Sabaka´s Sabbatical

Ole!

2010-07-30T00:06:00.000-07:00

Ferdinand ran to the middle of the ring and everyone shouted and clapped because they thought he was going to fight fiercely and butt and snort and stick his horns around. But not Ferdinand. When he got to the middle of the ring he saw the flowers in all the lovely ladies' hair and he just sat down quietly and smelled. He wouldn't fight and be fierce no matter what they did. He just sat and smelled. And the Banderilleros were mad and the Picadores were madder and the Matador was so mad he cried because he couldn't show off with his cape and sword. So they had to take Ferdinand home. And for all I know he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly. He is very happy.
-Munro Leaf

I arrived in Espana just in time to witness quite a historic and controversial event. Yesterday, the parliament of Cataluna (the region of which Barcelona is a part)voted to outlaw bullfighting, one of the most Spanish of Spanish traditions. While the animal rights movement certainly had something to do with it, it is widely believed that Cataluna used this issue to further distance themselves form the rest of Spain. (They already have their own language, Catalan)
It is interesting to watch the Spaniards debate over preserving a longstanding cultural tradition, even if that tradition appears violent and cruel to the majority of those who live within that culture.
I attended a bullfight ten years ago when I lived in Madrid. It was gory and unpleasant, but it was also fascinating to observe the spectators and their passion for what they consider not to be sport, but art. I can see both sides of the argument, but the Taurus in me will always have me rooting for the bull.
Stay tuned: Blah, blah, blah

Step By Step

2010-07-27T23:58:00.000-07:00

I've been spending some time hiking in the mountains recently. While the scenery has been spectacular, sometimes the terrain has been less than optimal. What passes for a marked trail here is quite different than those that I remember hiking with the Horvaths in the Rockies. At certain points, the "trails" have consisted of piles of rocks on the exposed sides of cliffs. Each step requires intense concentration, and deciding upon which rock to tread takes serious deliberation. One stray thought, I learned, about, say, the pirohy I'll be eating for dinner at the end of the hike, or my nervousness about returning to the real world in a couple of weeks, could lead to a nice stream of blood running down my leg, or worse.
While hiking, I am learning to be in the moment, to not think or worry so much about food, or more serious matters. Hopefully, this learning can translate into other parts of my life, when I'm not wearing hiking boots. To be fully present in my work, in my play, and in my relationships seems like a good goal.
But I can't think about that now. I need to keep my eyes and mind on the trail.
Stay tuned: Road trip!

Tick, Tock or Ignorance is Bliss

2010-07-19T12:43:00.000-07:00

Aside from the Charles Bridge, the most famous Prague tourist attraction is probably the Astronomical Clock. Every hour, on the hour, from 9 am to 9 pm, hordes gather to watch the clock do it thing, which involves skeletons ringing bells, apostles parading, and a golden cock crowing. The clock was was so valued, in fact, that the Prague officials had its designer's eyes gauged out so that he would be unable to recreate it elsewhere.
Despite the fact that the entire spectacle only lasts a total of around 30 seconds, people have no qualms about waiting for the show for long periods of time on the uneven cobblestoned street. As I mentioned earlier, the clock only struts its stuff until 9 pm. Unfortunately, not all tourists are of the guidebook-toting variety, and they show up at 10, 11, and midnight to await the clock's magic. More than once, we witnessed the crowd, eyes wide with anticipation, watch as the clock did absolutely nothing but chime the hour. The funny thing was, though, that this did not phase them. They clapped and hooted and hollered after that bell chimed 10 or 11 or 12 times. It appears that if you don't know that you are missing skeletons and apostles and golden cocks, you are perfectly content with what you are given.

Stay tuned: How do you solve a problem like Maria?

Communicative Approach or Flap Those Arms

2010-07-09T12:27:00.000-07:00

The teaching of foreign languages has changed in the 20 years since I first opened a Spanish textbook. While I was taught to conjugate and memorize and conjugate some more, the new communicative approach (as I've been told by my Spanish teacher friends) calls for much less bookwork and much more speaking in real-life situations. Johnny and Katie came to visit this week, and I couldn't help but feel that I was taking my Slvoak final exam, communicateive approach style. In my sheltered Bratislava linguistic life, I only ever really speak Slovak to my extremely patient teachers and fiends. But, during JJ and Katie's visit, we ventured out to smaller towns further east, where English is much less common. My Slovak was put to the test, and I'm happy to say, I think I passed.
Purchasing train tickets for a different day from a different station? Got 'em.
Inquiring if the ice cream contained egg? (A friend had an allergy) Successful. (No egg)
Chatting with a sweet man from Vazec about spelunking? Did it. (Even if I had to flap my arms becasue I didn't know the word for bat)

Let's just hope I'm not forgetting my Spanish conjugations.

Stay tuned: Laser shows

Documented, Finally or Persistence Pays Off

2010-06-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

After a total of twelve visits to the Foreigners' Police, five drafts of a letter from the language school secretary, several hundred Euro, two sets of fingerprints sent to the FBI, one birth certificate translated to Slovak, and 50 ccs of blood drawn and tested, I now, exactly 172 days after arriving in Slovakia, and 55 days before departing from it, am a legal temporary resident!

Stay tuned: Executioner's Daughter

Football Frenzy

2010-06-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

Slovakia makes it to the knockout stage...

and is immediately knocked out.

Play That Funky Music, White Boy

2010-06-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

Just in case you thought that Slovaks couldn´t rap...

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire or Unoriginal Sin

2010-06-24T10:22:00.000-07:00

On a 60 kilometer bike ride (my backside has yet to forgive me for that)the other day, my friend, who, judging from the number of times he stopped to point out plants and animals, should work as a naturalist and not a computer programmer, introduced me to the moruša tree. As we stopped to sample its berries, I realized that I was no stranger to the moruša. In fact, surprisingly enough, this ordinary tree played a major role in my moral development.
As a child, I spent most summer evenings running around the neighborhood with the kids who lived nearby. For a while, my best friend NIkki and I fell in with the wrong crowd. A girl who lived a block or so away, whose name for the life of me I can´t remember at this moment, led us into a life of crime. Next to this girl-with-a-forgotten-name´s house lived a crabby old lady who, as chance would have it, had a moruša (otherwise known as mulberry) tree in her backyard. Giving in to peer pressure (and because we liked the taste of the berries), Nikki and I were often convinced to sneak through the fence and help ourselves to the tree´s bounty. All went well until the day that aforementioned crabby old lady poked her head out of her screen door and in no uncertain terms yelled that the next time she found us in her yard eating her berries, our parents would hear about it. She lived up to her word, and soon, my parents sat me down and explained that no matter how tempting those berries were and no matter how strong the peer pressure was, the crabby lady´s tree bore forbidden fruit.
I heard, but did not listen to, my parents´ lecture. The next night, it was back to the tree. The only problem was, that night happened to be bath night, and I was no smooth criminal. As my mom helped me to get ready for my bath, she couldn´t help but notice that the soles of my feet were stained deep purple, the telling purple of a mulberry.
It was then that I told the first lie of my life, at least the first that I can remember. When she asked if I had been in crabby´s yard again, I looked straight in her eyes and told her no. She didn´t say a word, but I knew she knew.
I had almost forgotten about this episode until it all came rushing back as I bit into the mulberry the other night. While the memory may have escaped me, what hasn´t gone away is my complete inability to lie. The untrue words may come out of my mouth, but the color that my face turns when attempting to lie, strangely similar to that of a mulberry stain, inevitably gives me away.

Stay tuned: Môj brat

Worth the Risk

2010-06-18T11:01:00.000-07:00

The other day while hiking in the forest outside of Bratislava, I happened upon a high-ropes course amongst the treetops. For those unfamiliar, a ropes course is a type of obstacle couse that involves climbing, crawling, rapelling, and balancing while perched high above the earth. While I decided to keep my feet placed firmly on the ground, I couldn't help but stay and watch the more adventurous souls make their way through the course. Some of the helmeted participants confidently scrambled across the high wires, but most of them approached their task with a bit more trepidation, if not sheer terror. As I watched these people come face to face with their fear, I couldn't help but think about times my life when I've found myself in similar situations, trying not to listen to the little voice telling me not to jump off that cliff into the river or slide down into that waterfall or leave my routine life for the unknown.
I recently promised a friend that, no matter what, we would continue to have amazing adventures. Watching people conquer their fear reminded me that sometimes you have to do that which scares you in order to feel the most alive.

Stay tuned: Bicycle Blues

Neither Lost Nor Thirsty

2010-06-15T10:56:00.000-07:00

How could anyone say anything bad about a country that features mugs of beer on its hiking maps?

Dirty Politics

2010-06-12T10:43:00.000-07:00

Today is election day in Slovakia, and a few of the campaign billboards have caught the attention of this amateur cultural anthropologist. During the five months I've spent in Slovakia, it has become clear to me that there is no love lost between the Slovaks and the Hungarians. Most of the bad blood seems to stem from the historical division and redivision of land, leaving many ethnic Hungarians within Slovak geographic boundaries. Over the years, this has led to many a conflict over language, citizenship, and national identity. One partiuclar political party, Slovenska Narodna Strana, seems to be preying upon the resentment against the Hungarians in order to win votes. In this ad, a man in traditional Hungarian dress is depicted in varying stages of threat, from benign villager in folkloric costume to a militant bandit.

Many Slovaks I've spoken with believe these scare tactics will work and that capitalizing on the Slovak antagonism toward Hungary will bring in the votes.
I hope the Republicans at home don't get any ideas. I can see the sombrero and serape billboards now.

Come Again Some Other Day. Little Karen Wants to Play

2010-06-07T10:32:00.000-07:00

It's been raining now for a solid two weeks, and my weather complaints have again uncovered some interesting cultural tidbits. Tomorrow, I'm told, is St. Medard's Day. As the story goes, young Medard once gave away one of his family's finest horses to a poor boy whose horse had run away. Immediately after, rain began to pour from the heavens. Only Medard remained dry because an eagle came to hover right above his head. Since then, it is believed that if rain falls on June 8th, the next 40 days will be wet ones. I soon may be in the market for an eagle.

Stay tuned: Bad Medicine

Don't Worry, It's Only Paprika Sauce

2010-06-06T07:57:00.000-07:00

Revlon, move over. There's a new skin-care regimen in town. This weekend, I visited the ruins of Cachtice Castle, where, as legend goes, the Hungarian countess Elizabeth Bathory murdered hundreds of virgins in order to bathe in thier blood. It seems she thought that virgin blood kept her skin looking young and supple. The authorities were not amused and kept her under house arrest until her untimely death. It seems that, without the virgin blood, she wasn't long for this world.

Sold

2010-06-02T07:38:00.000-07:00

There is a series of advertisements that has recently caught my eye. While at home, it seems that advertisers try to make each and every product, from cigarettes to laundry detergent seem sexy, the advertising team for Stein beer seems to have taken the more honest apporach. In each of their ads is featured a sweaty, pudgy, uniformed Slovak guy ready for the work day to end and the drinking to begin. The slogan? Every day ends well.

What would other ads look like if the advertisers were more honest about their clientele? Instead of the hard-core athlete running up the mountain trail that Nike likes to depict in its ads, it might show the well-intentioned but ultimately lazy "runner" who every year means to sign up for that half-marathon. Instead of the calm, well-dressed stay-at-home mom cheerfully using paper towels to clean up a toddler's spilled juice, Brawny might feature in its ads a harried working mom teaching her kid to clean up his own sticky mess. And if we're being honest, who should star in the Bally Fitness Center ads? Not shapely 20 year olds in Spandex, but panting red-faced 30-somethings in too-big T-shirts left over from their college days as Alpha Gams.
I applaud Stein for its honest approach. I'd even be convinced to throw one back, if I weren't so busy trying to look like that girl from the Bally's ad.

Stay tuned: Who needs sleep?

Holding On

2010-05-29T07:17:00.000-07:00

I recently visited Slovensky Raj (Slovak Paradise) National Park. The main draw of the park are its hikes through green, waterfall-filled gorges. In order to successfully climb up these gorges, the average human needs a little help scaling the slippery rocks and making a vertical ascent. For this reason, the Slovak National Park Service built a series of "technical aids," (ladders, steps, and chains), that, as long as you don't fear heights, lead to a smooth, easy hike up the gorge.

While clinging to the side of one of the ladders, I got to thinking that I like this idea of "technical aids." How great would it be if, when the going started to get tough and when everything began to look steep and insurmountable, a technical aid would be there to grab on to?
But then I realized that you, my friends, are my technical aids. Only you're better than ladders and chains because, besides being sturdy and reliable, you can share inside jokes and eat ice cream and go on ridiculous adventures with me.
Thanks for helping me climb.

Slow Learner

2010-05-23T06:57:00.000-07:00

As a language learner, there's nothing more frustrating than realizing that you still haven't mastered the little things-those simple yet important words that can often mean the difference between eating a delicious meal or eating intestines, disembarking the bus at the town center or the suburb 15 kilometers away, or showing up for a coffee with a new friend on time or an hour late.
The most embarrassing little word that I've yet to master is one that is written on the door to the entrance to my language school-TAM.

As with any non-revolving door in any building in any town in any country in the world,there are only two options for opening it-pushing or pulling. Tam (literally meaning "there" and pronounced "Tom") would be push. So why do I, two times a week, always pull that darn door? I've resorted to some of the oldest language learning tricks in the book to remember that TAM is push-association and visualization, and they seem to be working. I must apologize, Uncle Tom. Now, each and every time I walk through those doors, I imagine pushing you down. Resorting to violence against ones own godfather in order to learn a language? By whatever means necessary.

Stay tuned: The Best of the Wurst

Birthday Besos

2010-05-17T06:39:00.000-07:00

May all the kisses you receive in your 32nd year be at least this passionate...Happy Birthday, Anna B!

What´s Cooler Than Being Cool?

2010-05-14T06:22:00.000-07:00

The weather around here, to put it nicely, has been less than optimal. The five sweaters that I brought along and am completely sick of should have, in my opinion, been retired long before mid-May. But the thermometer doesn´t seem to want to budge much past the 13 degree mark, and my T-shirts lie in wait.
While talking about the weather (one of the few topics about which I´m relatively comfortable discussing in Slovak) the other day, I was informed that we were in the midst of the days of the Ládove Muzi, the Icy Men. In Slovakia, as in many countries, each day of the calendar year is assigned a name (often that of a saint), and May 12, 13, and 14 are assigned to Pankrac, Servac, and Bonifac, respectively. These men apparently are the harbingers of cold weather, and, like a less-rodenty Goundhog Day, it is believed that if temperatures drop below freezing on these days, the threat of a cold spring and summer looms large.
Let´s hope that Pankrac, Servac, and Bonifac choose Bermuda shorts over long johns this year and let me put my tired sweater collection to rest.

Stay tuned:Too Old For This

May Babies

2010-05-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to you, you're still young. Age is just a number. Don't you stop having fun. This is your day.... NKOTB

I may not have a biological sister, but ten days after I arrived in the world arrived someone who would be like a sister to me. Happy birthday Jules!

Never Underestimate the Power of a Post-It

2010-05-09T10:00:00.000-07:00

I'll admit that the fairytale debacle got to me. By the time I went to bed that night, I was convinced that I was not smart enough to learn this language. And, anyway, weren't most Slovaks I met telling me that I shouldn't bother learning it in the first place? That I should learn something useful like Mandarin or Arabic?
But with the morning awoke renewed optimism and the certainty that what I really needed in order to learn wasn't a more disciplined study regimen or more private lessons. No, what I needed were office supplies. So, after a trip to the knock-off Office Depot (grrrrr..)to buy index cards, markers, Post-Its, and scissors (I'm not exactly sure yet whtat the scissors are for), I am once again ready to conquer the Slovak language, at least until the next homework assignment.

Stay tuned: Museum Mayhem

Kde bolo, tam bolo or Beaten Down

2010-05-08T09:40:00.000-07:00

This week, my Slovak teacher decided to shake things up a bit and, instead of the regular fill-in-the-blank with the correct conjugation homework, gave me a reading assignment. Maybe some adult learners would have been offended if assigned the likes of "Obusok, von z vreca," a board-book fairy tale whose original audience was most likely 4 to 7 year olds. But not me. I was happy for a break from the textbook and excited to read a traditional Slovak story. Plus, I'm a kindergarten teacher. I've read a million fairy tales and their variations. (The Three Little Jabalies? Read it. The Runaway Latke? (a Jewish Gingerbread Man) Own it. Seriously)So how much different could this Slovak tale really be?
My first clue to my comprehension difficulties should have been that I had to look up three of the four words in the title (the only one not needing loking up being the one one-letter word) The second clue should have been that one of the three words that I did look up translated to "baton." In the field of reading instruction these days, one of the buzzwords is "schema." If you can get students to activate ther schema, or what they already know about a topic about which they are about to read, it follows that their reading experience will be easier and more enriching. My problem was that my schema around fairytales involved things like castles and princesses and beanstalks and frogs. Batons were filed away somewhere else in my brain, maybe with the police or possibly parades.
Anyway, like the good student I am, I continued reading, and searching the dictionary, and reading, and searching the dictionary, confident that, as an avid reader and the holder of a Masters Degree, I could figure out the plot of this story, baton and all.
I was wrong. With each page, less and less made sense. Why did the cabinet-maker give this young Slovak boy a large magical baton? Why was the innkeeper holding his brothers hostage? And that large goose upon which everyone is feasting at the end of the story; where did that come from?
I closed the story book in defeat, embarrassment, and annoyance. In a country chock full of castles, I had to be given a fairytale about a baton?

Stay tuned: Gypsies

Dunajska Ulica or Open Your Eyes

2010-05-03T06:51:00.000-07:00

Near my apartment in Bratislava is a sculpture of a famous Slovak comedian, Julius Satinsky. He sits on what appears to be a bicycle, has his hand cupped at his ear, and is pointing toward something above. Since this sculpture is on my route to school, to the grocery store, and to the main square (and basically anywhere else worth walking), I have probably passed it at least 250 times since I moved here in January. So imagine my amazement the other day when, having approached the sculpture from a different sidestreet than ususal, I realized that I had, for the first 250 times, not seen half of it. It turns out that what Julius is pointing to is a giant ear, right there on the side of the building. If a giant chrome ear can be that easily overlooked, even when a giant chrome man is pointing directly at it, I wondered about what else I've been missing. How do our routines blind us to the obvious, the absurd, the beautiful? I need to traverse the sidestreets more often.

Rules Are Rules

2010-04-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

Most would consider me an extremely rule-oriented person. I generally wait for the green walking person to appear before crossing the street. I pay my exorbitant Chicago Parking tickets when I forget about street cleaning. I never cheat while playing Barbie Uno. But I've been thinking a lot about rules lately-who gets to make them and who gets to break them.
A few weeks ago, on a 20 hour train ride in the Ukraine during which the train compartment was heated to at least 95 degrees, we tried to beat the heat and forget about the fact that we were on a 20 hour train ride in the Ukraine by imbibing a few cold ones. About one hour into the 20,we were sternly informed by the train police that, as of February, drinking was strictly prohibited on Ukrainian trains. So imagine our confusion when not ten minutes later, the train stewardess herself came along to sell us beer. It turns out that the rules are only enforced if you BYOB; as long as the train workers are making money, we were free to drink up.
On a rickety old bus in Romania, the seventy-something-year-old driver sat puffing away on his cigarette directly under a large no smoking sign.
In Moldova, we visited Transdniester, an entire section of the country that decided to separate, set up its own government, and issue its own currency. Despite the fact that no one besides Abkhazia and South Ossetia (both unrecognized countries themselves) recognize Transdniester's existence as a nation, upon crossing the "border," we became subject to their rules, including, rumor has it, having to wear pants in public.(we had planned on doing so anyway)
The taxi ride across the Ukraine/Slovak border was so quick and hassle-free that I wasn't surprised when the driver, after we had crossed, admitted to us that he pays off the guards to make his trips fast and easy.
Now, I'm not so naive as to not realize that money affords a certain privilege that helps others turn a blind eye to the enforcement of rules. But the question for me remains: If I am conscious of what is going on, should I choose to participate? And how often is that privilege afforded me without me even realizing it, as a traveler, because I look like I have money to spend and at home because I look or speak or dress a certain way?
The disturbing news of Arizona's new immigration law has arrived from across the ocean, and I have tried to keep abreast of the developments there. Given the population with whom I work in Chicago, I am very interested in how these new rules will affect the immigrants across the country. The timing of the Arizona news strangely coincides with my own personal immigration woes here in Slovakia. At this point, I need to decide whether to follow the rules and leave Slovakia or stay illegally. Like most undocumented immigrants in the US, I don't have any intention of committing any crimes, cheating the system, or bothering anyone. In fact, I feel grateful to be here and have the opportunity to learn. I can only imagine the fear that would come with thinking that at any moment someone could disrupt your life with causeless deportation. Or worse yet, the anger and embarrassment that a citizen would feel when accused based on the way she looks or speaks.
I believe in following the rules, but I also believe in questioning them.

Transylvania

2010-04-19T12:21:00.000-07:00

Once bitten, twice shy

The Big 3-0

2010-04-14T05:41:00.000-07:00

With the sound of the Moldovan stamp being inked into my passport, I celebrated 30 today. Unlike my 30th birthday, which I dreaded and denied, I welcomed this occasion, my entrance into the thirtieth country of my lifetime of travels. There exists an organization called The Travelers'Century Club that offers membership to those who have traveled to one hundred or more countries. At this rate, I'll be submitting my application when I'm 103 years old. Romania, number 31, here I come.

Don't Drink the Ukrainian Water!

2010-04-13T13:15:00.000-07:00

Just Another Day at the Beach

2010-04-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

Nothing screams Spring Break like tanks, secret Russian submarine factories, and Lenin!

Fluent

2010-04-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

The one word in Cyrillic I can identify anywhere: Ice Cream

Self Defense or Hippity Hoppity, Easter's on its Way

2010-04-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

I'm fascinated by learning about and participating in cultural traditions from around the world. I make an altar for the Day of the Dead, leave my shoes out for St. Nicholas, and wear a Bulgarian martenista to welcome Spring. So imagine my conundrum when I found out about the Slovak Easter Monday tradition of hitting women family members and friends with a korbac, a switch made of tree branches, and dousing them with water. And to literally add insult to injury, the women are expected to give gifts of money to the boys and men that hit and wet them. In this case, the feminist in me had to win out. I marched to the Easter market and bought my own korbac. Just try it, boys. I dare you.

Stay tuned: 30 Again

Service with a Snarl

2010-04-03T12:24:00.000-07:00

Up until yesterday, the worst service I had ever received in a restaurant was maybe an uninspired teen at IHOP who only refilled my coffee two rather than four times. Ukrainian customer service, however, makes aforementioned teen look like a contender for waitress of the year. If I can manage to see through the smoke to find my way to a table, the real challenge is to get a waiter to pay enough attention to take my order and eventually bring food to the table. Never mind if it's not what was ordered (not that I actually know what I order anyway since the menu is in Cyrillic, the waiters speak in a mix of Ukrainian and Russian, and I communicate in an awkward mix of English, rudimentary Slovak, and sign language).
My only comfort is knowing that this surly service isn't reserved only for tourists-it seems to be the status quo. So, while I wait for my check to come, maybe I'll practice my Ukrainian glare: What do you think?

Sabaka!

2010-03-31T11:43:00.000-07:00

Beware of dog

Cheeseheads Unite

2010-03-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

You never know how and when where you're from will come in handy. Having missed all buses across the Slovak border into the Ukraine, my traveling companion and I decided to walk on across. For some reason, though, despite a clearly marked pedestrian walkway, we were informed that walking across was not an option available to us. Growing a bit concerned , since we were literally in the middle of nowhere and the sun was rapidly setting, I was surprised when the Border Control officer, in perfect English, asked where we were from. In a strange twist of fate, it turned out that said officer had spent an enjoyable couple of years working in nowhere other than the lovely Wisconsin Dells. With the Wisconsin connection now firmly established, it was only a matter of minutes until the officer had spoken with the driver of a car crossing the border and arranged for us to hop in and get a ride all the way to our hotel. Turns out Wisconsin has far flung powers and admirers in the most unexpected of places.

Spring Break! or Changes in Longitude, Changes in Attitude?

2010-03-26T09:16:00.000-07:00

As many of my teacher friends pack their bags in preparation for Spring Break trips to islands surrounded by crystal-blue waters or lush tropical rainforests, I am packing for...wait for it...Ukraine! That's right, it's no bikini and margaritas for me! It will be babushka and borscht! In a preemptive strike against the Slovak foreign police, I am leaving the country before they kick me out, in the hopes that in the meantime, my documents will arrive from the FBI. Then, I can reenter the country, arrange for my visa, and then stay until August. Simple, right?

I Have Asphalt or Erin Go Braugh

2010-03-17T11:39:00.000-07:00

I learned the other day in class that if you´re having bad luck, the way to express it in Slovak is "Mam smolu," which literally translates to "I have asphalt." In the spirit of the lucky Irish today, I decided to conduct some informal research by asking my Slovak friends about the origin of this saying. It was not conclusive, but the best explanation I was given was that if you traipse trough newly-laid asphalt, it is quite smelly and and sticks on your shoes for a long time. If you´re unsuccessful at finding the pot of gold today, I at least hope you watch where you´re walking. Slainte!

Look, Ma, No Guardrails!

2010-03-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

These are the types of photos that my mom likes to see after I´m home, safe and sound.

Moj otec

2010-03-11T11:33:00.000-08:00

On his birthday, here are the top five ways my dad is not like your dad
1. He is a master at window cling decorating
2. He can do a mean Twain impersonation
3. He pronounces his last name differently than everyone else in the family
4. He routinely sported lederhosen during a certain period of his life
5. He has recreated Route 66 in his front yard

Happy birthday!

Survivor

2010-03-09T11:21:00.000-08:00

Embarrassing confession time-For at least half an hour a day while I´ve been here, a half an hour that could have been spent studying, or reading, or sleeping, I have watched MTV reality TV. Shows like Queens of Scream, on which buxom yet incredibly untalented actresses compete for a role in a horror movie, and my new favorite, From Gs to Gents, on which gangsters from the hood strive to clean up their lives and win 100 grand in the process, are making me dumber by the second. But they´ve also inspired me to come up with a reality TV show idea of my own-Drop 15 Americans in the middle of Eastern Europe and watch them struggle for survival. Weekly challenges could include correctly pronouncing words spelled with seven consecutive consonants, rapelling down castle turrets, deciphering a map written in Cyrillic, convincing a taxi driver not to charge you an arm and a leg, and finding a supermarket cashier who has the ability to smile. Automatic victory would be awarded to any contestant able to acquire a temporary resident permit.
The ratings for Survivor, Eastern Europe may not be as high as others, since most contestants would be wearing babushkas instead of halter tops, but I, for one, would surely tune in.

Stay tuned Broken Yogurt

Haters

2010-03-06T11:17:00.000-08:00

Notice who´s listed first. Just a coincidence?

Desat, Dvadsat, Tridsat, Styridsat, Patdesiat, Sestdesiat, Sedemdesiat, Osemdesiat a...

2010-03-04T11:04:00.000-08:00

I was reprimanded the other day in Slovak class by the substitute teacher for not knowing my numbers well enough. But there is one number I´m sure of today. Marybelle turns devatdesiat! Happy 90th! We´re so lucky to have you in our family!

Vineyard Vulgarity

2010-03-03T10:08:00.000-08:00

Everyone has their archrival. The Cubs have the Sox, BMHS has Janesville Craig, the Bloods have the Crips, and Jim has Dwight. As an outisder, if you're smart, you recognize whose territory you're in, and, to win friends and stay safe, you remain loyal to those whose turf you're on. I didn't do such a good job of that this evening.
While sipping my first Slovak wine with a random assortment of very new acquaintances (English students of a less new acquaintance), the topic of Eastern European wine regions and varieties arose. Shockingly, despite my complete ignorance of the topic, I decided to open my big mouth, proclaiming, "Oh, Tokay, isn't that a Hungarian wine?" From the glares I received you would have thought that I had cursed their mothers, grandmothers, and the starting line-up of the national hockey team. Apparently, Tokay is a Slovak wine, and Hungary is Slovakia's Dwight.

Stay tuned: Surfing Safari

Mother Tongue

2010-03-02T10:05:00.000-08:00

I guess Slovak isn't the only difficult language to learn...

High Sticking

2010-02-28T09:44:00.000-08:00

Hockey fever is in the air, and I have apparently caught the bug. The evidence? My alarm went off at 5:00 AM this morning, and, without hitting snooze, I threw on my coat and headed down the street. Following the noise of Jock Rock tunes and cheers, I arrived at the square, where a crowd had assembled to watch, on a big screen, Slovakia play Finland in the Olympic bronze medal match. Despite all of the Slovak enthusiasm, replete with inflatable noisemakers and beer bottle-shaped kazoos, not to mention a 3-1 lead going into the third period, the white, blue, and red were defeated. At least for me, though, one small victory came out of the match. As the crowd chanted "Chceme gol," I knew exactly what they were saying.

Stay tuned: Stork spotting

A Stretch

2010-02-26T10:19:00.001-08:00

Maybe not quite this warm, though...

It's Sprung!

2010-02-25T11:26:00.000-08:00

Today was THAT day. My favorite day of the entire year. The day that winter decides to give in and let spring present a glorious sneak preview. A balmy 14 degrees (C) in Bratislava, and it seemed that everyone, myself included, had the same idea: get outside! We shed our bulky coats, once again becoming human shaped (if you consider the supermodel shape of women here human), dug our sunglasses out of wherever they had been hibernating, and beelined to the nearest park, playground, or public outdoor ping pong table (what a country!)

I found a spot to study next to a thawing lake. Maybe it's time to learn the Slovak word for sun.

It's a Girl! (Thank Goodness)

2010-02-23T21:55:00.000-08:00

Welcome Fiona Alice! We've been waiting for you for a long time!

Birthday Wishes x 2

2010-02-18T07:24:00.000-08:00

Sending much love today to my mom (the boys had better have taken you to a nice dinner!) and to Em (I'm so glad Ruston and Sabaka are so close alphabetically!), birthday twins.

Awaiting the Arrow

2010-02-14T08:15:00.000-08:00

If I had some chalky pastel hearts and a printing press, I would send you all a box full of candies saying MISS YOU, SKYPE ME, YOWZAS! and L'UBIM T'A.
XOXO, K.

Say What?

2010-02-11T10:11:00.000-08:00

Something I hadn't considered before arrival in a country (Bulgaria) that employs (and, in fact, invented) the Cyrillic alphabet: How do I read the street signs?
Oops!, or should I say сбърквам ?

On the Tip of my Tongue

2010-02-09T09:59:00.000-08:00

I find them in the least-expected places. One with the word chladnicka on one side and refrigerator on the other turned up between my sheets several days ago, and another (operavat'/to fix) was found inside the sleeve of my sweatshirt. These little scraps of notebook paper showing up here, there, and everywhere are my flashcards, and memorizing the words on them seems to be my only shot at ever being able to communicate in Slovak past the "coffee, please" stage.
As teachers of language learners, my colleagues and I spend countless hours discussing and strategizing about how to increase our students' vocabularies, both in their native language and their second language. Despite the amount of time I've thought about this topic and the amount of articles I've read about it, it truly hasn't been until now, that I'm starting a language from scratch , that I can understand both the importance of building a deep and wide vocabualry base early on and the the real challenge that language teachers face when it comes to helping students develop this word bank.
My frustration lies in the fact that, despite the compelx grammatical struture of the Slovak language, I kind of get it. I just don't have any words to plug into that structure. So, I know that to say that I have a pencil or a purse or a crazy idea (like moving to Slovakia to study Slovak?), the ending of the words need to change based on their placement in the sentence. I just have no clue how to say pencil, purse, or crazy idea. Thus the scraps of notebook paper, whirling around the room when I forget to pick them up before turning on the hairdryer, a vocabulary cyclone of sorts.

Glass 3/4 Full

2010-02-07T09:31:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite parts about traveling to new cities is checking out their busking (aka street performing) scene. I've witnessed some great street performance in my day, from the stilt dancers in Venice to the bucket drummers at Comiskey to the silver pinted stutue peole in Guanajuato (how can they possibly stand so still?) And of course, there's the South Amercan indigenous band that has graced every corner of God's green earth with a rendition of El Condor Pasa. (Come on, be honest, how many of you have purchased the CD?) But I think that I may have today witnessed my favorite street performance of all time. On a square in Budapest sat a man playing glasses, filled with water to varying levels (thus different tones), marimba style. The nerd teacher in me couldn't help but think about the possibilties for science lessons, while the musician in me was impressed with how, when one of the glasses became out of tune, the busker was able to add the correct amount of water, with a syringe, to tune his instrument right up.

I've often thought about what I would choose to do if the time came when busking was a necessity. The obvious option would be flute playing, but I think I would want to do something more unusual and attention-grabbing. Caricatures comprised only of doodles? Flamenco dancing in scuba flippers? A human juke box? When the time comes, I'll tell you in which underpass I can be found.

Stay tuned: When No Means Yes

A Missed Calling

2010-02-05T10:40:00.000-08:00

Maybe I should have been an electrical engineer. Yup, that's an adaptor connected to a convertor (held together with a hair tie) connected to a charger, all precariously balanced on the side of a foot stool. Brilliant.

Fairy Tale Personal Ad

2010-02-04T09:18:00.000-08:00

Wanted: One prince to complete the picture

P. Phil's Got the Right Idea

2010-02-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

I drowsily awoke this morning and walked to class (it was an hour earlier than usual due to a scheduling conflict). On the way home, I looked for my shadow. But alas, it was cold and gray outside, so I took a cue from the good old hog and climbed back into my bed for a nice, cozy nap, awaiting Spring.

8 Kilometers in their Shoes

2010-01-31T09:07:00.000-08:00

Each Wednesday afternoon since I've lived in Bratislava, I've made the 8 kilometer roundtrip pilgrimage to the Foreigners' Police Office. The office's location in the Communist-style concrete jungle of the Petrzalka neighborhood might lead one to infer that the Foreigners' Police would prefer that no foreigners ever actually find the office. But, with the assistance of a crude map and some helpful Bratislavans, I found the tiny, hidden office four weeks ago and have been a regular visitor ever since.

The reason for my treks to this very off-the-beaten-path locale? I'm working on securing a pesky little document called a Temporary Residence Permit. As a US citizen, I'm only allowed to stay here for up to 90 days permit-free. The trouble is, the documentation required to obtain this permit is excessive.(involving x-rays and FBI clearance)

Additionally, it all needs to be officially translated into Slovak, notarized, and paid for with some sort of magical Slovak currency stamps.
After my first trip to the not-overly-welcoming-to-foreigners Foreigners' Police, I walked away a little discouraged and frustrated. How would I ever get all of this paperwork together? Why couldn't the people at the office be more helpful?
But since then, I've readjusted my attitude. Part of my rationale for coming to a completely foreign country in the first place was to put myself in the shoes of my students and their families, immigrants to the US. While our reasons for "immigrating" are obviously quite different ( mine for curiosity, enrichment, and diversion; theirs mainly out of economic necessity), my experience with trying to secure this permit definitely has given me a small glimpse into what navigating within a giant, bureaucratic system when not able to speak the language and not necessarily feeling overly welcomed is like for immigrants (and visitors) to the US. Additionally, I realize that in my "worst-case scenario," I am forced to leave Slovakia for a few months, travel to some other exotic, fascinating countries, and then reenter, while those desperate to come to the US to make better lives for their families have a legitimate right to be overwhelmed and frustrated by the tedious immigration process.
I have 60 days left to prove that I have no criminal record in Slovakia, find a notary, convince my landlord that I won't lose his property letter (whatever that is), translate my bank statements, resend my fingerprints to the FBI, and take a blood test.
Or maybe I'll start packing for Montenegro.

Stay tuned: Squash

Eating Animals?

2010-01-25T09:01:00.000-08:00

Against my better judgment, I am currently reading Jonathan Safran Foer's new book Eating Animals. For me, it had a couple of strikes against it before I even clicked open the first page on my Kindle. First of all, it's nonfiction, a genre that usually puts me to sleep within minutes. And secondly, and more importantly, within the pages are found strong, convincing arguments for vegetarianism. It's not that I don't respect vegetarians or understand why they would make this choice. It's just that I know my own lack of discipline (especially when it comes to food), and wasn't sure that I needed some book making me feel guilty about participating in a factory farm system that abuses animals and is destroying the environment.
But I adore Jonathan Safran Foer, so I felt like I owed it to him to read his newest work. After all the joy and pleasure (and tears) he brought me with Extremely Loud and Everything is Illuminated, maybe a little culpability over meat eating was payback. So I began reading and feeling guilty, so much so that the jamon serrano I purchased two weeks ago remains unopened in the fridge.
Jump to Vienna last weekend. Like any respectable tourist in Wien, I decided to order wiener schnitzel for lunch.

Without regret, I chowed down on the delicious breaded veal, effortlessly putting Foer's arguments right out of my mind. Having reaffirmed the carnivore in me, I confidently strode into St. Stephan's plaza, ready to do some more sightseeing. But what did I hear as I stepped into the plaza? Horrible pig squeals if pain. Yup, PETA in all their glory had set up shop right in the middle if the square and were showing lovely images of inhumane porcine slaughter. Help! I think I might be going veggie.

Stay tuned: Why I've Always Wanted a Garden Gnome

A Bit Slick

2010-01-20T11:46:00.001-08:00

Dear Slovakia,
A sprinkle of salt would help to melt ice on sidewalks and bridges.

Love, Karen (the girl on the ground)

Amen!

2010-01-18T15:05:00.000-08:00

Finally, something the Catholic church and I can agree upon: Clooney

Happy Birthday, Monica!

2010-01-17T12:08:00.000-08:00

Vsetko najlepsie k narodeninam! Yup, it really takes that many letters to wish you happiness, but you're worth every letter!
We may not yet have proven that all is cheese, but you can count on the fact that I'll eat some in your honor today!
Enjoy!

Home Sweet Home or Moj Byt

2010-01-14T09:50:00.000-08:00

Hovorim po trosku slovensky

2010-01-13T09:48:00.000-08:00

My only comfort was the knowledge that I was not alone. Huddled in the hallways and making the most of our pathetic French, my fellow students and I engaged in the sort of coversation commonly heard in refugee camps.
"Sometimes me cry alone at night."
"That be common for I, also, but be more strong, you. Much work and someday you talk pretty. People start love you soon. Maybe tomorrow, okay."
-David Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day

I started Slovak language classes this week, and, to my great surprise, I can already form a complete sentence. If you want to know if the book is near or not near the window, if Jozef is or is not Slovak, or if I do or do not have a sister, I am definitely the one to ask. Unfortunately, these aren't generally the types of things that come up while in public. Not that I would know what types of things come up in public, because everything still pretty much sounds like throaty babble to me. But I'll keep studying, and, hey, maybe tomorrow I'll be able to tell you whether or not Viera likes castles.

Stay tuned: Going veggie?

Dibs

2010-01-08T10:51:00.000-08:00

Some things apparently are universal in wintery lands...

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/columnists/chi-kass-08-jan08,0,6293839.column

You're Going Where? A Slovakia Primer

2010-01-06T12:21:00.000-08:00

This week I arrived in a country that, I'll be honest, up until about a year ago, I couldn't find on the map. Slovakia is by no means a popular tourist destination, but it is the country from which my ancestors immigrated to the US several generations ago. Primarily for this reason, I chose to travel to Slovakia for the second half of my sabbatical year. As I wrote in my sabbatical application, "As a fourth-generation Slovak-American with little knowledge of Slovak culture, traditions and language, I feel it is important for me to be knowledgeable about my own cultural heritage in order to encourage my students to be interested in and proud of their biculturalism." But all mumbo jumbo aside, isn't it important to know where you're from and where those traditions that you don't even recognize as traditions may have originated? It seems important to me, so here I arrived, a little discombobulated, but excited to soak it all in and learn.
To give you a bit of context for my adventures, here's some basic Slovakia info:
Where is Slovakia? Is it the same as Czechoslovakia?
Slovakia is a small country in central Europe. Its neighbors are the Czech Republic (to the northwest), Austria(to the west), Hungary (to the south), Ukraine (to the east), and Poland (to the north). Its capital is Bratislava (pop. 420,000), where I'm living. Trivia buffs take note: Bratislava is a mere 40 miles from Vienna, making them the two closest capital cities in the world.
From 1945 to 1993, Czechoslovakia existed as a singular nation. In 1993, the peaceful "Velvet Divorce" took place, in which it divided in two: the Czech Republic and Slovakia.
What language do they speak there?
Slovak. It is most closely related to Czech and Polish, and I am told that Slovak and Czech are mutually intelligible, although intelligible isn't necessarily the adjective I would choose to describe any of the language I've heard since my arrival. Luckily (for me), English is pretty widely spoken in downtown Bratislava, but it will be a different story once outside of the city.
What's there to do and see in Slovakia?
Castles and natural beauty, mainly. Bratislava has its own castle, and Spis castle in the east is supposed to be quite stunning. The High and Low Tatras are mountain ranges that cover a good portion of north-central Slovakia, and I can't wait for Spring in order to do some hiking!

Stay tuned: Christiane Amanpour (ha, ha, ha)

There's No Place Like Home or 2 Weeks Fly When You're Having Fun

2010-01-03T13:00:00.000-08:00

Reunions, introductions, a little chocolate, and a lot of wrestling

1st Bi-annual Sabb Awards

2009-12-18T09:40:00.000-08:00

If I were to give awards in these categories, the following would take the cake:

Best meal: Chiles en nogada
Best sunset: Playa de los muertos, Puerto Vallarta
Most random experience: Touring rural outhouses in Veracruz
Best night of debauchery: Salsa dancing with all of Susan's daughters, then paparazzi photo shoot
Best strolling musician: El Potro
Scariest moment: Waking up to see burglar's feet
Best hotel (excluding all-inclusive): Casa de los Dulces Suenos
Best movie: A Place Called Chiapas
Most fulfilling experience: Volunteering at CITAC
Best drink: Beso negro
Best ruins: Yaxchilan

Most revolutionary experience: Visiting the Zapatista community of Oventic
Best language school: Escuela mexicana
Most painful moment (actually hours): Horseback ride to Chamula
Best animal spotting: Crocodiles
Most nausea-inducing road: San Cristobal to Palenque
Best park: Parque Los Tecajetes, Xalapa
Most allergic moment: Cempasuchil fields
Best church: San Juan Chamula
Best live performance: Nebbia
Best visitors: Mom, Dad, and Jules

Congratulations to all the winners! Europe, it's your turn to compete.

Bienvenido

2009-12-17T23:57:00.000-08:00

Welcome, Issac David! I'm so glad you're here!

EZLN

2009-12-14T08:47:00.000-08:00

Two friends and I had the unique opportunity to visit the Zapatista community of Oventic. To learn more about the Zapatista movement, click here: http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zapatista_Army_of_National_Liberation?wasRedirected=true

We weren't allowed to photograph any of the people there, but these are some of the beautiful murals found there.

Walking away from Oventic, I wondered:
Does there come a time when violence is the only option? Can good come of it? What role does education play in a social revolution?

Blessed art thou among women

2009-12-12T12:40:00.000-08:00

For the past week or so, in preparation for the celebration of the Virgen of Guadalupe, not fifteen minutes go by without a religious procession passing through the main pedestrian street of San Cristobal. Some come with marching bands, others come yelling cheers that seem more appropriate for a football match than for the adoration of the mother of God, and the most impressive come running from distant towns carrying torches. Little boys are dressed as Juan Diego, the indigenous man to whom the Virgen appeared, and little girls are dressed as Guadalupe herself.
I have heard it said many times that before dating a Mexican man, you need to know that you'll always rank third: first will be his mother and second will be the Virgen of Guadalupe. Looking around at the magnitude of this celebration, that's not too hard to believe.
Speaking of girl power, happy birthday to my dear friend Jean, one of the most powerful girls I know!

Closet Zapatistas

2009-12-11T11:42:00.000-08:00

Who knew?

Lost and Found

2009-12-10T09:29:00.000-08:00

A couple of years ago, in a Peruvian marketplace, a saleswoman gifted me, along with my change, a small red and black seed to keep in my wallet. She assured me that by keeping it there, it would bring me luck in love and money. I did as I was told and continued to do so, despite not winning the lottery and definitely not being the poster child for "lucky in love."
As I packed for my sabbatical, the little red and black seed made the move from trendy Chicago wallet to floral Mexican coinpurse. But, about a month ago, in a cafe in Coatepec, I oh-so-gracefully tipped my purse and dumped all the contents of it onto the floor, including, I soon found out, the good luck charm. As many people rushed to help me recover my belongings (chivalry, by the way, is definitely not dead in Mexico), all I could think about was locating, on the patterned tile floor, the tiny South American seed. Too embarrassed to get down on my hands and knees and admit what I was looking for, I begrudgingly gave up the search, in the moment resigning myself to poverty and lonliness. For the next couple of days, each time I went to pay for something, I felt the absence of litle black and red.
As time passed, though, and my luck in love and money seemed to stay pretty much the same as always, I thought less and less about my Peruvian seed, until eventually, I forgot about it entirely. Until today, that is.
On a hike through the steamy Lancondon Jungle, Ulises, our guide, stopped to point out a special tree, the ormosia, which just happens to produce a certain red and black seed. Looking down, I saw that the ground was carpeted with them, only these were bigger and brighter than the one that I had been carrying around for so long. All that luck right there for the taking! I chose a nice, big, fat, shiny one and dropped it right in my purse.
I have had trouble believing it for a long time, but maybe it really is true that you have to lose something and let it go in order for it to come back to you, this time even bigger and better.

Despierta, Mary Beth, Despierta

2009-12-01T10:49:00.000-08:00

For the 13 of her 31 years that I`ve known her (how can it be that long?), MB and I have had many adventures. On her natal day, I thought I'd list a few:
-Navigating the cheese section at Whole Foods
-Traveling to the Grand Canyon with a psychic
-Eating Chinese food in Mexico (not all of the adventures were the greatest of ideas)
-Being thrown off of a waterfall by raging rapids (why'd she go and break the camera?)
-Convincing Matt to go for bijotes (doesn't take much convincing)
-Watching her assault the waiter at Taj Mahal
-Compiling playlist after playlist
-Performing a mean rendition of Sinatra on a boat
-Reenacting the blue footed booby mating dance while dressed as aforementioned booby

Wishing you many more adventures! Happy birthday!

It´s a tough life, but somebody´s gotta do it

2009-11-30T13:48:00.000-08:00

10+10+10 Happy 30th Becky!

2009-11-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

10 nice things about Becky:
*She's an amazing book club documentarian
*She's the best Picture karaoke partner a Sheryl Crow impersonator could ask for
*She's generous and patient even when your piles are all over her green chair
*She's a passionate advocate for Upward Bound
*She'll sit up and watch Sex and the City with you even if it's past her bedtime
*She's a #1 source for trashy yet amazing music
*She doesn't get mad when she does all the tech research, and then you buy the better model
*She does the Humpty Dumpty rap almost as well as the 5 year olds
*Her Taffy Apple salad is top notch
*She'll take care of your Slanket while you're away

10 little known things about Becky:
*She has been known to be given the children's menu at restaurants
*She downloads music "legally" from Russia
*She has a Winnie the Pooh bedspread
*Extreme Makeover: Home Edition makes her cry
*She has bowled naked
*She's been to both the geographic center of the US and of North America
*She can name 8 different fabrics in Spanish
*She once ran over a cooler while driving a car that wasn't her own (how convenient)
*She winces when playing catch with 5 year olds
*She has a duck named after her

10 wishes for Becky on her birthday:
*That she never run out of gas in the middle of nowhere unless there is a four-wheeler nearby
*That she check off all 50 states (just not before me)
*That that pesky raccoon never return
*That she always have a stash of Life Savers for that forgotten Cero visit
*That there always be goat cheese on the menu
*That she never win free tickets to an all female music festival
*That she always be victorious in the PICKLE ROUND!
*That she never have to drive in reverse
*That a cute sailor be on board all of her ships
*That she have another 30 years and another 30 after that of zestful living!

Gobble!

2009-11-26T18:46:00.000-08:00

Today, like every day, I have an amazing amount of things for which to be thankful. Thanks for being some of them. And eat some extra French Silk for me!

And the fortune that went with it

2009-11-19T18:34:00.000-08:00

After my sushi-fest, this was the fortune that arrived at my table:

La oportunidad toca a su puerta una sola vez. Este alerta.

(Opportunity knocks only once. Be alert.)

So I've been trying to stay alert, keeping a keen eye open for that opportunity.

Since receiving that fortune, I've turned down an invitation to join some men in the basement of the "Internet cafe," an offer of a ride in the back of a pick-up truck through a deserted ex-hacienda, and the chance to donate money on-line to a stranger, even though the title of the email affirmed that God had chosen me for that very task.

I hope that none of these were the opportunity to which the fortune was referring.

Maybe the knocks will be louder in Puerto Vallarta (or maybe I'll go back fo a new fortune tonight. After all, mango and avocado together...)

Stay tuned: San Pavo

Pseudo-Japanese Sushi Break

2009-11-18T17:59:00.000-08:00

OK, I'll admit it. I'm sick of Mexican food. If I never put another bite of chilaquiles in my mouth again, I think I'll be just fine (and the thing is, I like chilaquiles (what's not to like about chips, cheese, and sour cream for breakfast?)) It's just that I've had my fill of corn-based products, and, while not at all ready to go home, I am more than ready to be embraced by Chicago's culinary selections.
So you can imagine my palette's delight at coming across a Japanese restaurant, non-authentic to be sure, but Japanese nonetheless. Salmon rolls with mango and avocado? I think I will, thank you very much.

Stay tuned: Sugar daddies

H1N1

2009-11-16T17:08:00.000-08:00

I would somehow find this message more reassuring if it weren´t next to a skeleton.

(Translation: Our school is flu-free)

Tyin´ it

2009-11-14T14:41:00.000-08:00

Congratulations, Rachel and Travis! I wish you much happiness and many adventures together!!

Padres

2009-11-12T19:06:00.000-08:00

My parents just departed after visiting me for 10 days. We took part in a Day of the Dead tour and then continued on to Mexico City. Traveling with them, you would have never guessed that they hadn´t ever traveled outside of the US (except for Canada and Los Cabos, which hardly count as international destinations).

These are the reasons I was proud of them as travelers:

1. Not a word of complaint about the food, even though dad just about jumped out of his skin with excitement when he found ravioli on a menu

2. They attempted a little Spanish (mom knows muebles!), although the occasional German "nein" escaped form my father´s mouth (Brain research is accurate!)

3. They climbed to the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, all 248 steps

4. Dad kept everyone on the tour entertained with his on-demand karaoke

5. Dad stomached mezcal, and mom took a shot (of water!)

And I thank them for:

1. The extra space in their suitcases (to relieve me of some of my suitcase bulk)

2. The magical floating coin purse

3. Moving outside of their comfort zone to come and see me!!!

Happy Birthday, Jenn!

2009-11-10T13:43:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, Jenn and I dressed as gypsies and read fortunes on the Quad. On her birthday, my wish for her is that she never lose that sense of magic, fun, and light-heartedness.

P.S. Long live Redheads With Balls!

Stop and Smell the Flowers

2009-11-05T14:36:00.000-08:00

Cempasúchil (marigolds) play a very important role in the Day of the Dead observance. They are found on every altar, and the cemeteries are filled with them on the night of November first. It is believed that the fragrance of the cempasúchil leads the ánimas, or spirits of the dead, back to the living world for this night.

We had the opportunity to visit the fields in San Pedro, Michoacán where the cempasúchil are harvested. (Made me sneeze quite a bit, but the experience was worth it!)

Night of the Dead

2009-11-04T18:32:00.000-08:00

On November first, around 10 pm, we headed to the village cemeteries where people would hold their all-night vigils. We visited three different villages, and each cemetary was markedly distinct from the others. The first, in Cucuchucho was beautifully decorated and illuminated with thousands of candles. As we awkwardly traipsed over thier ancestors´ graves, the people there graciously greeted us and answered our questions.

In the second village of Tzurumutaro, the cemetery was much more humble. Nonetheless, people brought what they could, and whole families sat together throughout the night.

The last cemetery we visited was in the village of Ihuatzio, and this was the flashy, showcase graveyard. The ofrendas looked professionally arranged, and some families even had had structures built to house them. There was much more of a party atmosphere here and, as a touist, I felt much less out of place.

The following day, November 2nd, we visited the town of Santa Clara del Cobre and stopped by its gorgeous cemetery on the side of a hill. It was packed with people, and many families had contracted bands to play graveside.

I feel so lucky to have had the experience of witnessing first-hand this beautiful and respectful tradition.

Day of the Dead: Isla Janitzio

2009-11-03T15:18:00.000-08:00

On the morning of November 1st, we hopped on a boat before sunrise and headed from Pátzcuaro to the island of Janitzio. We arrived at the island´s small cemetery and waited. As we watched, the residents of the island began to arrive with buckets, brooms, baskets of food, candles, and flowers galore. Within two hours, the gray, dreary cemetery was transformed into a colorful, vibrant place filled wih people and life.

Calaveras

2009-11-02T10:58:00.000-08:00

In Mexico, for Day of the Dead, there exists the tradition of writing calaveras, poems intended to poke fun at the living. I´ve taken some liberty with the poetic structure, and please forgive my awkward rhyme. They´re not meant to be morbid or offensive, so please enjoy.

Dad
In life, John walked with his AAA travel guide
His goal? To travel the whole world wide

When it came time for his final road trip
He sure didn´t plan on giving the devil much lip

His only complaint when the judgment was unfurled?
Without a map, how will I sightsee in the underworld?

Mom
Hour after hour, Barb excels at Solitaire
Uncovering an Ace is her only care

From left to right she moves the mouse with ease
Hoping it's victory that she'll seize

But when the game is over and the screen glows black
Will her rickety bones choose a PC or a Mac?

Johnny
JJ Sabaka spent much his life analyzing the stats
Who had the best record, the best passing, the most at bats

For days, he recruited, traded, and schemed
Trying to put together the most victorious team

But when the season's over and death drafts his picks
Will JJ be passing or punting with kicks?

Julie
After a long day teaching the Knights ser and estar
Jules would come home to the hot tub, sometimes after the bar

She'd soak and she'd soak until all stress washed away
Ready to face another long, challenging day

But when her flesh wastes away and her bones are all teeny
Will our hot-tubbing calaca still fill out her bikini?

Mary Beth
One of life's great pleasures for MB was her food
A fine meal could change all, it would lighten her mood

Two courses, of course, were never enough
She'd need palette cleansers, and all of that fluff

But when Death serves up dessert, which will she choose?
Angel food cake or sinful dark chocolate mousse?

Becky
Her life, Becky lived with enthusiasm and joy
If it was wacky, she'd go there. The world her big toy.

The strangest tourist traps were never to be missed.
She'd seen them all and checked them off her list.

When her time has come and Becky takes a final breath
Will she continue on with a zest for death?

Broecklings
Monica, Kevin, and Little Baby I
Lived a happy, quiet life, never a reason to cry

When Death came for them, asking, "Heaven or Hell? You choose."
Their response? "Either way, as long as there's Ski, Ice Deli, and Horseshoes."

Emily
As fast as a pony, Em sprinted through life
She could outrun sadness, and sorrow, and strife.

But as fast as she ran, she couldn't leave Death in the dust.
I'm right on your heels, I'll pass you, I trust.

Just as the finish line came into Em's sight,
He passed on the inside and Em ran towards the white light.

Alison
If you needed your numbers crunched, Alsion was the one to call
While for most, Algebra was a drag, Alsion had a ball

The Quadratic formula, x=-b
In front of the calculator, her favorite place to be

But for all of her computation, death could not be delayed
Death after life, that order of operations must be obeyed

Jean
Jean spent her life tracking criminals' prints
Sworl, tentarch, or loop, a judge they could convince.

She visited crime scenes, places Death like to haunt
And one day Death approached her, "It's you that I want"

As he laid his hands upon her, a thought ran through her mind
Does Death leave fingerprints, and if so, which kind?

Anna
Anna B became famous for her paintings divine
She'd create one and sell it for millions online

Her style, unique, and her portraits true to life,
Death showed up at her gallery, wanting a gift for his wife

My portrait, you paint it, Death said with a grin
And your payment, extra years you will win

But make me look life-like, some meat on my bones
I'm sick of this gaunt look. Use pink and orange tones.

Jenn
Jenn never left home without her eco shopping bag
And her old T-shirt? Reused as a rag.

A healthy compost bin was found in her backyard
And for environmental legislation she would rally hard

When Jenn goes up to heaven, I'm sure we'll hear her cry,
"Angels, use those blue bins. We've gotta recycle in the sky!"

Stay tuned: Happy ànimas

Virtual Altar

2009-11-01T15:06:00.000-08:00

Since I wasn´t at home this year to assemble my Day of the Dead altar, I´ll have to do it virtually. Here goes:

For Grandpa John, musician and snacker, sheet music and Cheetos, of course.

For Grandma Margaret and Aunt Junie, kindergarten teachers and bridge players, lesson plan books and a deck of playing cards.

For Grandma Taylor, story watcher and stoop gamer, Soap Opera Digest and a backgammon board.

And for Virginia, caretaker of my peace and smiley gardens, flower seeds.

Also remembered dearly are Grandma Celia, Grandma Gert, Ken, and Thad.

Rest in peace. We miss you.

Esperando

2009-10-31T16:40:00.000-07:00

This just about sums it up...

¡Feliz cumpleaños, Alison!

2009-10-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

On her birthday, here´s a few of the many reasons why Alison rocks:
1. There´s no one more intellectually stimulating with whom to car pool
2. She´s a mean first base woman
3. She´s a thoughtful, dedicated, and amazingly hard-working educator
4. She carries hard candies in her purse (Creme Savers-yum!)
5. She´s not afraid of shady lodging options (Los Pinos, anyone?)
6. She taught me my first (and only) Swedish word
7. She only has one l in her name
8. She gives wise advice and always tells it like it is

Happy day to you!

What´s so fine about art?

2009-10-27T18:59:00.000-07:00

Here´s a glimpse of my experience during the Cervantino Festival:

Apparently, if you put 3 German women in tight dresses inside a flaming hamster wheel and call it art, the people buy it.

Ditto for choirs barking like dogs, schoolgirls doing pilates in easy chairs, and clowns telling dirty jokes.

Oh, and did I mention how I was assaulted by a mime?

Faith in Humanity, Part 2

2009-10-12T17:51:00.000-07:00

I´ve developed a new talent in the last couple of weeks. OK, well, maybe a few new talents, if you count visiting the ice cream shop multiple times a day and getting some sleep despite raucous religious celebrations taking place outside your window as talents. But the real talent to which I´m referring is as a papel malecho artist. For two weeks, I´ve been volunteering at CITAC, a non-profit community center in Tapalpa that serves adults and children from the nearby rural areas who are "disadvantaged," either physically, mentally, or economically. While it is I who have showed up everyday as a volunteer teacher, it is truly the students of CITAC who have been teaching me. I know that many people who volunteer say this, meaning that those who they serve have taught them kindess, patience, or love. And while this is the case with me as well, the CITAC students have also literally taught me how to create beautiful papel malecho art. On my first visit to the workshop, the students, all of whom have special needs, taught me how to use recycled bottles to form a flower that would eventually become my masterpiece. Pepe patiently taught me to smooth the edges of my paper, and Mariana counseled me on my color choice and painting technique. As I worked, they enthusiastically praised and encouraged me.

In addition to the art workshop, CITAC offers physical therapy, equine therapy, computation classes, dance classes, and English classes, all free of charge. It is a truly special place, and I am so thankful that I had the opportunity to meet and learn from the beautiful people there.

Stay tuned: Karen in the kitchen?

Greek To Me

2009-10-11T19:08:00.000-07:00

I´m fairly confident I´m the only person within several hundred, probably thousand, kilometers who is studying the Slovak language. I can also say, with a decent amount of certainty, that I´m the only tourist in Mexico toting a Slovak language textbook to my Spanish language school. While everyone else is studying their conjugations of ir, I´m still trying to figure out what all those little dots and upside down v´s over the letters in Slovak words could possibly mean. The good news is this: I´ve learned to conjugate my first verb! The verb is mat´(to have), and here it is:

ja mám my máme
ty más vy máte
on má oni majú

(I did it without looking!)

The bad news? I don´t know any nouns. What I, you, he, we, and they have is anyone´s guess.

Stay tuned: 80/20

Faith in Humanity, Part 1

2009-10-09T16:53:00.000-07:00

This goes out to those of you who, like me, require the occasional reminder that people are, indeed, inherently good.

I spent a couple of hours the other day sitting on a rock in the middle of a cow pasture, people-watching. While it might seem like a strange place for such an activity, there turned out to be plenty of people to watch. I had hiked to a local tourist attraction, Las Piedrotas, giant rocks in a field about 5 km uphill out of town. The rock I had chosen as my resting spot happened to be located right next to a tiny stream, not more than a foot wide, and less than three inches deep, that needed to be crossed in order to see all of the Piedrotas. Despite its small size and lack of power, this stream proved to be a source of considerable consternation for a significant number of sightseers. As I looked on, time after time, the scene played out like this:

A group of people would approach the stream and examine the bank for the best possible crossing point. One brave soul would eventually run and jump and then would extend her or his hand to those on the other side, offering encouragement to those who were still too scared to take the leap. For hours, I watched as boyfriends helped girlfriends, grandkids helped grandparents, friends helped friends carrying 6-packs of beer, and mothers helped their children.

Most made it across safe and sound, and a few got a little wet, but all made it to the other side knowing that they weren´t on their own and that someone was looking out for them.

A thought: I know that I´m not always good at asking for a hand when I need it, so extra thanks to those of you who have pulled me across some streams of my own.

Stay tuned: Morning mariachi

Happy Birthday, Caputo!

2009-10-04T17:38:00.000-07:00

Sending much love all the way to Rio. Shake it to some samba for me.

Al caballo de presente no le mires el diente

2009-10-02T19:37:00.000-07:00

If you were to ask any Purple Knight lucky enough to have had Señora Hanson as a Spanish teacher what was learned in her class, you´ll inevitably be regaled with a litany of Spanish proverbs.

Entre col y col, lechuga.

(Variety is the spice of life, or, literally, Between bread and bread, lettuce.)

No hagas un tempestad en un vaso de agua.
(Don´t make a mountain out of a mole hill, or, literally, Don´t make a storm in a glass of water.)

and, of couse, everyone´s favorite

El mundo es un pañuelo.
(It´s a small world, or, literally, The world is a handkerchief.)

I was lucky enough to have Señora Hanson as a teacher for two years. She taught me a lot about the Spanish language (the subjunctive, commands, the dreaded vosotros conjugations), but more importantly, she modeled for me (and my best friends (all of whom happen to have become Spanish teachers, by the way)) what it meant to be a great teacher. Her dedication to her profession and her interest in her students´lives were evident every day in every class.

Monica writes, "Can I share two memories? CAUTION, ADULT CONTENT The first time I was educated in the (in)effectiveness of the rhythm method as a means of birth control was in Spanish class. I distinctly remember turning to Karen with a shocked look on my face, mouthing the question, "Does "el ritmo" mean what I think it means?" She was so subtle, but so effective. I also remember that only 3 of us in Spanish 5 were taking the A.P. test, and Senora made sure we were prepared in every way. She could differentiate before that buzz word even hit the education world. She really did care about her students and their success, and we knew it."

Julie writes, "I had Sra's room when I first got hired here and I was really nervous about filling such big shoes!!!! My most vivid memory was when she called the paper to do a story on you, me, and Em going to Spain to study abroad. I remember being so excited and proud that our teacher was so proud of us. It meant a lot that she went out of her way to recognize our effort and encourage us. I wasn't sure I could handle Spain after only a few years of Spanish but she really encouraged me to believe that I could do it. It was the most life changing decision I have ever made and she probably doesn't even realize she was influential in me deciding to apply to that program."

This week, Señora and her esposo, Dean, graciously invited me to their "retirement" home in Ajijic. While Señora certainly deserves all of the relaxation and leisure retirement has to offer, she instead is heading up a scholarship fund for Mexican students who otherwise wouldn´t be able to attend university, adopting homeless dogs, and inviting in the former student who has decided to take Entre col y col to heart.

How blessed we were to have had Señora as a teacher, and how blessed are the students of Ajijic who are now benefitting from her hard work and generosity.

I´m so glad we were able to cross paths on the pañuelo once again.

Stay tuned: I´m no Frida

Rough goin´

2009-10-02T17:48:00.000-07:00

The rolly suitcase seemed like a good idea at the time...

What a Difference 3 Weeks Makes or Gracias, Guanajuato

2009-09-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

You wouldn´t think that it would be that easy to fall in love with a city. After all, cities can´t bring you flowers or serenade you at your bedroom window or compliment you on your wit and the shininess of your hair. Yet I somehow fell for Guanajuato. It wooed me with the time and space to sit and think, people to teach, challenge, and guide me, and the ambiance to stimulate and inspire me.
Gracias, Susan, for your friendship and example.
Gracias, Sandi, for your coaching.
Gracias, Amanda, for your advice and sense of humor.
Gracias, Mario, for your teaching and for not getting mad about the mango juice.
Gracias, everybody, for your great stories, and for being so darn fun.
Gracias, Guanajuato.
I may be leaving you, but we´re definitely not over.

Stay tuned: Those who can, teach

Felicidad, Simplified

2009-09-29T10:27:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was asked what would make me most happy that afternoon. After being reprimanded for being materialistic for my initial response of winning the lottery, my truthful and simple answer was an ice cream cone on a bench next to a fountain in the plaza. Ask someone, or yourself, what would make them happiest today, and make it happen. Cookies and cream never tasted better.

Stay tuned: Attack of the giant spiders

OSHA Would Not Be Amused

2009-09-21T11:24:00.000-07:00

Speaking of jobs, this one would not make my short list.

Eat My Words, Pray, Love or What the Career Counselor Didn´t Tell You

2009-09-21T10:54:00.000-07:00

I owe Liz Gilbert an apology. A few years ago, at a book club discussion, I bashed her travel memoir Eat, Pray, Love. It wasn´t that the anecdotes that she wrote about her year-long self-discovery trip through Italy, India, and Indonesia weren´t interesting. At the time, I just found them to be utterly unrealistic. I clearly remember these exact words coming out of my mouth: "Who gets paid to run away from their troubles and go on the trip of their dreams?" Well, me, for one, and a lot of other people, let me tell you. At least half of the people enrolled at the language school are "working from abroad" by telecommuting from across the border, although it´s not always clear to me when they´re squeezing in any work between the sightseeing, siestas, and Pacificos on the plaza. I love my teaching job, don´t get me wrong, but I can´t help but feel that a career counselor at some point was holding out on me. I remember taking those "Interest Inventories" that were supposed to point you in the right direction career-wise, but I never remember there being an option involving strolling around foreign cities by day and sipping cold beverages by night. I´m sure that sooner, rather than later, I´ll feel the need to regain a sense of structure and to contribute once again to society. But right now, I´m liking my job just fine.

Addendum: The results of my father´s "Interest Inventory" when he was young? He should have become a cowboy. How well does that pay?

Stay tuned: Mummies!

Eat your heart out, Andrew Zimmern

2009-09-17T13:31:00.000-07:00

Most bizarre foods I´ve eaten:
3. Chapulines (Grasshoppers)-Oaxaca, Mexico
2. Cuy (Guinea pig)-Cuzco, Peru and Cuenca, Ecuador
1. Nieve de pulpo y camaron (Octopus and shrimp ice cream)-Dolores Hidalgo, Mexico

My face says it all.

Stay tuned: Tarps, and what they´re good for

Genetic Wanderlust or Happy Birthday Millie!

2009-09-15T14:49:00.001-07:00

People will occasionally ask me how I came about being a redhead, given that neither of my parents were blessed with hair color that opened up the possibility of having vegetable-related nicknames. The answer is generally a genetic mystery, although rumor has it that Uncle Richard, Aunt Connie, and Grandma Celia may have been carrot-tops back in the day.
It´s no mystery, however, how I inherited the travel bug. While my father´s love and mastery of the road trip certainly have something to do with it, the true inspirations for my love of travel are my great-aunt Millie and her dear friend, Pearle. Each year at Christmas, I remember the shades being pulled, the drinks being poured (sodas for us, daiquiris for most, something strong and straight up for Millie and Pearle), and the slide projector being powered on. Year after year, I got to travel vicariously through Millie and Pearle, sometimes walking on the Great Wall, other times watching the polar bears frolic, being brought back to her St. Paul apartment only when the occasional slide proved to be inserted upside down and required flipping. I remember sitting in awe of all the places they´d gone and people they´d met, and I also remember thinking how brave and adventurous they were to go to unknown and exotic places. Finally, I remember promising to myself that some day, I would get to these exotic places myself and take my own slides (or digital photos, as the case may be). These days, I'm doing my best to live up to that promise.
Millie turns 92 years young on Thursday. I wish her a very happy birthday, and thank her for the gifts she gave to me long ago, the spirit of travel and adventure and the assurance that it´s alright for girls to go out into the world on their own.

Stay tuned: Octopus ice cream?

www.whatididntlearninschool.edu

2009-09-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

During my stay in Guanajuato, I´ve enrolled at a great little language school called Escuela Mexicana, located right in the historic center of the city. The entrance to the school is off of one of Guanajuato´s many winding, hilly pedestrian alleys, and I inevitably arrive at class panting from the uphill climb. Since I am already fairly fluent in Spanish, I was assigned a private instructor, and I expected our class sessions to go something like this:
Karen would blab on about something banal, like places she´s visited, or best movies she´s seen, and the teacher would, from time to time, interrupt to correct a misused indirect object or teach her a new vocabulary word that Karen would then dutifully jot down on a page in a notebook to which she would never refer again.
Boy, was I wrong. My teacher is no run-of-the-mill Spanish grammar enthusiast. While others may think it appropriate to begin a first class with some get-to-know-you icebreaker chit-chat, my teacher and I delved right into topics such as modification of the social order through education, redistribution of the world´s resources, and the influence of mythology on a nation´s collective psyche. And it hasn´t gotten any lighter since then. Try these topics on for size: biotechnology, Tolstoy, eradicating hunger, diagnosing mental illness....
Do I know anything about these topics? Not really.
Do I know how to discuss these topics in Spanish? Not on your life.
Have I resorted to researching topics like Native American creation stories on the Internet prior to class in order to appear more intellectual? You betcha.
Am I grateful for the opportunity to realize all of the things I still have to learn? Absolutely.

The topics for tomorrow? Maybe past-life regression, possibly nuclear proliferation.
My response? Bring it on. (Just let me run to the Internet cafe first.)

Stay tuned: Sufi jokes