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!
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)