjoying day two of five in Granada. So far I´ve done little more than eat and sleep. My first meal was at a little cafe which I found all by myself while I wandered aimlessly up and down the streets last night. I had gespacho, bread, and tortilla (Spanish tortillas are like omlets, not like Mexican tortillas). And a Coke Light. God bless Coke Light! I managed the whole thing in Spanish, though I could tell that I was not impressing the waitress. So my Spanish´s a little rough. It still beats the heck out of my Mandarin. :)

Tomorrow, the Alhambra. If you don´t know what that is, you should look it up. It´s famous, though I´d never heard of it before planning a trip to Granada. Adios, friends!

PS to Helen and Claire- the spell check doesn´t work here, so it´s not my fault if I spelled something wrong.

Poor Commodore Norrington

WARNING: If you've not seen the new Pirates movie and plan to, do not read this post!

Last week I watched the newest Pirates movie and, as expected, enjoyed it quite thoroughly. Today I was pondering the lamentable fate of Commodore James Norrington. In the first movie, James' life is going well- he's being promoted by the Royal British Navy from a captain to a commodore, and Elizabeth (the unreasonably beautiful female lead) finds herself (unwillingly) engaged to him. Now I do have to admit that Jimmy seems a little on the stuffy side, and he's very letter-of-the-law-esque, which can get annoying. But by all accounts, Norrington seems to be a good man.

By the end of the first movie James finds himself un-engaged in a pretty humiliating display of passion between Elizabeth and Will (also unreasonably hot, though a little bit scrawny by my calculations; if hard-pressed I think I could probably bench-press Orlando Bloom), Elizabeth's childhood sweetheart. Then in the second movie things continue to digress for the good commodore. As a result of Norrington's leniency in letting Captain Jack Sparrow escape, Norrington has been stripped of his naval title and, therefore, his career. Later we find him filthy, drunken, and sleeping in a pigpen. In a bid to win back the favor of the Navy, he double-crosses Captain Jack, Elizabeth, and her new fiance, Will.

In the third movie Elizabeth and James have a brief confrontation wherein she accuses him of choosing the wrong side and he repents by helping her and her companions escape certain doom. This choice earns him a passionate embrace from Elizabeth, and about ten seconds later, poor James is killed.

WHAT?! I mean, really. This poor guy! I'll admit, he made a couple wrong choices, and I preferred the less-stuffy version of the man to the original put-together James, but was it really necessary to kill him off? Granted, he isn't as easy on the eyes as, say, Will. But he was a nice enough guy. Couldn't Disney at least let him live happily ever after with some nice girl on the island? It's just like Disney. The beautiful people always win.

The Predictable First Blog Post

So I have been inspired (thank you, wonderful Afrika-traipsing friend, Brooke!). Inspired to keep a blog. The concept is right on the edge of the realm of 'the technology which I embrace', but like all things which were once on that same edge- email, laptops, digital cameras, cell phones- I imagine that soon blogging will take its place closer to the security of the center of the realm.

Since this is the beginning, here's a brief rundown of my first 27 years. I was born in Lima (yes, like the bean), Ohio and grew up on a small farm in Allen County. [side note: When I moved to college I had a very long, very confusing conversation with my new roommate, Joy, regarding where exactly I lived. I guess if you don't live within city limits somewhere you have to resort to claiming a county, or maybe a township. Auglaize.]

Anyway, after graduating from Allen East High School (Go Mustangs!) I packed an impressive amount of belongings for one who'd only had 18 years for the collecting, and headed west to Grace College, Winona Lake, IN. Four years later I came home with a BA in International Languages, a load of experience which far outweighed the knowledge I'd gained in the classroom, and some priority-focusing student loans. I spent three years working at Rhodes State College and then a year teaching EFL (English as a Foreign Language) in China. I currently find myself in the middle of suburbia in Wheaton, IL, working two jobs and finishing a master's in Intercultural Studies and TESOL (teaching English to speakers of other languages). I graduate in December, and that which lies beyond the confines of the 2007 calendar year remains a mystery to me.

July 3rd. Tomorrow my grandmother, Irma Juanita Britton Foster, turns 89 years old. A whole passel of my aunts, uncles, and cousins will gather at Friendship Village to wish her a happy birthday. Grandpa will sit quietly in his chair, nonchalantly watching CNN and Grandma will giggle and shake her head and say, "I can't believe I've lived 89 years! Just you wait until you're 89 and see if you can remember all these kids' names!"

My grandma is a good woman. Once she told me that in all twelve years of school she never missed a day, not even when her family moved in the middle of the school year. Once she told me that sometimes for lunch her mom would pack her a sandwich made with lard and bread and that she remembered tying pill bugs to empty match boxes and racing them.

Grandma was born in 1918. World War I. Lived through the depression, World War II, and the biggest explosion of technology of all time. Imagine the wisdom of all that experience! When I was a kid visiting Grandma and Grandpa at their old farmhouse, Grandma would set up us kids- my sister Brittony, brother Josh, and our youngest cousin, Tami- at a big blackboard in the basement and give us numbers to race at adding. Math's never been my strong suit, but I loved to race for the answer.

I wish I could be there to help her celebrate, but I have to work this week. It seems that life doesn't stop to recognize the elderly. Indicative of our culture, I guess. So instead I'll talk to Grandma on my dad's cell phone, all the way from Chicago. It won't be the same, but I guess it'll have to do.

Then I'll pack up my oriental cole slaw and my brownies and head over to the DuPage Country Fairgrounds to cook out with some friends and watch the fireworks. As American as apple pie. What a charmed life I blessed and thankful to lead.

PS I'm a terrible speller, but I know "Afrika" is supposed to take a 'c', not a 'k'. I think it seems more appropriate with a 'k', though, so I do it anyway. I like to live on the edge like that.