Nixfunkle's Traveling Chronicles

Space Deprivation

2010-10-02T17:00:00.000-10:00

Travel involves relinquishing yourself to a time warp. I don't know what day it is or how long I've been awake, but my mathematical estimates are as follows: Saturday night, 48 hours. It might be October.

The group, which began with four, has since tripled. My mom, dad, brother and I met up with my aunt and uncle at the Honolulu International Airport. We picked up my two cousins in Seattle and flew to Florida. Here, we were met by my second aunty and uncle, my second cousin, her friend and another aunt. I think this makes 13, though my cousin is pregnant, thus making it 13 1/2.

We've all been falling asleep at small increments and at really inappropriate times. Some of us slip into states of comatose during 20 minute commutes. Others sleep during shows, on outdoor benches or whilst driving. We are ill, but we press onward because vacations don't last forever.

Today we made it to the John F. Kennedy Space Center and wowed ourselves silly off of rockets and space travel. The universe is out of control, and in a cool way. They had propped the Atlantis shuttle up for its launch next month, so we took our time appreciating the sight of the second-to-last spaceship getting prepped for action. My heart is broken that the shuttle missions will be ending soon.

Tomorrow we go from space to sea and embark on our Disney cruise. My cousins told me that there will be karaoke, so I'm already working on my Lion King songs. Naaaaaants ingonyamaaaa bagithi baba... and Elton John just gave me a high-5.

Prelude to a family vacation

2010-09-28T00:54:00.001-10:00

I miss it: The packing and list drafting and three-week foresight that comes with travel. I crave those restless nights that come before departure. I would find myself shifting all night in bed, sleepless due to excitement or the morphing list of things that still need to be done.

1. Pack toiletries.

1a. Be on the safe side and reenact your morning routine - pack everything you touch.

A. Assess everything you just touched and return half of that. Remember that weight restrictions, strength limitations and space reservations are pretty much screwing you. What is the average on how many times you can reuse underwear?

Aa. Google the sanitary average on how many times you can reuse underwear.

Distractions ensue, and the result always seems to be me dashing out the door in house slippers and breakfast on my chin. But I love it.

Midnight in Venice, Italy

I’d give anything to wake up to pitch darkness and the kind of silence that signifies how the world around you is still asleep. I embrace that feeling of being suspended in my 4 a.m. preparations, moving through an early-morning resistance as if the night thickened while we REMed. I love taking my shoes off at security, even though I can feel the cold of the tile seeping through my socks, bringing with it some backpacker’s athletes foot or toe jams or whatever nonsense feet absorb and disperse. I even love sitting next to that one passenger, the one who talks incessantly about nothing at all because that’s the ridiculousness that I remember when the movement has ceased.

The stories I could tell you that have taken place during transit, oh, they range from embarrassing to heart-warming. From hair products mistaken for dildos to old Korean men who have offered the type of kindness that breaks harbored stereotypes.

Expletive, expletive, expletive. I just love to travel.

Bag piping in Edinburgh, Scotland

I’ve grown accustomed to traveling alone, navigating and getting lost and discovering things by myself. This trip I’m taking, the one that starts on Friday, is of a different design and for an alternative purpose than what I’m used to. This week, I’m going on a family vacation.

Three weeks gone with parents and siblings and relatives and cousins. Three weeks with agendas and meal plans and beds that don’t have bugs and rooms that don’t house strangers. I’ll get room service and fancy dinners, a pirate-themed party thrown by a family-friendly Disney. Someone else will navigate and someone else will get lost, and I’ll be the one tagging along in the back, just along for the ride.

Lost in the outskirts of Seattle

Though it sounds like a trip induced by leisure, it’s in fact a result of family deaths and cancers and sicknesses. Like a home-owner investing in a house alarm after being robbed, my family is taking action. Together, we will experience the nuances of being related. I haven’t done this since ’96 and I have no idea how it’s going to go down, but I have my brother and an ID that says I can buy alcohol, so I’m well-equipped to endure anything.

Three days until I’m gone. Three weeks until I’m crazy.

Florida, Bahamas, Pennsylvania, Las Vegas. Oh good gracious, here I come.

Electronics in-flight

2010-07-29T21:10:00.001-10:00

if youre a friend, then you've heard me whine incessantly about being stuck in the USA. wah wah, no money to travel, living at home, growing old etc etc. my apologies. so imagine my elation to be waiting around half-buzzed at gate number 20, anxious to board and ever-ready to order another beer. i'll be honest and say that i'll attempt to get my mom to foot the bill as there must be a higher purpose for our neighboring seat assignment.

i'm going for work, to get paid to take kids to disney world. i know, wtf right? money in exchange for play.

but i hear florida is massive hot these days, the swamps and thunderstorms taking flight against the sun. i'm not looking forward to sweating like a farm animal, but i've endured worse. just trust me.

and so i embark, making use of the few minutes of phone use before boarding. over the last two hours i rendezvoused with michael keany (who was coincidentally disembarking from a day trip to a neighbor island), drank a pint of beer
and flitted between gates like I own the place.

Take-off occurs someone soon, so I'll bid the interwebs a dainty farewell.

Gute Reise, our something like that.

Born to Depart

2010-07-27T16:19:00.003-10:00

Three days, two dinners, one meeting and half a day’s work stand between an airplane and I. This is an intolerable amount of time considering how desperately I’ve been longing to get my feet off the ground. It’s been seven months since I’ve been thrown into travelers abstinence, grounding myself for the sake of education. I’ve endured the withdrawals of an ex-wanderer, pacing in circles to compensate for how stationary life has been.

So I’ve strapped myself down to the circumference of an island and thrashed under my own restraints until I've exhausted the need to take off. I’ve been depressed and hopeless and lonely, but I’ve recovered from my melancholy by drinking it down, throwing it up and hanging it over. It sounds like a reckless way to recover, but I’ve been optimistic and surprisingly sober for the better part of July. Cured, I say, or broken, I think.

What matters is that I’ll be in a terminal once again, moving through gates and metal detectors like a puppet flipping off its axis. I won’t even wear shoes that day 'cause I want to impress security with my obvious familiarity with their rules and regulations. Liquids? Drank, thank you, and recycled, you’re welcome. And I already know where all the emergency exits are located, naturally.

I’m hyper on reliving the feeling of leaving. I want to be a stranger and a brand newcomer and an explorer of a place I know little of. I want to leave this mound of sand to swish in the tides without me while I drink overly chlorinated water in the tourist hub of Orlando. I’ll get paid to reach high elevations, and being on the job will not bring me down.

There’s little use in recovery when, really, I was born to depart.

Death of the First Born iPod

2010-06-08T23:46:00.000-10:00

In lieu of my writers block, I'm going to pull an entry that I wrote back in 2007 during my second year in South Korea. I don't remember writing it, so stumbling upon it was glorious. At the time, I was living in a small farming village located in an isolated valley, which, at one point, I refer to "the punch bowl." Enjoy.

Korea is a map in which all corners are connected by trains, subways, taxis and buses. There is no one place that is inaccessible through these means of transportation. Here, traveling is accessible, affordable and, for the most part, comfortable. The one thing it is not, is fast. When I say that it isn't fast, I don't mean that the drivers are slow, because they are anything but. Travel is slow because the big cities are small and few in-between. So, to see Korea, one must truly go the distance.

Destinations are strangely and exactly one hour apart, as if these roads and speed limits were designed in such a way as to help regulate and simplify the bus schedules. Of course, the farther you are, the more hours it takes to arrive, so I am constantly traveling here. I gladly opt for the token hour-long journey from my punch bowl to the nearest city in order to escape small town stagnation.

It was through these long drives in which my iPod became both companion and best friend. My iPod was the medium through which "This American Life" - a Korean bus-ride favorite of mine - could reach and entertain my brain. It was what connected me to Hawksley Workman, Belle & Sebastian, Regina Spektor and The Shins. For all I knew, I was front row, VIP, BFF with every band and singer that resonated through my ear canal.

So when my iPod died, it was more than just a portable entertainment device that went to Heaven. It was death to Ira Glass and all the ways in which I could live vicariously through him. It was the demise to my mind-blowing silent power vocal solos held discreetly between the window and the empty seat beside me. It was an end to my personal serenades, sung sweetly to only me by dashing men of multiple musical talents. It was the annihilation of a personal world in which bus driver and fellow passengers ceased to exist - a world in which a custom stage and face-melting pyrotechnics were mine.

So when my iPod died, I was left with a kind of silence that I didn't know what to do with. For hours and a multitude of bus rides, I'd sit and pout because I didn't know how to appreciate the lack of electronics. Except, there comes a time when mourning ceases to cut it, and when this happens, there is true silence. It is in this void that the change begins to happen and suddenly I am thinking, I am praying and I am creating.

I've already dreamt up a series of South Korean folk tales, inspired by the forest that I just noticed that we drive through. I've been writing a lot more, mostly thoughts on my experiences, and have mapped out the direction in which I'd like to go in life. So, although there is a gravestone dedicated to my iPod, there is also a shiny blue mylar balloon that reads, "Congratulations. It's a brain." Indeed, my thoughts were being held hostage by the completed works of others, when what I needed most, was to create some work myself.

73. Take a Self Defense Class

2010-05-27T22:28:00.001-10:00

Ah yes, another completed goal straight down the hatch. Despite being half-way there with my 101 Goals in 1001 Days, the list itself is coming along strikingly. Last month I took a free self-defense class for women at Smith Tae Kwon Do Center in Kaneohe, and proceeded to learn what it takes to kick villain butt. In fact, I subsequently wrote an article for The Kapi'o that may help to defend your honor if you so choose to take on the responsibility.

Needless to say, the class was wonderfully educational. Having the knowledge and the practice of defending myself against an attacker has made me feel substantially more safe when I'm alone. I have since purchased a vial of pepper spray, which I whip out with enthusiasm once the sun sets. Sometimes I go through the steps of defense in my head, prepared at all times to do what it takes to ensure that I am never a victim.

Read the article, take the class, defend your honor. Goal #73, you're so history.

Video Spam

2010-05-13T12:42:00.003-10:00

I'm going to spam you with videos, are you ready?

MAKAPU'U CLIFFSIDE HIKE
The first is my most recent, though it was shot back in March during Spring Break. (Time has no respect for anybody). Jeff, Laura, Chris, Doni, Spencer and I made a date to hit up the area around Makapu'u Lighthouse. I could write a whole story for you, but then that would defeat the purpose of my poignant narration. Behold, a great outdoor adventure.

KAWAII-KON 2010
The second was an assignment from The Kapi'o, a small newspress run out of KCC. We had written an article about Kawaii-Kon a few weeks before the event began, though I didn't read it until it hit the stands the following Monday. I took the paper to my editor, begged to attend and it was done. Press passes were promised to me and I reserved the weekend of the 17th for nerdtastic fun. Oh, and it was a beautiful weekend indeed.

HUSTLED BY WIND (SKIRTS DON'T STAND A CHANCE)
This is another video taken during spring break when my friend, Ken, and I decided to go out for lunch together. Our spontaneity led us to a post-meal trip to Pali Lookout, where the winds were on high per usual. Inspired by the footage, I went home and had the video edited within a few days. Within the week, "Hustled by Wind" had over 1,000 hits, which I miscredited to my editing skills. Thanks to YouTube's Insight data section, I was able to discover that it was just an overwhelming amount of 55-64 year old men who were doing searches for "windy skirt." This is disgusting, but the video is not. Watch it.

So good at pushing away.

2010-05-06T00:47:00.000-10:00

My cat and I have always had an unsteady relationship. She was introduced into our family by an ex-boyfriend who thought he was doing a romantic deed back in 2003. I really loathed all the ridiculous teen-movie shenanigans that he put me through, most of which were excessively contrived and stupid.

But I digress. During this time, I was obsessed with the musical "Cats," which is about a clan of felines who sing and dance about the woes of living on the streets. It's fantastic. I had one particular favorite whose name was Magical Mr. Mistoffelees. As you can surmise by his title, he was magical and just about the greatest cat ever. Mr. Mistoffelees was jet black with white feet and the exact model of the feline that I was in the midsts of bribing my parents to adopt for me.

So when Ex-Boyfriend showed up at my house with a surprise in his car, I was both irritated and appalled at the stark white girl cat that was hiding in his back seat. Not only was she the physical opposite of what I desired, but she couldn't dance, do magic or even be sociable for that matter. Sugar, my new cat, was a ball of allergy for me, with nails that scratched ruthlessly while leaving swollen red welts in their wake.

I broke up with my boyfriend shortly thereafter.

In the last seven years that I've been feeding Sugar, we have never gotten along. I draw pictures of cats incased within red circles with a vicious slash drawn across it. "NO CATS!" is usually printed on the bottom. It never mattered if she could understand or not, the point was that I was laying down the law, and I had every intention of reinforcing punishment.

So when I moved to Europe and returned 18 months later with a renewed sense of patience and love, I was startled at how accepting I had become of Sugar. Suddenly, I was petting her, hugging her and letting her pass through my cat-forsaken doors. In fact, there were nights when I would let her sleep on the foot of my bed. When I began to experience major allergic reactions to my entire bedroom due to the constant existence of dander, I just took allergy medications and carried on.

But the point of this story isn't about a rocky relationship with a cat. It's about the rocky relationship that I have with all boys. You see, shortly after I began to extend kindness towards Sugar, she fell in love with me. She would follow me around the house and take naps next to my work space. If I went to sleep without her in my room, she would sit at my door and complain until I let her in. Although this sounds romantic, it isn't.

I began to feel like she was encroaching on my personal space, suffocating me. I felt like I wouldn't be able to love her as much as she loved me, so I told her to leave me alone and spare herself the heartache. "It's not you, it is TOTALLY me. We gotta just be friends, I'm so sorry."

And just as I was breaking up with my cat, I realized I had commitment issues. The story of my life unfolded before me, boy after boy after boy after boy after cat. It was a repetitive tale of momentary interest followed by a sudden disappearance. I can't tolerate people being close to me, and in this way, I have become so good at pushing away.

I put the NO CAT! signs back up, shampooed the carpet and changed my sheets, eliminating all traces of dander and unrequited love. I exercised the clean and neat parting that I've grown so proficient at: No commitment, no obligations, no disappointments, no cat, no relationship.

It sounds lonely, and it actually really is. I've endured years of being single before, though not for lack of trying. Attachments kind of scare me. A lot. Perhaps this is why I so often take off traveling, leaving home for another country faster than anyone would believe logical or even safe. I have a huge heart, but one that I keep to myself; secured and barricaded behind every defensive force imaginable. Truth be told, I don't know how to change.

But last week, I surprised myself by intentionally leaving my door open before I went to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, my cat was sleeping at the foot of my bed, already forgiving my love retraction. I took an allergy pill, gathered her up in my arms and told her that what we had was true love.

And one day, I'll get it right in the human world too.

Otherwise, perfectly normal.

2010-03-19T23:52:00.003-10:00

I consider myself a somewhat fearless person, so when I come across something that legitimately terrifies me, I make note of it.

Top Two Fears

1) I'm afraid of pregnancy, baby bumps, babies, fetuses and little children. It started about three years ago when one of my best friends became pregnant. I haven't had many people in my life bear children, so this whole transformation was brand new and downright disgusting. At around eight months pregnant, she came over to my house and lifted her shirt to display the grandness of her stomach. Where most people would see a miracle, I saw a parasite: A little fetus feeding off her body, growing bigger and stronger until it could push itself out. The little baby inside her kicked, and when her stomach moved, I asked her to leave.

2) Buildings collapsing underneath me. I was in Italy, walking up a spiral staircase made of marble, when I realized that marble was a heavy material. I looked at the supports for the stairs, noted that they were only thin metal bars protruding from the walls, and my relationships with buildings have never been the same. When I don't understand why a structure is considered sound, I panic. Many buildings in Europe are centuries old, sometimes being built atop ruins and subway lines, making stability a harder concept to grasp. In Thailand, I couldn't walk on wooden platforms (ie. Bridges, staircases, houses, boats), thinking that they would collapse beneath me. Balconies, they make even less sense, so I don't stand on those either.

Otherwise, I'm perfectly normal.

Hair length and life.

2010-03-19T11:34:00.000-10:00

For years, I kept my hair short. Whenever it was time for a trim, I would approach my old boyfriend and ask if he preferred it longer or shorter. In retrospect, I realize what a loaded question this was and I do feel sorry for putting the boy on the spot. But, like any well-trained animal, he smiled obediently and said that it didn't matter.

In truth, he liked it long - there are few guys who don't. But he cared about me enough to appreciate the person I was regardless of how he preferred things. Though it would have pleased him more to have me grow out my hair, he accepted that my happiness was more important, and dismissed the alternative.

This is exactly how I feel about my brother.

My brother is two years younger than me and my polar opposite. Today we had a conversation about the broad topic of life, and when he mentioned that he was interested in establishing a family, my heart went into a dramatized cardiac arrest. No, I thought, children are the personification of hard work and obligation. You'll no longer have a life of your own as it'll be devoted to miniature people who won't appreciate your sacrifices for another 20 years. You're young and better off without them!

But I sat there, clutching my heart while forcing myself to look like I wasn't dying. His decisions have always differed from my own. I value a certain (large) amount of freedom that enables me to travel whimsically. I'm secretly afraid of bearing children, associating a personal pregnancy with the end of my young adult life. And yet. I love my brother enough to respect his thoughts.

What I'm trying to say is, although I would prefer him to live a life more similar to mine, it wouldn't satisfy him in the same way. In the end, his happiness is what matters most to me. Hair length doesn't even factor.

Final Fantasy and the Forever Fanatics.

2010-03-18T23:09:00.002-10:00

I've been wild about Final Fantasy since I was in middle school. I could easily log over 100 game-time hours from diligently fulfilling side-quests and leveling up.

I was a freak from the start. I was in love with animated characters whose birthdays were logged in my calender. My binders were collaged with Final Fantasy cutouts, stolen from a plethora of my brother's gaming magazines. When I was 14, I created the screen name "hgFate," hg represented one of my favorite TV shows at the time, and Fate stood for FF8, the acronym of Final Fantasy VIII. In part, this does help to understand why I had few friends in high school, but by the time I was in college, this gaming obsession was my metaphorical "in" with the gentlemen. By gentlemen, I do mean other socially inept boys with weight and skin problems. Regardless, Nix was not deterred.

I purchased sequel after sequel, learning how to read and write roman numerals in the process. I got up to the third disk in Final Fantasy IX before my memory card was mysteriously wiped out. The game was unimpressive enough to allow me to be okay with that, and I resumed life as usual. Final Fantasy X met my expectations despite having a douche for the main character, while Final Fantasy X-2 was an all around embarrassment. I was never into online gaming, so when the MMORPG (Massively-multiplayer online role-playing game), Final Fantasy XI debuted, I was sadly not in the forefront. However, I was frequenting a particular internet cafe during a time when FFXI was being promoted in Hawaii, so based off of my gender alone, I was asked to help staff the event. There were boys who looked like they never left the darkness of their energy drink infested bedrooms, asking me to pose next to computers so they could immortalize the image on their desktops.

What I'm trying to exemplify is that I'm dedicated to the Final Fantasy series. I just went out to purchase the latest edition, Final Fantasy XIII, and I've been playing for a total of three hours. The thing is, my console has been running for the past eight hours. If you're wondering why this doesn't add up, it's simply because I've walked away from the game multiple times. In fact, I took a nap right there on the couch, falling asleep after a random battle. All in all, this is a bad sign.

I'm dubious, but I'm not deterred. I'll keep at it for days if I have have to, but the rumors I'm hearing aren't easing my disappointments. Final Fantasy XIII, you have an expectation to fulfill and a 24-year-old to entertain.

Don't tell me I'm too old for this.

Age is just a number

2010-03-18T00:50:00.000-10:00

But alas, this number discourages me from going out on a school night. I like my six hours of sleep. And season 3 of Heroes.

Ode to Ireland

2010-03-17T23:51:00.003-10:00

It was the first day of 2009 and I was drinking far more than my body could handle. I had been waking up past noon and going to bed at sunrise for the past four days, feeding myself oily plates of fish and chips in order to sustain myself. I was in Ireland, and there was no other way to experience it.

I was staying with the family of a boy that I had met in a pub in Germany. The night we met, he drunkenly offered an invitation to Ireland, and I drunkenly accepted. Days later, tickets were bought and by New Years eve, I was banging pots and pans in the streets of Arklow, "chasing away the faeries." The memories of that trip have been fogged over by alcohol, but the most important facts remain.

1) Small town living is creepy, though novel if you're a visitor. I stayed in an offbeat village called Arklow, where everyone knew everyone and who everyone knew. My first night was spent in a pub and moments after my arrival, a man drunkenly swaggered past my booth, stared obtrusively, pointed directly at my face and slurred, "HEEEEEeeyeyyyeeey," which I assumed to directly translate as, "Well good gracious, you're new in these parts, aren't you?" By the end of the night, he had written me a poem and the entire pub had introduced themselves to me. I'm pretty sure I didn't pay for any beer either.

2) The Irish breakfast - generally comprised of Irish sausage, Irish bacon, black pudding, white pudding, eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, Irish beans, Irish butter and Dubliner cheese - is somehow disgusting when sober, and yet has miraculous healing powers when hung over.

3) And lastly, Guinness is the most delicious beer ever invented, and nothing other than what streams forth from the frothy nozzle of an Irish keg will ever do it justice. The chilled glass pints, the bubbly foam head, the shot of raspberry currant and the sounds of two-dozen drunk Irish patrons will make that first sip forever memorable. It helps if there's someone in the background playing a fiddle, and when you're in Ireland, there's usually someone in the background playing a fiddle.

Though I'm not celebrating St. Patrick's Day this year, I hope every one else is having a grand time. For now, I'll just have to revisit the Irish on my own.

Me, Guinness, Ireland; December 2009.

Grimm Magic

2010-03-17T00:01:00.001-10:00

(Circa December 2009, Germany. A notebook excerpt).

It's been a year since I ran through these woods, a regular afternoon pastime to ingest fresh air and stay fit. My old route was instinctive and it seemed to run under me instead of the other way around. The woods were exactly as I remembered them, populated with naked giants, their black bones reaching up to shake their fists at the cold. Their roots were hidden under forgotten leaves, piling and piling and piling up. I jogged around a tree and dragged my gloved fingers across its bark, continuing an old habit from 2008 and conveying the same secret message, "Hello again, tree."

The same mud patches were patched in mud and I laughed as usual as I gracelessly hopped around the worst of it. The halfway-hill was just as steep and I adopted the same restrained job to keep myself from flying forward.

But the thin streams that ran along the last leg home were dry and I wondered what became of the school of freshwater mermaids that would swim alongside me as my heart thumped my feet forward. I was the only half-breed in the woods that day, but the magic of the German forest was in infinite supply.

I dared not spit near the trees as I still believed that they had the power to absorb my DNA and transform into my duplicate. It's the way these trees moved on to their second life, and they wait in earnest for one of us to give them the opportunity.

Every path had a story and every run created more. The woods were no longer a conglomeration of flora, but instead, a living storybook where each corner was synonymous with the turning of pages. As I neared the end of my route, I already knew that running would never get any better than this.

Notebook ingenuity.

2010-03-16T22:03:00.004-10:00

I carry around a little notebook to record my thoughts during moments of ingenuity or inspiration. Most of the time, however, I end up with useless scribbles that mean little to me once I forget their context. The last three entries, for example, are testament to my inability to appear intelligent at all times:

3) A list entitled, "AN IDEAL USE OF TIME," followed by 11 ridiculous sub-points. Ladyfy thyself, and, Have a lovely breakfast with tea, makes me wonder if I was abducted by a Debutante.

2) A series of one-lined questions addressed to no one.
   * Is the force within you?
   * What shape does your patronus take?
   * In which activity did you win your gold medal?

1) And two haikus about tofu that were created when I enthusiastically declared a class-wide tofu haiku showdown. I managed to coerce the boy behind me into participating, and after convincing another boy to be the judge, I somehow lost the competition. The proof is in my Moleskine.

Healthy little cubes

Jiggly wobbly slippery

As I swallow it

Asian creation

Coagulated soy milk

Suddenly tofu!

(Ps. I'm not saying the judgement was sexually biased, but there's no other explanation for my loss. Tofu isn't Jiggly).

Despite these nonsensical scribbles, I do sometimes come across an entry that is worthwhile. Writing, in all its forms, has given me a solid history, residually allowing my life to be captured within these pages. No matter how many repetitive To-Do lists I create or unfinished thoughts I jot down, it'll all be worth a revisit when I'm 50, not retired and fed up with raising my dirty children. One day the ingenuity will show itself, but until then, five fail-proof ways on how to dominate a 10-year-old in Monopoly will have to do.

Don't ask.

The New Order of People Nix Would Like To Meet and Befriend

2010-03-16T00:07:00.000-10:00

I have a running list that goes on in my head of people that I'd like to meet and befriend. The order of importance changes every now and again, but for the most part, the individuals remain. So who, you ask, would Nix like to add to her list of cohorts? Well I'm thrilled that you asked as it instills the perfect segue.

THE NEW ORDER OF PEOPLE NIX WOULD LIKE TO MEET AND BEFRIEND, v.1
1) Nick and Joe Jonas (ps. The seriousness of having these two on my list in the first place can be exemplified by the fact that I had edited the initial listing in order to include Kevin Jonas. As much as it would thrill me to meet Kevin Jonas, he doesn't actually make the New Order listing. It was only out of fear that the Jonas Brother fraternity would look down upon my favoritism, therefore restricting my chances of actually meeting Nick and Joe by half).

2. Andrew Bravener. If YouTube and Canada had a love child that I would enjoy stalking, Andrew B. would be it (Not to say I wouldn't Google the whereabouts of gunnarolla, but Bravener does something to my brain). Yes, he's dashing in a rugged lumberjack way, but my favorite part about him is his speech. I wanna call this guy up on the telephone just to ask him what he ate for breakfast and then immerse myself in the sound of his minor lisps. He also creates quality YouTube content.

3. Mitchell Davis of livelavalive, Michael Aranda of michaelaranda, Natalie Tran of CommunityChannel

Actually, let me stop right here. With the exception of the Jonas Brothers, everyone that I plan on listing henceforth are all YouTube personalities. I think this says something about both my social life and my standards.

I may have reached a new low.

King Ruben IV

2010-03-15T22:11:00.001-10:00

I'm an advocate of snail mail. In fact, I consider myself an advocate of all things past; you know, home gardening, hand sewing, taking the stairs, libraries, regular Nintendo. But nothing makes me happier than to send and receive things with the help of the good old fashioned postal system. All through my travels I have sent dozens of postcards per trip to friends and family across the world. Amsterdam, Berlin, Chiang Mai, Dubai, Edinburgh, Florence... And that's just the first six letters of the alphabet.

Despite this gargantuan effort, I rarely receive anything in return. This doesn't upset me, but it does make a package with my name on it that much more special. I actually video-taped myself opening this one, as if airmail was an infinitely rare and precious gift (which it is indeed).

This was sent to me by Ruben IV, a friend in the far-off Philippines. It took a week and a half to make its way to Hawaii, which is a far superior speed to that of the Italian postal system (don't get me started). I knew what was inside, but I wasn't anticipating tie dye to look so COOL.

This was actually hand-dyed by a boy which, in itself, blows my mind. I am tempted to frame it as testament to the impossible (that boys are capable of achieving a gold star in arts and crafts), but somehow that might do an injustice to his hard work. If you are a boy who hopes to prove me wrong yet again, I'll give you my address and you can send me some homemade goods. As for now, Ruben IV, you are my king.

The woes of ex-ex-patriotism

2010-03-15T19:58:00.002-10:00

My life has become significantly less interesting since I’ve become an ex-expat. I try to supplement my blog with little excursions that I do around the island, but going to Ala Moana Beach Park for a BBQ just isn’t the same as going to Venice for the weekend. Remember when I got lost by myself in Paris where I later learned the fundamentals of travel the hard way? Well, I recently got lost while looking for Friday-night parking in downtown Honolulu and only walked away with the steadfast conviction that one-way roads should be outlawed. The later doesn’t quite have the same appeal.

But I refuse to settle into the belief that home has to be synonymous with boring. I am extraordinarily fortunate to call this tropical island my place of residence. People frequently travel to Hawaii and their experiences are usually filled with exoticism, lush beaches and smoking hot local boys*, all of which are at my daily disposal! Do I have a desire to take advantage of it? Yes. Am I successful? Rarely, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

So a little goal has birthed itself. You’ll be hearing from me in excess over the next week just so I can prove to you that a story can be found regardless of where you’re looking for it. In many cases, adventure is just disguised as something we’ve already seen before. Sometimes, all it takes are new eyes.

*By “smoking hot local boys,” I actually mean “underaged Asians.”

Chinese New Year in Hawaii

2010-02-21T16:49:00.000-10:00

Chinese New Year is something my mom, grandma and I have been celebrating together off and on throughout the years. Unfortunately, grandma is no longer with us, but my dad was kind enough to tag along.

We covered the usual ground of feeding lions, buying food and participating in superstitious Asian customs such as fortune telling and jewelry investments.

This has been filmed in Hawaii, so expect slight differences in how we celebrate. Happy Chinese New Year!

Facebookers, link to the video here ;)

71. Learn to drive a stick shift vehicle.

2010-02-15T13:16:00.000-10:00

I have these goals that I've been working on, 101 of them to be exact. I have 1001 days to complete them and though the numbers seem daunting, they're not so bad when taken in stride.

The latest quest has been to tackle goal number 71) Learn to drive a stick shift vehicle.

I've tried to accomplish this off and on throughout the years starting shortly after I got my license, driving around my high school parking lot in my Dad's big blue Aerostar. I once tried with my neighbor/best friend back in 2004, grinding the gears of his brand new vehicle in the middle of the night. An exboyfriend tried to teach me, though his patience was limited and I wound up crying at the steering wheel, and then my brother later took me around the neighborhood in vain attempts to get me driving stick. I live in an area that is basically one large hill, so not only did that lesson run short, but I never got behind of the wheel of a manual transmission car again.

That is, until I sent out a request on Facebook for someone to play the role of teacher for a girl who seemed stick-shift impaired. John H. answered the call, and within weeks, I was perched in the front seat of his truck.

Were we successful? You be the judge.

Facebook, link here.

Nixfunkle Goes Geocaching

2010-02-10T22:40:00.000-10:00

Geocaching: A form of high tech treasure hunting that I haven't been privy to until Ryan dragged me out of my shell and forced a GPS in my hand.

For a simplified explanation, someone would go out, hide a container of varying size and mark its coordinates on the internet. From here, this location can be accessed by other geocachers who then go out, GPS in hand, and search for it. Believe me, this is not nearly as easy as it sounds; The hiding places that people can execute are mind-blowing.

Ryan and I spent an entire day, scavaging around parks, deserted lots and beach cliffs only to successfully uncover seven of our original 15 locations. When you find one it's awesome all over. When you don't... well, let's just say that the walk back to the car sucks a lot more. Regardless, found caches or not, it was a great time and a worthy adventure.

For more information on the history of Geocaching, or just if you're interested in participating, go to www.geocaching.com and sign up.

Facebook, link here.

Also, many thanks to Ryan for putting up with my slow walking and short attention spans. You're super (with a German accent).

Thoughts on pidgin from a hapa haole.

2010-01-27T19:01:00.001-10:00

My Hawaiian Studies class frequently sends me home in a state of deep thought. It's perplexing only because I solely expect to learn about the pacific islands, and yet, I spend hours musing on questions like, "what is your culture?" It's pertinent, and yet, vastly more intriguing than I anticipated.

Today we watched a film on pidgin English and before we left, our professor said, "Think about pidgin." Now, this almost seems like a last ditch phrase to encourage your students to study, but I found myself actually thinking about pidgin while I walked back to my car. While I drove home. While I ate dinner. Did you know that in 1920, the Hawaii school system became segregated? Not by race, but by language. Standard American English speakers went to good schools and those who spoke pidgin didn't. You think my grandma passed that oral exam? Do you think yours did?

And so the school system nipped pidgin in the bud, making it a lesser form of speaking. What, you don't have that stigma? Without being told directly, I grew up believing that pidgin speakers were associated with the lesser educated when really, pidgin is our culture. It's the dying spawn of a conglomeration of plantation workers, inventing a language through input and effort in order to communicate across barriers. My great and great great grandparents helped to found pidgin! My grandma carried it with her everywhere she went and I... well, I helped to kill it. I wanted to be distinctly different from the pidgin speaking kids at school, I wanted to be associated with words like "educated" and "proper" so I enunciated from the day I could speak. I conjugated properly and kept my tenses right, and pidgin, why, that creole never had a chance with me.

But without pidgin, we'd be that much closer to losing what's left of the identity of Hawaii. And though I travel and often find myself on the turf of others, these islands are still my home. No matter where I go in the world, no matter what I see, I always have the inherent belief that Hawaii is the most unique of them all. But filter out our language, make it pure and white, and you'll have nothing more particular than what you find on the rest of the US. The native Hawaiian culture has already taken a blow from tourism, don't let pidgin go aloha print too.

You got me a what?

2010-01-26T22:48:00.000-10:00

Someone knocked on my door early Monday morning. It was my brother, Shaun, and he said to me, "I got you a treasure chest." I do this thing where my eyebrow goes up and I exude skepticism, which was his cue to repeat himself, "I got you a treasure chest. It's outside."

So, abandoning the task of getting dressed, I went to investigate just what exactly he meant by treasure chest.

I should have known that it was out of character for him to be metaphorical and poetic, because what I found waiting for me in the garage was a bona-fide treasure chest. It is also quite possibly the coolest thing I have ever received. You must concur.

Also! I recapped my first month being back home in the following video. Included are snippets of: Italian homecoming party, a failed Oreo back, mochi making, new years eve, new years day, Japanese traditions, cemetery visits and a shaka outro! Enjoy! (ps. If I saw you this month, then you are likely to have made a cameo somewhere in these four minutes!)

Facebook, you know the drill.

Viewing Pleasure.

2010-01-19T17:46:00.001-10:00

Maintaining a blog originated as a way to memorialize my experiences abroad and keep in touch with the people back home. The thing is that I now have friends in places other than Hawaii, and my adventures are able to continue no matter where I am. To stop now would only satiate a lazy version of myself and, needless to say, I'm not enthusiastic about indulging lethargy.

Proof of a good time, if you haven't seen it already, a BBQ set up sea side with friends and lots of fish.

For facebook users, the link is HIER. Of course, subscribing would do you good too.

Not to overload you with videos, but I have also put another one up recently, and this is what I'm going to call, "A Year of Dance." For those of you know were familiar with how I was making my living abroad, you know that I spent the entirety of my working hours with four girls, two of which I taught English to. They have been a source of both joy and learning for me, and so the least I could do was to immortalize our time together in the form of a dance montage. Indeed, we danced a lot.

Facebook, QUI. Subscribe.

I suppose you'll hear from me again, soon, as my 101 Goals depend on it.

Christmas 2009

2010-01-04T10:24:00.000-10:00

The holiday season in Hawaii is celebrated in a wide variety of ways depending on certain upbringings. There’s a plethora of cultures and ethnicities on the islands, so much so that there is no majority race. In fact, 20% of the population come from multi-ethnic backgrounds, like myself, resulting in a widespread fusion of culture.

My moms side of the family has been born and raised in Hawaii for many generations, though ethnically, we are Japanese. The following footage is from Christmas 2009, typical to how I’ve been celebrating it for the past 24 years. Enjoy!

For FB users, click here (Or just subscribe!)

How I ended up in Japan.

2009-12-22T21:46:00.001-10:00

Prologue: This is a story about a short lived strike, a snowstorm, a cancellation, a ten hour wait, an airport picnic, a secret birthday and how I ultimately ended up in Tokyo, Japan.

Point 1: The British Airways' almost-strike was as short lived and it was stressful. The anxiety of rerouting my holiday pilgrimage home was unbearable if not completely hopeless. One million people were in the same boat as I and it seemed like they all beat me to the punch. Few options were available and nothing was affordable. I spent days whining about it with fellow BA dumpees before the strike was revoked and all returned to normal.

Point 2: The day before my departure, news of heavy snow reached over into my schedule and called for creative and preemptive planning. To beat the foul weather, I immediately booked a hotel on the toes of the airport and bid my Italian home a premature, if not down-right hasty, farewell. It was me against the weather and in the end, the weather slapped me in the face and laughed. Hysterically.

Point 3: At six in the morning, as I waited at the check-in desk, we were told that the flight was cancelled due to snow. In fact, it was announced that the entire international airport would be at a standstill until just after 1pm. It was at this point that I went to stock up on rations as I anticipated a widespread form of cabin fever.

Point 4: I purchased a bottle of water and two identical sandwiches - the second to be saved for emergency bartering and leverage. Of course, before I had a chance to wheel and deal with my ham and cheese, I nearly ran over a girl from my flight who was fortified between her luggage. As all great ideas go, I spontaneously parked my cart and sat down next to her exclaiming that I had food for us both and insisting that we have a picnic. We spent the next six hours together, avoiding the topic of how we had just missed our connecting flights and therefore left with no idea on how we would reach our prospective families.

Point 5: I inherently knew that I wouldn't make it home in time to celebrate the dwindling hours of my birthday. So, while my new friend was in the middle of a knit one/purl two, I shared the unacknowledged fact that I was turning one year older. She asked if the airport sold cake and then wished me the only happy birthday I was able to receive. I saved the sound of it in my head, in a place I could recall, as it was the only moment I had to remind me of the 24th anniversary of my birth.

Point 6: I was eventually told to rebook my ticket at the British Airways ticket counter and though the line took hours, I managed to get rerouted for the soonest possible flight. Now, instead of the original London to LA plan, I would be heading in the opposite direction: Japan. I received my new tickets to Tokyo with accompanying instructions to run - the flight was already boarding and I still had to pass through security. I've always wanted to dash though airport terminals the way they did in the beginning of Home Alone, but it's not nearly as exciting as it appears on screen. I managed to shed half my clothing mid-flight while simultaneously knocking down foreigners. I got to the boarding gate just in time to do the travelers equivalent of the "walk of shame." My fellow passengers glared me down as I made my way along the empty aisles, obviously the last to board and the reason for the hold back. I took my seat and thanked my lucky stars that I was finally getting the first foot out of Europe regardless of how long it took and how much longer it would take.

Epilogue*: I have a longer than ever layover in Japan which I am making the most of. Being back in Asia is invigorating and I know there's a permanent spot for it in my heart. I'm drinking tea and eating rice and my body has never been happier, though my wallet can't stop scorning the Yen exchange rate. While I live off the rest of my hours abroad, I bid you all farewell and a promise to see you in the morning.

*I'm currently back in Hawaii, though both my suitcases are lost somewhere. Go. Figure.

A German Skinny Dip

2009-12-06T09:10:00.000-10:00

I've wanted to skinny dip ever since the night my brother took off all his clothes and slid into our undersized front-yard pond and sat amongst the guppies. He said it tickled and though I told him he was disgusting and simultaneously catching the incurable form of the fish flu, I was undoubtedly jealous.

It would be another ten years before I shed my clothes of thread and swapped them for 1000 gallons of water. Of course, I would have never expected it to happen in Germany during the first week of December.

"I didn't think to bring my swimsuit."
They shrugged.
"Naked swimming?"
They shrugged.
"Alright, naked swimming it is."

And ten minutes later I was living an old fantasy, staring at the stars from my rippling liquid gown.

The last country.

2009-11-25T13:49:00.000-10:00

A year ago, I was living in Germany. It's easy to forget, perhaps, as time has a way of buffering down the details. In two weeks I'll embark on my final journey, back to the small town of Wassenberg where it all began. In the heart of my last goodbyes, I'll be taking the first steps towards a conclusion by sealing away the introduction.

The final flight, the last country. Germany completes the circle.

Too pensive to be healthy.

2009-11-24T13:23:00.000-10:00

Would you blame me if all entries henceforth go on about me leaving Europe and returning to Hawaii? What I'm doing, going back home to finish my schooling, is the correct decision. My future can not progress towards my ideals without a degree. Still, that big step forward also doubles as that big step away. As frequently as I've had to say goodbye to people and places, I'm no better at it than I was to start out with. Contrary to how I may behave, I am sentimental and I get attached. Like a starfish that is so rooted to a spot, I have difficulty leaving a place once I set my feet down. And yet, without constant motion I would starve, always hungry for the places I haven't been. A nomad I may be, but my heart falls in love with everything it sees - a rather painful way of life at times, perhaps, but worth it. Passion, in the end, is never short at hand.

As of late, I've allowed myself to drift into a state of melancholy, sending sad eyes to buildings and street signs, trying to embed their images into the part of my mind that is capable of remembering. Then, as if to protect their feelings, I always add, "I'll be back and we'll see each other again." I do this in part because I believe it to be true, so much so that the sentence might as well be fact. I will return as my business here is unfinished. I have yet to experience Vienna, Prague, Budapest, Warsaw, the entirety of Greece, Portugal and Denmark. In truth, I have barely scratched the surface of Europe. With so much left to learn, it would be impossible to stay away.

I have friends here and family too, and memories of experiences that have shaped my life. The truth is that I'm not the same person who arrived here heartbroken and dejected in 2008. I owe much of who I am to this continent and those who have taken me into their hearts. Saying goodbye this time will be more complex than any other farewell I have ever given. Am I prepared? No. Will I ever be?

Likely not.

Pack Attack

2009-11-23T09:36:00.000-10:00

There are less than four weeks until I return home to Hawaii, and yet, the fate of my possessions has still gone unsettled. It can only be natural that after a year and a half of living abroad, one would accumulate at least twice as much as they arrived with. I am the exception - I have accumulated three times that amount.

I've done what research I could and found an affordable alternative to shipping my heavier goods. How I have accumulated so many books is beyond the capacity of my memory. What you see below are just the ones that made the cut.

So, by Wednesday, my travel books will be doing what they do best and I'll be twenty-seven days behind them. Gradually, the shelves will become bare, the walls will get naked and I'll be left in a room with high ceilings and four obese suitcases.

This is where you tell me I have too much hair.

Dance like you're in a circus.

2009-11-22T10:55:00.000-10:00

You don't realize you've never been to a circus until someone asks if you've ever been to a circus. As a first time circus goer, I thought I'd make a little documentary of my night under the big top

All in all, great fun, and if you can't view the video, click HERE!

All I can think about is how afraid I am of returning home.

2009-11-21T13:25:00.000-10:00

Moving back to Hawaii feels like a break-up and I don't know if I'll be able to handle the distance.

Nobody knows what I am

2009-11-20T03:16:00.000-10:00

I'm referring to ethnic ambiguity. When you're half Japanese and half white, you could very well get away with being any race depending on the context.

I know my existence confuses people. We meet and their eyes attempt to process exactly what they see, but it's difficult because I share traits with both the east and west sides of the world. If I'm surrounded by white Europeans then I'm Chinese, which was demonstrated to me by a girl who, ten minutes after meeting me, asked, "So where are you from? China?" I was taken aback of course, being that my English had distinct traces of an American accent, but I was willing to overlook her automatic assumption. Afterall, there are only thirty seven countries in Asia, all of which possess a different nationality of people, so how could I blame her for picking the biggest one first.

Then, when I was in the United Arab Emerates, which is technically more Asia than Europe and yet still somewhere in between, I was once asked if I was "Red Indian." A quick image search in Google shows me only one picture of a female Red Indian:

Now, if there are two things to be learned from this, let it be these:

1. I do not look like that.

2. If Google has only one picture of a Red Indian, then it's highly unlikely that you've ever actually seen a Red Indian. Therefore, the only conclusion I can come up with is that I look so foreign to you that you feel the need to compare me to an endangered ethnic community.

But the most interesting verdict that people have come to is in some ways more sensical. In fact, this is the situation that happens most frequently. It usually begins with me talking to myself, saying something daft like, "I wish I were the niece of King Midas' second cousin from Japan so that I could turn everything I touch into rice... God, I'm so Asian." At the mention of me being Asian, conversation will stop, all heads will turn and someone will bravely ask, "You're Asian?"

This is the part of the story where time freezes and I feel the need to reassess who I am, where I am and who exactly these people are. Yes, I'm Asian, I'm in my apartment and I obviously don't know these people well enough. At this point I can clarify the misunderstanding by asking, "Of course I'm Asian, what did you think I was?"

The answer they give is brilliant: Hawaiian. "I've never seen anybody from Hawaii before so I just assumed you were Hawaiian." And you have to admit, that makes a lot of sense. How is anyone supposed to know that there's a distinct difference between me and a true, ethnic Hawaiian? How are they supposed to know that I am the epitome of straight-up Haole? If not Hawaiian, then what else could I be?

The truth is that there's no way to know. Chalk me up to being a half breed, a mutt, whatever you can think of and I'll take it as long as it still retains some semblance to what I actually am: JapaneseGermanIrishScottishWelsh.

Okay fine, just Hapa.

That's not Italian.

2009-11-19T13:03:00.000-10:00

It's a well-known fact that I am incapable of being constant so this shouldn't be a surprise.

Baking Soda does it all.

2009-11-18T01:03:00.000-10:00

Italians are not proficient bakers of sweets, though nothing compared to the South Koreans whose homes are not equipped with ovens at all. Still, the use of Bicarbonato di Sodio, or baking soda, is used here more often than I have ever seen. Aside from leavening your basic cakes and tarts, the Italians use baking soda to give a small fizz to their water. In fact, to purchase baking soda from your local supermarket, one would first have to peruse the soft-drink section in order to find it.

In addition, I've also seen people wash their fresh produce in a bowl with a mixture of water and baking soda. Ask Arm & Hammer and they'll suggest you scrub your fruits with a sponge sprinkled with their product. I tried it on my apples once and, not to sound like the son of a skeptic, but I couldn't tell the difference either way.

Still, the strangest use I've seen demonstrated for me in this country would be the direct application of baking soda on the teeth. It makes partial sense as I've seen my toothpaste tubes declaring its partnership with baking soda, tag teaming to eliminate cavities AND whiten your teeth for the good price of one. But is it possible (or even wise) for baking soda to accomplish more than just making your cupcakes fluffy?

Nix: So tell me about bicarbonato di sodio.

Rebe (she's 11): I sometimes put toothpaste, then salt and then baking soda on my toothbrush because it whitens your teeth. It's disgusting. But it's useful.

Nix: Who told you to do that?

Rebe: My daddy.

Nix: Do you do it everyday?

Rebe: No! Absolutely not. Otherwise it ruins your gums. You do it once a month.

And there you have it. The many uses of baking soda in Italy. Be warned if you decide to try out the last option as baking soda is surprisingly salty and therefore downright disgusting on the palate. My advice is to brush your teeth first, numbing your taste buds with that fresh and clean minty flavor before giving it a second go with BS (and by BS, I do of course mean Baking Soda).

When bulbs burn out

2009-11-16T10:08:00.000-10:00

I'm not saying that our apartment is falling apart, but things have ways of leaking, clogging, sticking, breaking and malfunctioning like you wouldn't believe. The lights in my room flicker so often that I once had to ask my flatmate if I was having seizures or if she could see the flashes too. During the summer, the generator in the apartment upstairs exploded and the residual water dripped liquid into our bathroom for a week (so don't even get me started on the multi-colored mold that has since taken root on our ceiling). As if our bathroom couldn't take any more, its only bulb burnt out and the plastic shell that covered it refused to come off. It's been showers by candlelight and pee-time in the dark.

While searching for a replacement bulb, however, we did stumble across an old Christmas tin, filled to the brim with gaudy holiday decorations. Plastic snowflakes covered in gold sparkles, cartoon drawings of baby Jesus, a few rotting pine cones, fake poinsettia flowers and a flashy red sign that read, "Buone Feste," Or Happy Holidays in Italian. Suddenly, with the excitement of children, we abandoned the light bulb quest and set about with decorating our meager flat. Virgin Mary here, plastic ornaments there and that tacky "Buone Feste" sign to be hung and taped to the front of our door.

I grabbed my scratch paper and threw it on the kitchen counter, declaring the next ten minutes to be paper snowflake crafting time. Annika and I set to work, trying to remember just precisely how to fold those things in the first place. The first few came out square, like babies born to paper box fish, and the most horrific ended up accompanying the Buone Feste sign outside. The hilarity the snowflakes created distracted us for long minutes until I finally had to ask, "is something burning?"

During our arts and crafts, Annika forgot her pot of lentils on the stove and the fumes wafted up and out our windows smelling strangely identical to marijuana. The boy who lives upstairs caught me laughing in the hallway and I invited him to our entrance to admire the new decor. He commented on the smell and left, to which I shouted after him, "Eh, Buone Feste!" And closed that pathetic door behind me.

The dreams that cause you to wake up crying.

2009-11-15T18:05:00.000-10:00

I had been living abroad for a year and my mom was there to pick me up at the airport. This was a dream that was a continuation of now, except it was taking place in December 2008 - two months before my grandma would pass away.

It was nice to be back in Hawaii and the weather was warm, though the sun was setting and I was tired. Mom parked the car outside the house, except it was the house we used to live in ten years ago. Inside, it was full of life. Family moving around and holiday dishes being created. I looked around and saw my aunties, my uncles, my cousins, my dad. And Grandma. She was exactly as I remember her, and I missed her. I went up to grandma and asked if I could help her cook. She asked if I knew how to make six-minute pie and I didn't. Wanting to spend as much time with her as possible, I said, "If there's a twenty-five minute chicken, then maybe I can help." So she brought out a cutting board and I knew she was going to teach me. She brought out the baking soda and measured it, tapping the portion out onto the cutting board. Then she grabbed the flour and as she was scooping it with a measuring cup, she looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry we didn't make more things." In my sleep, I started to cry. What she meant was, "I'm sorry we didn't do more together when I was alive." With both versions of myself crying, one in the bed and one in the kitchen, I said, "Grandma, we did the perfect amount."

The tale of the super chestnuts.

2009-11-15T08:54:00.000-10:00

Around midday, my flatmate and I walked over to a small market near the park to both stretch our Sunday legs and stock up on fresh produce.

We both have had a big thing for chestnuts which goes back to a few weeks ago to when her coworkers gave her a full bag to prepare at home. We sat around that day, peeling shells and commenting on how delicious something so simple could be. So, when I saw a dozen burlap sacks filled to the brim, I knew I had to be assertive and order a kilo.

With an enthusiasm that can only emerge when ordering chestnuts, I read the sign and said to the old man, "Un kilo di SUPER MARRONI!" Now, In order for you to understand the ways in which I embarrassed myself, you're going to have to take note of a few things.

1. Marroni = Chestnuts

2. The sign actually says, "Super offerta" (super offer).

3. I read, "Super Marroni"

4. I meant to say "Super Marroni!"

5. But I actually said, "ZZZUPER MARRONI!"

Ja, das ist wahr.

Like falling in love with someone far away.

2009-11-12T22:28:00.000-10:00

I've been in Berlin for one day, and already I am feeling something strange. With Venice, I felt the need to revisit, but with Berlin, I feel like I need to stay. For a few real (long) moments, I contemplated moving directly here after Italy - After all, I am only a two hour flight away. But, the reality of income and visas come into play and it's easy to dismiss the idea as a partially bad one.

So, I formulated a plan: Go back to school, study German, get my degree, move to Berlin and teach at an international school. I so rarely have definitive emotions with decisive goals that this feeling of certainty is almost bazar just because it's so... novel. This may actually be the start of a new motivation in my life. Over the past year I've figured that I wanted to teach abroad, though I didn't know where. Without that destination in mind, my plans felt lackluster and fragile. Why, any change of circumstance could reset my ideas altogether as nothing was rooted to begin with.

But now, like falling in love with someone far away, I am making the risky decision to format my life in ways that make that long distance love compatible. I will mold myself through education into someone more qualified for life in this city. And with that, I begin.

What official looks like

2009-11-11T23:29:00.000-10:00

Monopolio

2009-11-11T22:15:00.000-10:00

I was playing Monopoly with one of the girls, and I had a difficult time taking it seriously as:

1. It was in Italian.

2. The pieces were wooden replicas of a mushroom, a candle and three wine jugs.

3. The "GO!" square now said, "VIA!"

4. And I was buying property in the dead Italian currency of the Lira.

The arrival.

2009-11-11T11:50:00.000-10:00

The first day is always the most exhausting. In theory, getting from here to there should be the easiest part, though for some reason it is just the opposite. I was up at 3am, packing last minute essentials before my taxi arrived. When he did, he sped through the city unobstructed by signs of human life and thus, free to ignore red traffic signals. I arrived before anyone else in the airport, so I sat alone with my book, lulled by the sound of flickering lights and the gnomes that work the escalators when no one's around to use them. When I wasn't fearing the sudden onslaught of a zombie attack, I was learning about German history.

By noon I was queuing in front of the information point in Berlin, my usual first stop at any airport. Here I stocked up on maps and timetables and bought a ticket into the city. Maps were made for travelers and I've never spent a day without one since my disaster in Paris. I have come a long way since then.

After unloading my bags at the hostel, I contacted Michael, a friend whom I had met one year ago just days before I moved to Wassenberg. He was an exchange student from Germany, which is the only reason why we delved into a thorough conversation and kept in touch. A month ago he relocated to Berlin, and with an coincidence like that, it would be silly not to meet up. We agreed to meet in half an hour and when he arrived, my weekend began.

In minutes we were joined by a fellow German, Frank, (whose first words to me were "nice glasses," as he was wearing a matching pair), and together we walked around the city. Over the next few hours I knew there was something special about Berlin and already the desire to return was pressing.

The night ended in Frank's extremely large apartment whose bathroom lights triggered the radios to turn on (It was described to me as, "German engineering"). After Berliner beer and a night of great company, I caught the subway to my hostel and sunk into a solid state of sleep.

My intentions were this:

2009-11-10T01:01:00.000-10:00

Blog from Berlin.

It's simple in theory, but there wasn't a moment in that city where I had time for anything other than the pure need for exploration and discovery. There's is no other place like it and never, in all my comings and goings, have I ever found it so emotionally painful to leave a place. My experience in Berlin was unique, driven first by a desire to understand its history. This past Monday was the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, and I made every effort to be there for it. What I didn't know about its history was to be discovered, and by the time the city gathered throughout its streets, filling large, German squares in the name of reunification, I was a transformed person.

This trip can not be summed up in one post or one video, so in addition to my daily blogs, I will cover what I experienced in Germany. In this way, maybe I can change the slogan of my mission from "Blog Every Day In November," to "Blog Thirty Times In November." We'll keep the original acronym for historic documentation.

The cat is halfway out of the bag

2009-11-05T13:41:00.001-10:00

It's not quite common knowledge that I'll be returning to Hawaii in December, but the secret is slowly revealing itself. Last week I made the decision final, notifying those who employed me that I'd be leaving in the name of higher education. With a proper degree I can obtain a proper job, and live abroad without the fear of being captured and deported.

What, I never told you? I'm so illegal.

The 11 year old discovered my departure date while I was in Venice, and in some strange way, it really solidified the beginning of the end. She told me not to tell her younger sister, which is news I could never break to a six-year-old anyway. I haven't had the backbone to openly announce this news to the girls I teach English to, and it's become obvious that I am blocking the metaphorical cat from getting out of the bag and strutting free. It's going to be difficult to leave, but I always knew that.

When hard times are ahead, I do what I do best, and that is to deny the things I'll have to face. I pretend there is the infinite version of time stretched out before me, and that the next time I say goodbye to the girls will not be one time closer to the last. Sometimes I manage to forget that when I leave, they'll mature without me. The next time we see each other, I'll be old, maybe married, and they'll have grown into their own personalities.

Regardless, watching other people grow up is not a good enough reason to stay. I'm still young, my own adventures await. The open window that led me to Italy is closing, but other opportunities linger. After all, I have not seen the last of the world. I will pursue the dreams I have at night and the fantasies I come up with in the day. I'll allow myself to be inspired and fearlessly follow the path that my heart desires. It's all I know how to do, and maybe all I'm good at.

But in order for me to move forward, I must first step away. And I'm working on it.

Sickly Epidermis.

2009-11-04T12:36:00.000-10:00

Skin. It's something you get used to not seeing once November rolls around. Its rare appearance makes any extra bit of it seem that much more scandalous. Constant cover turns wrists and ankles pale, returning them to a state before excessive UV exposure reminiscent of half-naked days on the sea side.

My enjoyment of white skin is what adds to the thrill of attending Italian lessons at the local university. The rooms tend to be overheated, so I like to arrive early and situate myself in the back of the class. I watch as everyone arrives and remove their coats, though it never stops there. Midway through the lesson on prepositions, the boy from Russia will shed his pullover and it's over - He has just broken the seal. Soon, there are a handful of boys in their white undershirts with the pale skin of their arms looking sickly under the florescent bulbs. I just love it.

Anyway, pictures of Venice are up, so you can click here to view them. I intend to have the video up by Friday, but there's just too much to do before I set off again. My goodness how time flies.

YouTube Cattle Call

2009-11-03T11:04:00.000-10:00

How does anyone do a followup post after a city like Venice? Already I'm back in the grind, living out my routine. The only difference is that now, when I close my eyes, I still feel like I'm moving. I guess that's what happens when you spend an hour on multiple water busses and six hours on intercity trains. Yeay travel.

I've been spending my down time going over the plethora of video footage I managed to capture this past weekend. Good grief there's so much. I've also tried to edit the photographs I took, but the task is daunting and I keep moving on to something else, like watching my new favorite YouTuber, Gunnarolla, speak French and sing songs about Canada.

So, in addition to living abroad, traveling when possible, making videos and blogging everyday of this month, I have taken up a side quest. As you may know, I've been trying my best to document the experiences I've had since I moved to Europe a year ago. The reaction that I've received is thrilling, and I realized how important sharing travel and cultural experiences can be. So, being an overly devoted YouTube user, I thought it would be great to start an expat collab channel where five expats living in all parts of the world could document and share what their lives are like under one community channel. Basically, it would require one video a week where we share stories or pictures of what we saw, learned, realized, ate etc. and then post them up. I'm hoping that we can develop a small following of viewers and, in an ideal situation, inspire them.

It sounds lofty, I know, but the hardest part seems to be getting those initial five participants. So, if you happen to be living abroad at the moment and are willing to create weekly videos, then let this be an invitation for you to contact me! (Nixfunkle@gmail.com)

I AM WAITING!

ps. Here's a picture of me and two Australian girls I met in Venice. We're being too cool for alcohol on Halloween night by rocking hot chocolate mustaches in some piazza.

Day two Haiku

2009-11-02T03:29:00.000-10:00

Last day in Venice

Documenting through haiku

So don't be confused.

Woke up to the rain

The canals have over flowed

Water on side walks

Boat to Murano

Venetian waves can't stop us

From glass artisans

Starting to feel sick

The boat does not stop rocking

Would like to get off

I have missed my stop

I've circled Venice by sea

Don't know where I am

Ciao Cimitaro

A cemetery island

Trying to get off

Tried twice and failed twice

Murano doesn't want me

I'm going shopping

The holes in my boots

Have been filled in with hot glue

But my feet are wet

Train in two hours

Then five more to Torino

I don't want to leave.

Just call me Gimpy McGimperson

2009-11-01T11:32:00.000-10:00

This is "Blog Every Day In November" entry #1, coming to you live from Venice, Italy. This will also be the last time I ever start a blog that way.

So when I was in Paris last year, I somehow hurt my right knee in ways that keep coming back to me. It's a problem that takes its leave during my traveling down-time, but continually reappears to join me in my city-wide circumnavigation. Venice has been no different, and somewhere between Giardini and Piazza San Marco it came back again with a disgruntled fervor that is somewhat reminiscent of waking a hungry troll in the middle of its nap.

Still, this handicap was well earned as I covered a lot of Venetian ground before it had a chance to be debilitating. Making use of my sidekick, the map, I managed to efficiently make my way to the Fondazione Musei Civici Veneziani which has no particles in its title, so I don't know how to properly translate it. What I can do is give you a summary of its collection, and that is mostly modern. Now, I have an inability to appreciate modern art so let me assure you that the reason why I was there transcends both Cubism and Futurism. In my guide book there is a strategically placed picture of Judith II, a painting crafted in 1909 by the famous Gustav Klimt. That perfectly formed boob would draw anyone to it's doors. And so the story goes.

Though honestly, I absolutely adore his work and the three Euro student fare was worth it (current and former students alike, I beseech you, if you want to make the most of your college education, carry your student ID card around at all times and claim your reduced rate entry fee at every possible opportunity)!

At some point in the day, I decided that catching a water taxi would be to my best interest despite never learning how the entire system worked. Trying only gets you so far, so I did the next best thing, which was to hop onto the first boat that appeared. I ended up on the isle of Lido which had nothing to offer me except the danger of death by land vehicle. You see, Venice doesn't have any roads, just canals and bridges. Therefore no cars, just boats and gondolas. There's something extremely pleasant about this, especially after a lifetime of having to share my streets with engines.

On the way home, I took a spontaneous stop to Giardini where I wandered into yet another modern art exhibition, though this was a biennial international art fair, which kind of made it more exciting. Kind of.

This is where my knee gives out and I return to my hostel fairly early to take a hot shower and write you all post cards because blogging about my day just isn't nearly personal enough. This is where you express your gratitude.

Halloween Spectacular

2009-10-31T11:47:00.000-10:00

Tomorrow officially starts the "BEDIN" quest, but I thought I'd start a day early to deliver a little Halloween Spectacular.

I left Turin this morning at 6am and have arrived five hours later on the opposite side of The Boot. Italians don't generally celebrate Halloween, but why let something like popular opinion effect how I partake in foreign festivities? I have therefore treated myself to a long weekend in Venice.

This place cost an arm and a leg in taxes alone, so I find myself pinching pennies by the sea side. Regardless, the canals are fantastic and the buildings divine. My favorite part is the Gondola Men, always leaning cooly against wooden bridges with their slender boats tucked safely underneath, lapping with the tides. I can't help but to feel that they exude a kind of sexuality that I have never before seen in those working in the public transportation profession. I imagine my bus drivers wearing those body-hugging nautical V-necks and the result is just not the same. Train conductors in ribbon-lined straw hats? Definitely no the same appeal. Gondola men: the only reason why anyone would pay 60 Euro to float through canals.

The city is as confounding as you would expect a city built on water to be. To get from here to there requires maze-like intellect as dead-ends are bountiful and streets signs perpetually useless.

Still, beauty is omnipresent and I'm happy to be here. A domani tutti, and Happy Halloween.

There is no end to the videos of Thailand.

2009-10-28T13:01:00.000-10:00

The week is almost over. It goes by so fast. I won't have a full weekend in Turin until December.

I still have countless video footage of my trip in Thailand, and I manage to throw some together periodically. No, I am not living a double life between Southeast Asia and Western Europe, I'm just chronologically impaired. Bare with me.

This is a brief film of my fourth day in Bangkok, though techically it was filmed in Ayutthaya. The palace grounds were so huge that it was recommended that we rent golf carts, which we did with more fun and pleasure than necessary. We encountered monks on vacation and harassed hedge-monsters, then spent the afternoon at the Ancient Market trying all sorts of traditional Thai food. If you can't view the video, allow me to redirect you to my YouTube page here.

I hope the weather is well wherever you are as I have just been driven by necessity to purchase my first legitimate winter coat ever. Let me tell you, it doesn't mess around. It's like magic really. You see, I zip it up and throw the fur-lined hood over my head and it's like Hawaii, but indoors. My legs complain but my body is lying beach-side with a Corona in the inside wool-reinforced pocket. I haven't been in love with anything so wonderful since I last saw the Jonas Brothers on "Disney in English" last Monday. No matter what you say, you can't take my Jonas away.

Next time you hear from me I'll be elsewhere, though we'll keep the destination a surprise. BEDIN is about to begin and November will make you wish you were me.

So, what's everyone going to be for Halloween?

A little experiment

2009-10-24T10:52:00.000-10:00

For the entire month of November, I'll be conducting a little experiment which we'll call "Blog Every Day In November," or "BEDIN," for acronymical fun. I've seen this type of documentation done in the form of YouTube videos, but I have neither the time nor the talent to see something of that magnitude through. November is the perfect month as just enough is happening to keep both of us occupied. In fact, so much is happening that it would be a downright injustice to let any of it go unrecorded. I'll be traveling more frequently, so expect updates from different locations in Europe. I'll try my hardest to bring my world to you as my time abroad is slowly coming to a close. In a few days we'll kick this off, so stay tuned.

Busking at it's finest

2009-10-22T13:48:00.000-10:00

A surprise orchestration on one of Turin's main streets catches me by surprise. I love buskers and these guys do it right!

If you can't view the video, click HERE!

Liver, lungs and brains.

2009-10-19T13:51:00.000-10:00

Last month, I joined the B-family in a trip to the Asti countryside. The weather was near perfect and so we hopped on some old school Italian bicycles and toured the vineyards.

Last weekend, we revisited Asti and the country was colder in more ways than one. Despite the chill, we managed to have adventures without cycles. By adventures, I mean ingesting things that most people wouldn't: Sulfur water, liver, lungs and brains. For me, this was an experience I didn't expect, and yet, one that I would never have passed up. Enjoy the video :)

If the video does not appear, click here!

Venti anni fa.

2009-10-14T14:05:00.000-10:00

Tonight at dinner we talked about history. Twenty years ago, the Berlin Wall came down and everyone who was old enough to remember it, remembered it. Where they were, what the saw, how the world reacted. They told me their stories, of watching East Berliners and West Berliners come together for the first time in thirty years to friends and family that they had been separated from. It had been half a lifetime for them.

They said people brought food and beer and cried and ate while simultaneously tearing down the wall. The guards, outnumbered and confused by the sudden crowds that had gathered on both sides of the divide, took their weapons and abandoned their posts. Within days, the barrier would be destroyed.

It's an event that I know little about despite its importance, so on the weekend of November 9th, I'll be flying over to Berlin to join in with the celebrations. Museums and tours, it will be self-education at its finest. On Monday, the festivities should come to a head with exhibitions, demonstrations, performances and mass inebriation (all of which I intend to participate in).

Video documentation guaranteed.

Ciao Autunno or How Autumn Killed the Summer Dress.

2009-10-05T22:44:00.000-10:00

About two weeks ago the temperature in Turin plummeted. I shut and locked my large glass window for the first time since the start of summer and I haven't opened it since. Already its exterior is coated in a thin layer of dust from nearby construction, filtering what little sunlight that manages to make it through the clouds and reducing my room to a constant state of winter gloom.

Two days later, I pulled out my trusty suitcase, opened my closet doors and proceeded to pack away my summer dresses, one by one. The cotton white number with crocheted trimmings that kept me cool in the intense Thai humidity, the red and white polka-dotted sundress that I changed into in the handicapped stall of Nice Côte d'Azur Airport after staining my favorite knee-length dress when leaving the United Arab Emirates. My heart had atrophied by the time I rehung the hangars so that they swung naked and lonely in the hollowness of my closet. If there was one way to personify the end of summer and the quickly approaching winter, this was it.

Hello Autumn.

Chiang Mai, Thailand - Part 2 (w/video)!

2009-09-24T12:01:00.000-10:00

First off, Chiang Mai was amazing, making it into the Top 5 places I have ever seen. Part one helped to convey the beauty of the country, so I'm hoping that part two exemplifies the kind of fun that can be had there. This trip-within-a-trip was magical, and most of what I remember of it comes from that weekend.

We started the day at elephant camp where we rode on elephants and trusted our lives on bamboo rafts. We followed up this aqueous undertaking by stopping by the Tiger Sanctuary where we got a chance to fawn over a plethora of tigers and play with a few of them as well. The next day we visited an umbrella factory and a wooden market where we once again made use of our bartering skills and purchased a multitude of Thai goods.

Needless to say, the return trip to Bangkok was bittersweet though my experience in Chaing Mai will forever remain close to my heart. Enjoy!

If you can not view the video, click here :)

Chiang Mai, Thailand. Day 1

2009-09-22T02:44:00.000-10:00

This is the first day of our trip to Chiang Mai in the north of Thailand. It began as all great travels do, which is extremely early in the morning. In this case, 430am in sleepy Bangkok. From there we went to Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep (วัดพระธาตุดอยสุเทพ), treated ourselves to a dinner show and bargained furiously at the infamous Walking Market, otherwise known as the Night Bazaar (ไนท์บาซาร์). We ended the adventure in the only appropriate way possible, which was by hailing a Songthaew (สองแถว) and riding back to our hotel in the back of a truck. I never cared much for personal safety anyway.

If you can't see the video, click here or visit www.youtube.com/Nixfunkle

The tally of things.

2009-08-27T01:19:00.001-10:00

When I left Torino, I took with me a lone suitcase stocked a little more than halfway full. By the time I left Dubai, I had two suitcases stuffed to the point of explosion as both were overweight by a kilo while my carry-on (bless that large leather bag from Korea) bulged from the addition of handmade Thai pottery and heavy Arabian trinkets. I carried a bamboo umbrella slung across my back and managed, with every leftover ounce of effort, to lug it all from the south of France to the north of Italy - three train rides and eight hours away. Regardless, it was a homecoming I was eager to experience. Suddenly I was surrounded with a foreign language that I could partially comprehend, signs I could read and a general culture I felt at ease in. For all intensive purposes, Italy was home.

I spent the following days catching up on sleep and designating homes to the numerous new additions of my apartment. In total, I have purchased seven new dresses, three Thai purses, (1 suitcase), four cotton blouses, six skirts, seven paperbacks, one apron, one coat and ten pairs of shoes. This does not include four handmade boxes, a Turkish candle holder, a silk fan, one pink umbrella, a pair of reading glasses, a pound of postcards, two Arabic pillowcases, a solid bronze camel lamp and those nine long decorative sticks from the wooden market in Chiang Mai (I don't know what they are, but aren't they decadent?!)

Well, it seems that if there is one thing I excel at, it would most definitely be in the art of accumulation. Granted, I won't start complaining until I have to bring it all back to Hawaii.

Of loathing a bad situation.

2009-08-20T02:48:00.000-10:00

I am learning a lot in the UAE, though it mostly involves being invisible. I hate it here. I count the hours until my return flight home, and so far it is 5.5 days away. I have little spending money and being as I booked a hotel outside of Dubai, I can not afford to take a taxi back and forth. So, I have found an uncomfortable solice in book reading and bad television show watching. A little before noon, the electricity in the city went off and I spent the next three hours lying on the tile of my room, soaking up its chill and praying for the air condition to go back on.

I have developed a greater understanding of how blessed my life has been as I have never gone a day without people that love me and friends I can trust. I think this is a kind of fortune that not many can say they have had. I have been granted a plethora of opportunities to travel the world where I have developed families that would care for me instantly in the event that I ever sought help. I have seen things that I never imagined would exist and I have tasted food of such variety that my palette for world cuisine has become insatiable. I was born to a country of privledge where women are treated as equals and are allowed to walk the streets with bared shoulders or, heaven forbid, exposed knees. Every moment of my life has been a treasure. These things that I know and embrace are from the 36 hours that I have been here, without all the above.

I will not discredit Dubai for my bad experiences as they may have been due to the poor luck of the draw. I picked a bad hotel whos water runs tan and constantly hot, I mismanaged my funds and I exhausted myself in the prior weeks. Or, after traveling Italy, France and Thailand with friends and family, I may simply be extraordinarily lonely.

But I am not disheartened as toil brings personal growth if one seeks it.

New in town

2009-08-19T00:49:00.000-10:00

I have arrived safely in Dubai. Things are fine though I just forked over a quarter of what is left of my spending money for a desert safari. I'm feeling quite downhearted at the moment as i have left a very secure place with family and friends and anything i could want (as the cost of living in Thailand is so cheap!) for a country where I am alone and wary and poor. Regardless, a camel ride should do me good and cure my homesickness for a moment at least. The following days will be spent appreciating the cheap and the free ways of life. Bread by the river, a swim in the Arabian Sea, a walk through a souq, an afternoon by a mosque. Still, the life blood of my travel bug is growing thin and now, more than ever, am I ready to return to the comforts of my Italian home. I can see it now, the train station, the skip across the street to my apartment, the marbel steps, the high ceilings, the soft sheets, the open window and the sound of the tram rattling by, this way and that.

But until then, I must make the most of my leftover time abroad and dune bashing sounds just about right.

15 minutes at a time

2009-08-18T07:13:00.000-10:00

I seem to have developed an affinity for blogging in unconventional paces as I am currently hidden away in a sparsely populated area of Bangkok International Airport. My flight to Dubai has been delayed for 30 minutes and while seeking to find a bathroom, I have subsequently discovered a free Internet port. The keys stick and omit consonants while easily doubling up on vowels, but I will gladly put up with any keyboard quirks in exchange for free access to gmail. Of course, even that would be too good to be true, which is also maybe why i can only be logged in for 15 minutes at a time. There is a lot of toil involved in bringing this to you.

It pains me to leave Thailand and I have yet to place all the reasons why. I have paraded around this country with a personal car and driver and the loose equivalent of a bodyguard. I suppose this is a classic result of who-you-know, or rather, who-knows who-you-know. I got lucky and spent two weeks feeling like a princess.

Oh, but I digress. The things I've seen! Just this afternoon, I caught a rickety boat across a river to a pottery island. Thing is, and unbeknownst to us, the potters are located far between, requiring us to hire the local mode of transportaton: motorcycles. So then I suddenly found myself saddled up behind a Thai cross dresser on a speedy two wheeler, zig zagging through narrow walkways with 90 degree turns, honking horns to imply impending doom. On the way back, we got caught in a thunderstorm, and our daring escape from the downpour only caused my white dress to turn transparent and residual rooftop water to flow from my moppy head, through my eyelashes and into my mouth. Call me a hypochondriac, but I sure didn't have a sore throat yesterday.

That was because yesterday I was in the emergency room getting my pee tested for a bladder infection. My body finds ways to survive. I'm okay.

Anyway, I think it's about that time to wait patiently at my gate. Hopefully I do not nod off as I won't be boarding until a little after 1 in the morning. I'll arrive within the United Arab Emirates six hours from now, traveling back in time so that I can step off in Dubai at just after 5am - perhaps an Arabian sunrise is in order.

Movement.

2009-08-15T00:00:00.000-10:00

I update from an internet cafe that is situated on the bridge of a mall that caters to expats, drinking hot coffee and staring at my complimentary strawberry cookie. Bangkok's alright, Thailand is great.

In between the moment I left you in Torino, I have circumnavigated my way through central Italy, hopped on a train to the South of France, dipped my tongue in the Mediterranean Sea and hitched a plane to Thailand where I have been for the past two weeks. Life has been immeasurably sweet, and I mean this quite literally as Thai's have a notorious affinity for their desserts. I'm turning a blind eye to the instant metamorphosis sticky rice and mango have had on my hips. Needless to say, this place caters to my palette.

A few days ago I returned from Chiang Mai, a city in the Northwest of the country. The trip was remarkable in countless ways, but it also signified the start of what I will consider a rude awakening. True poverty, widespread suffering and the illegal trafficking of exotic wildlife can leave a crude scar in an innocent heart.

Of course, more on that later. For now, a nice night out under the invisible stars of Bangkok. In a few days I will be hidden in cloth, traipsing around the United Arab Emirates.

Holiday

2009-07-20T10:21:00.000-10:00

First off, let me apologize for falling off the face of the blogging community. Now that that's out of the way, let me tell you how the first two days of my six week travel holidays have been.

Kate, my best friend in Germany, arrived in Italy yesterday morning and from there the hours have exploded, disintegrated and drowned in a well of gelato. Day one comprised of a complementary tour of Torino where we visited places such as Piazza Costello, Via Garibaldi, The Mole Antonelliana, Via Roma, and Parco Valentino where we had a delightful picnic and sunbath. This is also where Kate made a friend with a fellow park-goer, which is completely typical of her. What started as just some guy staring at us turned into an arrangement of towels and quilts and crude maps and bad jokes. His name was Antonio and by the end of the conversation, we had arranged to meet later for an apperitivo. I have been here for five months with little more a small sprinkling of friends to show for it. Give this girl a few hours and she'll work wonders.

At 9 we were reunited with Antonio (and friend, Christian) in the Quadrilateral. Both boys had a deeply sarcastic sense of humor which turned out to be extremely amusing. When our meal and drink were consumed, we strolled around the city so Kate could admire balconies.

Best quote of the day was in reference to Kate's skin color in which Antonio said, "You are white like mozzarella."

Before we went home, Christian and I had agreed to meet up later in September for a language exchange, making him my third tandem parter. I wrote him a text in Italian to which he responded, "ps. written Italian so so. We have to work hard on it." Spirit crusher.

Today we catch the morning train to Bologna, where I will do what I can with what I have to keep you updated.

Thoughts from Italy,

Nix

There's no such thing as an Italian Fender Bender.

2009-06-07T11:28:00.000-10:00

While parallel parking in the wrong direction on the wrong side of the road, we hit the car in front of us; a fender-bender, if you will. I was the only one in that car of Italians to panic.

Nix: You just hit that car, that can't be okay, can it?!
Paulo: Why not? We have a bumper.

That is a summary of my life in Italy. Now please educate yourselves with the subtle differences between Italians and the rest of the European Union:

(If you can not view the video, click here).

A Brewski in Düssi

2009-06-05T13:11:00.000-10:00

I spent a long weekend back in Germany to visit the place in which this (extended) year-long sojourn first began. A typical night out in Düssi with the best friends I could have made in the short amount of time that I lived there.

As with any night out, it was made even greater with wonderful company, extreme happenstance and a few rounds of beer. Kate, Sebastian, Devlin, Rania - I send you my love from Italy!

For the love of Wassenberg

2009-05-29T11:19:00.000-10:00

I leave for Germany in the morning. Although this qualifies as world exploration, its sole purpose isn't to explore, but to reunite. I'm going back to the place in which this year-long adventure began, in a town so small and so humble that the average German wouldn't recognize its name. Within it's invisible circumference is a family so near and dear to my heart that the size of the town becomes irrelevant in comparison to the perpetual love and infinite joy that I feel.

In more ways than one, I am returning home.

Fruity Patootie.

2009-05-25T09:01:00.001-10:00

It was 5pm on a hot afternoon and the 5 year old and I were relaxing in the kitchen, widows open, eating cherries. Then, as I lean back and nibble around the pit of the cherry, she sits up and says, "it looks like a butt hole."

And I was done with cherries for the day.

The dreams that sweaty people dream.

2009-05-24T08:07:00.000-10:00

The weather is absolutely perfect, it really is: low 80's, light breeze, moderate humidity. In fact, were I to shut my eyes and picture things just so, it would be completely possible to imagine myself at home, lounging away on the sandy circumference of my island paradise.

Except. I am wearing two shirts and a cardigan to ensure that my modest chest and seductive shoulders are not exposed to the conservative public. I leave my apartment each day, hoping to receive the country-wide memo that announces how this ridiculous spring dress code has finally made the leap into near fabric-less summer gear.

I have dreams of Italians stopping me in the street, "Haven't you heard?" they'd ask. "Sweater weather is over!" Then we would enthusiastically shred our cardigans by tossing them into the air and proceed to frolic under the trees, relishing in the comfort of deep necklines and the eradication of sleeves altogether.

Of course, I am aware that this fantasy is confined within the fuzzy edges of my REM sleep cycle. So, until the temperature hits something more comparable to scalding, I will have to find ways to come to terms with the fact that my head is two shades darker than the rest of me.

The pitfalls of being short.

2009-05-17T09:35:00.001-10:00

I have spent the entirety of my adult life at the paltry height of 5 feet and 1.5 inches (156.21 cm). There really are few ways to win with this when the universe continues to use me for its entertainment. After-all, there is no other reason the explain why the height of every deodorant-immune armpit is exactly 4 feet and 10.5 inches off the groud - the exact level of my nose.

The Good Girl Vice

2009-05-15T03:40:00.000-10:00

I don't do drugs, I don't smoke, I don't drink heavily or engage in frivolous sexual activities. I don't swear (often), steal or over-consume to the point of waste. I don't betray friends, commit treason, manipulate (knowingly), solicit, trespass, or assault others.

So, if you're going to give a good girl a vice, make it a straight up cup of Italian coffee. Let me indulge in that artificial feeling of minor non-addition to something that is not actually an addition so much as it as a simple and throughly enjoyable morning routine.

Oh yes, I feel so naughty just looking at that big bad mug of caffeine.

The recent past and a 20 second Video.

2009-05-13T23:57:00.001-10:00

Let's get back into the habit of this, shall we? For some reason, I was so much more diligent with my posts when I was in Germany. This is probably due to the fact that Germany functions on a regulated and predictable time pattern, whereas Italian time functions more as a variable than a constant. We're not sure who to blame for the shortness of days; The weather, the country, a malicious force that inflicts steroids upon our watches, our dependance on caffeine. Ask anyone here, they'll tell you the same thing: There's just not enough time in the day.

Regardless, things have been well. I got a new room mate nearly two weeks ago (has it been so long, so soon? I'm always so shocked at the actual speed of life no matter how aware of it I presume to be). I started Italian lessons and have traversed the basics of singular and plural nouns to dates, times, shops and primary verbs. I took a semester of Italian five years ago, so you'd think this language would come more naturally. But no, this isn't the case at all. Italian eludes me.

I went to Verona a few weekends ago, nearly a month ago now that I think about it (Seriously. Time? It's completely irregular). Loved the city, but loved my company even more. Sadly, Daniele, one of my very few friends in this country, has flown away and left us for West Virginia. It's actually something I try not to think about.

And then there's the matter of summer plans, which dishearten me because I am so very bad at planning. This is my rough draft schedule for my six week European sojourn, are you ready?

Week 1: ??? Spain?

Week 2: Nice, France

Week 3: Cinque Terre, Naples, Rome

Week 4: Rome, Florence, Tuscany ????

Week 5-6: Volunteering in Greece.

Now here's a 20 second video that will fill you with a sense of mediocre entertainment and wasted time

Impossible to Capture on Film

2009-05-08T14:01:00.000-10:00

If you've ever played Final Fantasy x - xii (or watched the movie, "The Spirits Within") then you are already at an advantage in visualizing the following descriptions.

Spring has since let loose a flurry of white balls that almost exactly resemble the glowing spirits of newly vanquished enemies. These light-weight particles float around in whichever direction they choose, catching sunlight at peculiar angles to make the world seem momentarily inhabited by fairies. If you wish to take the magic out of this occurrence then I will tell you that, up close, these airborne mysteries are surprisingly similar to the down feathers of adolescent ducklings. Light, fluffy and no longer attached to a city full of water residing avian creatures, it is actually sensibly possible that these things are merely the result of hundreds of baby birds transforming into full-fledged adults.

Of course, I admit that this thought is just as equally absurd as my two prior speculations, and so I feel it rather necessary to reinforce my sanity by saying that it may also be the seeds of prolific plants. Yes, seeds so marvelous that they spread their species across Italy in a way that leaves quixotic girls seeing fairies and imagining an entire riverbed populated with naked ducks. Oh, Spring, there are few things more lovely.

Hello.

2009-04-24T20:42:00.000-10:00

Keeping in touch is a peculiar thing. The common realization for anyone who moves away and returns home is that things manage to stay almost exactly as they were before they left. Yet, despite this (and strangely so), you soon begin to realize how life has moved on in its usual way with surprising ease considering that you are no longer there. The truth is that this usual life has adapted to your absence, and no matter where you are, this is a heartbreaking concept.

So, on those odd days when an old friend reaches out from that removed place in life that used to be your own, well, thats a miraculous moment indeed. It’s one of those instances that defies the belief that life moves on without you, that your impact wasn’t ever more than fleeting. It’s true that once upon a time, I contributed to the faraway lives of others in positive ways - ways that, in the end, were worth remembering. This always has the ability to put my morning on a happier than usual note (either that or the generous cup of Italian coffee that is dancing through my bloodstream). Of course, for sentimental reasons, we’ll credit my bliss on friends in far places who have the time to say hello.

Porta Palazzo

2009-04-18T12:55:00.000-10:00

Porto Palazzo is Europe's largest open-air food market, nestled right here in Turin. Despite being instantly overwhelming, it was easy to stumble into great finds, cheap prices and sudden mischief. Blood, guts, death and kisses were just a few things that were encountered on this day trip, and due to adventure overload, I probably won't be back for a while. Still, it was a great experience that was made so by the unexpected nature of the trip.

(If you can not view the video, please click here).

REMEMBER TO WATCH IN HIGH QUALITY.

Also, special thanks to Ali who helped navigate me through the market, which is just as large (and larger) than it sounds. Without her, I would not have had some of the amazing footage that has made this video so wacky (ie. Random fish seller giving his love).

Of falling in love with a country.

2009-04-17T13:43:00.000-10:00

A black dress, pink cardigan and a pair of heels that haven’t been worn since they’ve been packed and unpacked several times in several countries since the middle of October. The weather allowed for a light spring coat despite the late hour, and I was ready to hit the town with two captivating Italian boys. Both aerospace engineers, I found myself feeling elevated just to be in the company of these multi-lingual comedians. The one thing I’ve learned to delight in more than Italian food is the good old Italian humor.

Sometimes I find myself falling in love with everything around me so that I’m constantly overwhelmed with passion, floating in a state of perpetual euphoria. Often times I catch myself, so caught up in my happiness, that my first reaction isn’t pleasure, but fear. What if I’m just absorbed in the blissful beginning months of a new relationship? You know what I'm referring to, those tragically misleading weeks that lure you into thoughts of everlasting happiness simply because you are helplessly engrossed within a bubble of ignorance. After all, we are so rarely the people that others intend for us to be. What if Italy has flaws larger than its defected postal system? (Is that actually possible?) But more importantly, is Italy even capable of loving me back?

But alas, until the mysteries of the universe reveal themselves, I will sit in a Russian restaurant across from two enthralling boys who bicker in that perfect Italian accent over pointless things like bridges and manners. These people that I’ve just met, I’m secretly in love with them too. I’m in love with them not just because they are positively contributing to my life abroad, but because they are completely and utterly Italian - a breed that manages to show love without ever meaning to.

When I exit any building, I have to grin widely wherever I am to outwardly show my gratefulness. The hidden truth is that I do the same thing with people, turning my head to hide my extreme delight to be in their company. This community of friends is half the reason why I love this country in the first place. I love that Mario is eating chicken with spicy chocolate drizzled on top. I love that Daniele can’t stop using all the bad words he learned from South Park. I love that these heels echo every time they hit the cobblestones. I love that the tram is late and that we just missed the jazz show, that my drink has too much rum and that our taxi driver is beat-boxing has he drives. I love that there are two superheroes in my apartment, that it’s 2am and that I’m not tired. I love that every time I look outside my window, I see Italy. Italy, and it’s wildly enchanting Italians.

For the first time ever, there’s no where else I’d rather be.

Easter in Italy

2009-04-12T13:32:00.001-10:00

In a country full of devout Catholics, it's no surprise that Easter is a rather big deal. Schools have been closed since Thursday (which we will call Good Friday eve), Saturday is pre-Easter and Monday is something everyone here likes to call, "Little Easter." Nothing operates on that day either, though I'm not sure what's so special about it.

I spent today, (the official regular-sized Easter) cleaning up and piping chocolate eggs down my system. Trust me, it's an old Italian tradition that goes way back and I'm inviting you to join me in my quest for diabetes.

If the video doesn't appear, I will suggest you clickity here.

I spent lunch with my lovely Italian fam eating every kind of meat imaginable (although I heard you're not actually supposed to eat at all), then we cut open the Colomba which is a traditional Italian dessert saved specifically for Easter. It's shaped like a Dove to represent peace, though some people will say it actually just represents springtime. It's a sweet bread with dried fruit on the inside and sugar pellets, almonds and more dried fruit on top. It was rather scrumptious, and I found myself getting seconds.

Dinner was held in my apartment which was graced with a dozen and a half expats from around the city having no other family to spend the holiday with. There was cheese, wine and tiramisu, so naturally I now feel like a lump of cholesterol in a pretty brown cardigan.

All in all, it was an interesting day. A little too much sweets, but that just goes to show that Easter is basically the same no matter where you are. Buona Pasqua everyone.

Genova

2009-04-11T04:16:00.000-10:00

I know I'm chronologically skipping around here, but this is a video I made of my trip to Genova on the 29th of March.

"But Nix, it's almost Easter, where have you been?"

After a weekend in Brescia, I've worked every morning with students from the aerospace engineering department at Politecnico University here in Turin to make a video for an Airbus competition. Also, because the girls I teach English to were leaving for Paris on Thursday, I had to compress their weekly lessons into four straight nights, leaving me me exhausted by the end of each day and unable to work on the list of personal projects I had in mind. Alas, with the weekend bestowed upon me, I can sit on my orange couch and check things off my little post-it. Clean apartment, make video, write a blog, read a book, shop for stuff.

Now, without further ado, let me introduce Genova (and make sure you are watching in high quality).

Also, if you can not view the movie, please click here.

Mantova and Brescia

2009-04-06T10:32:00.000-10:00

13th birthday celebrations call for adventures of varying kinds. They begin at 9 in the morning with an overnight bag, snuggled in the back of a full car on the way to Mantova. At 10:27, we are singing happy birthday outside a rest stop, and, minutes later, we are crossing over the 25th parallel, clapping our hands and cheering. Indeed, growing older calls for much celebration.

Three hours later, we unfolded ourselves from the car and stepped into the humble city of Mantova, the place in which the infamous Romeo was once exiled. The city is significantly smaller than both Genova or Torino, and yet it still manages to boast grand palaces and extravagant architecture.

Piazza Sordello comprised the majority of the city center.

The Duomo di Mantova stood watch over the square as we made our way across the antient cobblestones, poking up against our soles. To the east stood the houses of Acerbi, haunting only if you knew the rumored history behind it.

Then, to the East, Palazzo Ducale, a grand palace housing over 500 rooms, multiple courtyards, gardens and galleries.

The inside was filled with a plethora of frescoes, some, of course, more common than others.

A short stroll south of the palace, led us to a series of great finds such as the Rotonda di San Lorenzo, an ancient church built in the 11th century, and the Basilica di Sant'Andrea di Mantova. More proof as to why cathedrals are my favorite places to visit.

Afterwards, we met up with family friends whos two sons practiced every english word they knew on me. “Nix, there is a table in the kitchen. That is a piano and a TV. My brother is a gay.” I uncomfortably ate cookies while the Italians joked on.

When the day ended , we said our farewells and weathered the rain and the clouds to the small town of Brescia. Here we would meet up with the grandparents of the birthday girl and feast in god-like fashion on home made Italian cuisine. When our bellies were uncomfortably full, we pulled out some chocolate cake and celebrated.

In the morning, for breakfast, I was served a mug full of raw egg yolk and sugar, a substance that sang me dreams of salmonella. When it was apparent I was having a hard time finishing the meal, they delivered two shots of espresso and suggested I pour it in. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I obliged and filled my bloodstream with cholesterol and caffeine. Honestly, I would do it again.

We spent the afternoon on the fringes of Lake Iseo, taking in the sights of mountains and water and villas. The market was in full swing and we strolled around, enjoying the good weather and cheap prices.

For lunch we overdosed on food and drove home in a daze from the week long adventure. I continue to remember the words of their mom, saying, "Oh no, you can not leave. The girls will cry. This is a problem. Really." In the end, she schemed to find me an Italian boyfriend to keep me around forever, as moms must do what moms must do to keep their children whole. Ha, and how can I complain?

Long Lost Footage of Brussels, Belgium, Revealed.

2009-03-27T14:43:00.000-10:00

I received a package in the mail yesterday morning and contained within its bubble wrap interior was my dearly beloved camera, the one I had lost two months prior. My family in Germany found it tucked inside the seatbelt buckle cavern and sent it to me stat. Once I overcame my extraordinary surprise, I uploaded every picture and video that was still safely stored within its memory. With this, I have created a film of our long lost footage of Brussels, Belgium!

(If you can not view the video, click here).

My best friend in Germany and I spent a weekend getting into every sort of adventure possible. We danced, we frolicked, we drank and we ate, and in the end, Belgium wouldn't have been the same without the other. Kate, my comrade, I miss you!

St. Patrick's and The Adventure Sunday

2009-03-17T15:05:00.000-10:00

Well lovelies, happy Saint Patrick's Day from Northern Italy! Celebrated a birthday and then headed over to two local Irish pubs to drink away the festivities. How I was coerced into a few shots is beyond me, but it was done. Met loads of people and even ran in to two of my three friends here in this country. Small world indeed.

Last Sunday was something else entirely, and in place of a usual post, I have created a movie. It is an audio visual story, of sorts, for your enjoyment.

Don't forget to watch in high quality, and click here if the video does not appear.

Falling in Love with a Season

2009-03-14T14:24:00.000-10:00

I have come to associate Europe with the cold, the wet and the thickest coats for the weather has not deviated from frozen temperatures and constant drizzle since I've arrived. Next week marks the final days of winter and the start of my very first spring. I have been scrutinizing the trees, hoping to one day find new life on its branches. The weather has been getting steadily warmer and I spend my days out in the park expectant, anticipating the first trace of green.

And yet, despite the constant 50 degree weather (believe me, I would never before consider this to be warm) there has been no progress in the organic life around me. The landscape is still skeletal and I end each day with a mixed sense of disappointment and anticipation. "Perhaps tomorrow," I say, knowing full well that true growth takes time.

But... it must begin growing at some point, right?

It's this exact thought that prompts me to look closer, examine deeper. The branches that appear dead and gray reflect light at their tips in a peculiar way. Although not green, it is definitely something.

And before my eyes, the world changes. Buds so fresh and so there that it's a wonder I hadn't seen it before. Suddenly, it's not just the trees that are growing, but the bushes and the grass as well. The peculiar thing is that they are not so much green as they are... sparkly. It made no sense at first until I realized that the waxy coat and spherical shape of the new growth reflects light in a way that bark and dirt never could. The contrasting result is magical. The act of the world rebirthing itself is so omnipotent, and yet so invisible that if you hold it to standard expectations you would never see it at all. Look closely next time, watch how the world glitters.

I have never been more in love with a season.

Of celebrating the Italian way.

2009-03-13T01:01:00.000-10:00

Among weddings, first birthday parties and newborns in South Korea, I have now surpassed my own expectations in Europe by attending yet another foreign take on a common right of passage. I don’t know many people in Italy, but in one month I have managed to make a friend on the verge of graduating with his masters in Aerospace Engineering. If you haven’t already guessed it by now, I have indeed just borne witness to an authentic Italian graduation ceremony. Don’t get too excited, folks, as most of it was lost on me as I still “non caspico l'Italiano,” if you know what I mean. Regardless, my interpretation is of the following:

The girls and I snuck in to the auditorium which was severely less packed than I imagined it would be. There were no leis or balloons or even flowers for that matter, just family sitting next to family while we watched each student make a power-point presentation. The truth was that no one knew if they were graduating yet as no definite decision had been made. It would be this final speech that would demonstrate if they had learned and retained enough to be granted a diploma. Needless to say, tensions were high.

Daniele, my only Italian friend, spoke at the podium while the girls and I cheered inside. When he left the stage nobody clapped except for us, though very very softly so as not to draw attention to ourselves. Then, when all seven students had spoken, the professors stood up from their panel in the front of the room and exited to deliberate. We could see them in a little huddle through the glass porthole in the double doors. I had no idea what was going on at the time

After a few minutes, the professors reemerged and took their seats. The potential-graduates stood in a row before them, hands behind their backs, holding their breaths, wiggling their toes. One by one, the head professor would call out a name and pause one of those over-exaggerated drawn-out pauses. Like any good showman, he toyed with our suspense, leaving our breaths tucked inside our chests until we had reason to let it out. Finally, as we were just about to teeter over the edge, the professor would declare the fate of the student at hand. It went on like this until all seven graduates relaxed their shoulders and felt the relief that one standard cut of paper could bring. Oh, the instant magic of a diploma.

The Italian boys, so chic in their tuxedos, smiled so genuinely that for a moment, I was never happier than to be in Italy. The audience stood up, the graduates dispersed and the auditorium was filled with chatter that could only be translated as congratulations. The girls ran off to see their parents, two of the six professors, while I sat in the second row trying to soak it all in.

Before we left, Daniele came over and invited me to a celebration dinner to be held later that night. Wanting, of course, to experience every angle of Italian culture, I agreed and headed home to get the girls ready. Following this decision, I have come to realize that not knowing what to expect is always an adventure.

My Italian family was invited too, so I tagged along and left myself open to their explanations. We arrived at a large restaurant on the outskirts of Turin, called Medusa, with a group of about twenty friends and family in tow. The table prepared for us was large and grand, clothed in red which is the color that represents graduation (I later came to find out that nearly every right of passage has a corresponding color in Italy. Some of the more commonly known associations that have carried over to the Western world are white for weddings, black for death/funerals, baby blue for giving birth to a boy and pink to a girl.

Weirdly enough though, these colors are also represented by a sugar-coated almond candy called “confetti.” These are thick oval candies, hard as rock and not so delicious due to the fact that they are so difficult to eat. Still, at every celebration they are passed out in their respectful colors as part of an age old Italian tradition. So, in this instance, the confetti we received were all very red indeed).

The utensil setup was a nightmare for me, I didn’t know where to begin. Besides having four forks and a smattering of knives and spoons on all three sides of my plate, there were also two empty glasses and three bottles of liquid. One bottle was mineral water, the other was sparkling mineral water and the last was a bottle of room temperature red wine, precorked and waiting to be poured. Of course, I can guess that one glass is for water and the other for wine, but I didn’t realize that the slightly smaller cup is for wine while the larger one is for water. I got a reprimanding from my ten year old who caught my mistake (as I, of course, poured the water in the smaller glass and the wine in the larger) and had to quickly down my water in order to transfer over the wine. Very complicated. Rebecca had her eyes on my eating habits for the rest of the night, and I don’t blame her. I would be embarrassed to sit next to myself as well.

Soon came another glass filled with an orange soda concoction which I added to my menagerie of dinnerware. After the bread baskets were in place, the first appetizer appeared.

It was pizza. I completely kid you not. It was a nice restaurant (as only nice restaurants have over seven utensils per person) and it was obvious that we were going to be treated to a multiple course dinner. So pizza, I concluded, was considered a bonifide and (dare I say) classy starter meal in Italy. What a riot of a realization! You can bet I was the only person in that whole restaurant taking pictures of the appetizer.

The next course was still considered to be an antipasto (appetizer) though I didn't anticipate the four dishes that followed it and prematurely consumed the whole thing. The truth is that I should have been rationing from pizza 1. By the end of the night I was as stuffed and stiff as taxidermy, uncomfortable to the point where I would never even wish that level of fullness on my enemies.

The worst part is that I kept eating, nonstop, insisting that I was having a cultural experience. I had to try everything even when those around me began to decline their portions. Give the tiny Asian girl more, more! MORE! They kept it coming as I nearly ate myself to death.

After Daniele opened his graduation gifts, we drank champagne and ordered more beverages (liqueur, espresso, wine). It was midnight by the time we left the table and headed home. I had calculated that we had just spent the last four hours feasting.

Still, I regret nothing. The experiences were memorable, the food divine and the company even more so. I had a great time immersed in another culture and 2 kilos around the waist is a small price to pay for that. Needless to say, I begin running again tomorrow morning.

Labor of Love: A Video Eulogy

2009-03-07T02:32:00.000-10:00

After two weeks of heartbreak and two nights left unslept, I have finally finished a true labor of love. In wake of my grandmothers passing, I have assembled a heartfelt Eulogy video to be shown in place of myself. In death, I find myseld revisiting grandmas life.

This is what results.

Grandmas Video

Yet another way to rush it out.

2009-03-04T11:00:00.000-10:00

I have never been more internet-denied since I moved to Italy. For the third time in three weeks I can say that, yes, internet is back up and running. Needless to say, the inconsistency makes updating quite tricky.

About two weeks ago I acquired an amazing new camera that has yet to make its photo-debut. It works like a dream and I have to say, my love for it is only outdone by my even newer laptop (which is not to outshine the infinite love I have for my parents). Thanks. <3

I just got back from a week long stint in Hawaii where I was able to spend time and bear witness to my grandmothers passing. It's an event so mourned that I've been spending the last week making a video in ode to her inspirational life. This means I have no time to tell you how cold it is in Italy or how much the rain makes me want to scurry in between bed sheets or how badly I've been suffering from extreme jet lag or how I read 3 1/2 (massive) novels in seven days, totaling over 2,202 pages which I owe to 37 hour long transatlantic plane rides. My humble apologies, but grandma comes first, and I refuse to submit anything less than what she deserves (which is all my time and effort).

In a week, blogging as usual. Wait for me?

Chronological and Numerical Form

2009-02-20T12:41:00.000-10:00

I know this is a severely inadequate representation of the past two weeks, but due to the fact that I had no electricity for the first week, and no internet for the better half of the second, I think it's safe to say that I'm allowed such a hasty post.

The general rundown in chronological and numerical form is as follows:

I packed my things and left Germany.
I moved to Italy and unpacked my things where I experienced a five day blackout and three days of internet abstinence. I also made some friends, picked up on Italian, figured out public transportation, went shopping, bought a camera, had gelato (twice), got lost and was subsequently overwhelmed by the consistency of beautiful architecture that has come to define the country. Though I have seen only the mere hem of Italy, is has already swooned me every day that I have left my apartment.
My grandma had a stroke.
My grandma slipped into a coma.
I bought a ticket home and leave for Milan, New York, San Fransisco and then Hawaii tomorrow morning at 4am. It will be thirty hours thereafter before I arrive.
I will spend roughly a week with my family, mourning and remembering and loving, as we have all learned that we should do more of it while we have the time.

See you in Hawaii.

Of saying goodbye and entering new places.

2009-02-08T23:10:00.000-10:00

I looked outside of my aerial porthole and the blackness of an early morning atmosphere looked back. I had lost sight of the country a long time ago, but I knew it was beneath me in the way I know it is within me. Germany has immortalized itself within my heart. The last twelve hours had happened so fast and I cried so often in the seclusion of my room that it's impossible to remember how I got myself to move forward. Have I survived the long string of goodbyes?

When the kids came home the day before, I ran upstairs and cried when they hugged me hello. Everything stood still, except for my heart which was slowly breaking apart. At night before bed, I hugged them goodbye trying not to look at their smiling faces. They didn't understand that I was leaving for good and it was that innocence that tore me apart. Like a dog, I ran away to my empty room and curled up in ball, nursing my wounds by letting out tears.

Saying goodbye to Hong was much more emotional. How do you part with the person who personifies your strength, your courage, your endurance and faith? My backbone, my fortune cookie, my mother figure, my foundation, it's been the one loss that I can't bear to relive.

The Dad hugged me goodbye and left me with three suggestions: "Practice, practice, practice."

It should have been harder to say goodbye to Kate - the very best friend I could have made abroad - but 2am wake up calls deter the heart from mourning. Instead, like the amazing person she is, she packed me a banana and a homemade muffin, hailed me a taxi and hugged me a hug that didn't feel like the last. We would meet again, and that was the only thing that made letting go of her possible.

Being a Western girl, I naturally packed half of what I owned when relocating to Germany. Being a Western girl, I naturally spent half of what I earned on clothes. The consequence of this is having to kart around three 50-pound suitcases and one large purse all by myself through empty train stations, bus stops and airports. I may be tiny, but I was determined to have every single skirt and panty by my side when I arrived in Italy. Unfortunately, the price of this is equal to 7€ per every kilo over the 23 kilo (50 lbs) limit. I ended up paying 182€ for the luxury of every skirt and panty, teaching me the hard lesson that Western mentality is an expensive one.

The upside to being robbed by the airlines is that my excess baggage had earned me a new friend - a German fashion model named Julia who helped to drag my luggage off the train. Coincidentally, we also had the same early flight into Milan where she was scheduled for a photo shoot. Being three hours early for a 6:45am flight, we naturally stuck together and wandered around the airport, talked over coffee (twice), dealt with complications during check-in, created our own two-person cafe right before security (as we both suddenly realized we had unconsumed food and beverages aboard), got patted down and searched after setting off the metal detectors, and discussed zoos, male models and exboyfriends before boarding. The early morning trek, and parting with Germany in general, was made that much more bearable with the gift of sudden friendship.

Once in Italy, we waited for each other as we exited the plane and helped the other fish for luggage as it came around the conveyor belt. Together, we navigated the new terminal, acting as a pillow of security in a time of sudden newness. Before we parted, we hugged and kissed goodbye in that endearing European way before rushing off in opposite directions for buses that were heading towards opposite towns. I continue to hope that she and I will meet again, and in a world full of wanderers, I wouldn't be surprised if we did.

My bus seemed to be waiting just for me as we pulled out the minute I stepped in. Nestled near a window seat, I polished off my first book of February while the Italian countryside sped by. The weather was dismal, but it was nice to know that I was arriving past winters midpoint. Spring would push its way through in sooner time than it would take for winter to leave. True to form, it was the last cloudy day I have seen.

As we entered the city, I stared in longing at the lengthy, shuttered windows and the elaborate metal fencing that enclosed roman balconies. Green and white stripped awnings jutted out and draped in semi-circle fringes, flapping in the drizzle. I imagined a balcony garden on summer days. I imagined old friends paying homage to a traveling comrade. Cafes and pasta, wine and gorgeous nights out in Italy, a country of possibilities.

I hold on to the faith that it all has happened for a reason. I have survived my first week in Torino.

A post about snow and sub-zero temperatures.

2009-01-30T09:02:00.000-10:00

I returned home to Germany in the middle of a cold front. -10C in the morning, -20C at night. They said it was the coldest it had ever dropped in eighteen years, and the girl from Hawaii was there to feel it all.

The next day, it started to snow. It snowed all night and the morning thereafter, which is a sight that always brings a peace to my soul. You couldn't pull me away from the window at times like those.

The trees dropped their leaves and grew crystals in their places, like perfect science experiments that involve sugar and jars and water and solid crystal formations that you can eat. When the sun came up, the world sparkled and I felt new.

The fields, as vast as usual, were were suffocated in white. They stretched out until they reached the sun and when it didn't look like a desert, it looked like the sea. "I've never seen anything like it before," I whispered upon windows, the secret of my ignorance puffed across its pane. I wiped my sleeve across it.

It was important that we took advantage of the snow. It was everywhere and it lasted for days, piling up against curbs and compacting beneath feet. We grabbed our sleds and went to the lake.

There are few things that terrify me, and it wasn't until I moved to Germany that I realized that walking on lakes was one of them. Winter, in fact, scares me in the same way that fresh water does. My only explanation is that I was raised on an island that has an over-abundant supply of salt water and a yearly average of 72.2 degrees F (23.3 degrees C). In every regard, I am not in my element.

So when The Parents ran out onto the lake with The Kids on sleds trailing behind, you could bet that the little Asian girl you saw creeping at an awkward angle away from the shore was me. I didn't confess the extent of my terror until the afternoon when we were indoors and warm, sipping hot chocolate. It's not likely that I'll do it again.

It took about a half hour for me to resume walking like my homies, the homoerectus, but after that it was more like a rollercoaster ride; thrilling, but only because my brain expected me to die.

Exiting the lake was an absolute nightmare as the ice before the dock was melted. We're talking bonafide slush to the point where my feet sank and my body rejected all commands of movement. In fact, my brain did not even grant me the gift of watching my life flash before my eyes, which is source of deep and continual resentment. Eventually, The Parents ordered me to continue walking or I would literally sink and be doomed to never write another post again. After passionately kissing dry land, I noticed a plethora of paper printouts that read, "Aufenthalt vor dem See," or "Stay off the lake."

The following day, we replaced sleds with ice skates and headed to the local ice skating arena. The five of us were a sight. The Mom had never been on ice skates, The Dad hadn't been skating in twenty years, and the meek au pair who grew up on a tropical island was strangely better than either of them. Still, with our powers combined, we took two kids on laps upon 30-minute-long laps. It was slow and messy going, but I relished the blue skies that looked down upon me. I was in the open air, looking at the trees and the sun and gliding along on layers of frozen water.

After a few hours, the kids were exhausted and we took it as an opportunity to transition to our next activity. In a few minutes we were at the door of a log cabin imported from Russia to visit a family friend. What mysteriously unfolded is an event that I like to refer to as, "redneck sledding."

In the backyard of this Russian cabin is a tractor, and mounted to this tractor is a baby seat. Hitched behind the tractor is a wagon, and propped on top the wagon is a bench, and trailing behind the wagon are two ropes that are attached to two sleds which would later carry two five year old boys through he town of Wickberg.

The most ridiculous event by far.

ps. The Russian Cabin is a house of death. I've never seen so much taxidermy in my life.

The frustrations of obtaining German language courses

2009-01-27T12:22:00.000-10:00

The day I discovered that I would be moving to Germany was the day that I began researching ways on how to obtain free versions of Rosetta Stone and Pilmsleur (expensive, computer-based and audio programs that help you to learn another language). One of the greatest benefits to living abroad is the gift of total immersion. Language and my ability to learn it would affect the quality of life in that country. In itself, this would encourage me to absorb all that I could, resulting in a hopeful fluency.

So I was rather disappointed to learn that I had arrived in Germany in the middle of the language semester, and would have to wait until the new year for my class to begin. I managed, and time flew by to accommodate my impatience. In January, the plan was to take morning classes in Neuss, a city in which the kids go to school. And yet as great plans go, this one failed. My German class didn't have enough registered students which caused the school to retract the program and refund our fees.

As it happened, there was another school about a thirty minute bus ride away in a town called Erkelenz. The classes would start at 7:30pm and finish at 9, which cuts into the last minutes of dinner, but was still something we could accommodate. I showed up on the first day of class and left feeling gigantically defeated. I was sitting in with students who had already taken four semesters of German studies. My peers were fluent and I was in the wrong class.

Thankfully there existed a beginning level which would start at 6pm. This meant that I would be missing out on dinner entirely as well as part of the play time that I had with my kids. There couldn’t have been a more inconvenient time slot, but it was all that was left and we were out of ideas. Under the Au Pair visa, German law states that it is mandatory for the Au Pair to enroll in a German language class. We really did have no other choice.

So, I abandoned my kids at 5:20 and paid €2.90 for bus fare each way, listened to an hour and a half of German and walked away feeling ridiculous. Not only was I the farthest behind (I had to join the second semester class) but I was learning my German with a Russian accent. I think you can guess where my teacher was from.

It was irony who decided that as soon as we got things settled, we'd get the news that I'd have to leave. I dropped out of language school.

Video Postcards for Mom and Dad

2009-01-25T13:22:00.000-10:00

This is a video assemblage of my winter travels in ode and thanks to my family.

I'd also like to thank the dozens of new friends and strangers who indulged my peculiar requests and consented to be uploaded onto YouTube. You made this trip (and this video) more important and memorable to me than we ever realized at the time.

(Don't forget to watch in high quality!)

If you can't view the video, click here!

The Shift

2009-01-23T08:38:00.000-10:00

The sad news of the day is written within this post. Though daunting and sudden, we are all trying to be optimistic and supportive towards everyone's losses. Indeed, we all have lost something.

I am moving. Not now, not tomorrow, but soon. It's as unexpected as it is shocking, and our hearts are all the more broken for it. The news was delivered to us on Wednesday. I was in the kitchen eating raisins, waiting for The Mom to return home with the gift of promised pizza. The garage went up, her car pulled in, she opened the door and said, "Nicole, we have to talk."

The truth is that the economic crisis in the US has managed to indirectly affect me here in Germany. The Mom's sister lost her job last week, leaving her with no alternative to pay for her Manhattan apartment. With no one to work for and no other family to take her in, The Mom's sister phoned Wassenberg and asked for refuge.

When it comes to family, nothing else comes first. In essence, I've simply been displaced.

I cried. Not because I, too, was losing my job, but because I was leaving my family. Hong, my backbone; Kate, my best friend; Vincent and Gracie, the two souls that taught me patience and encouraged me to love. Just yesterday I was walking down the stairs thinking, "this is my home." I am leaving that as well.

But faith has never left, and when everything in front of me falls away, something larger comes into view from the debris. New experiences, valuable lessons, chances to grow in different directions. I am adopting a new setting, that's all. Chin up, heart strong, breath deeply.

Nix is moving again, and she's aiming for Italy

Kicking off Ireland

2009-01-19T09:56:00.000-10:00

December 30, 2008

They wanted to know what I had written in my notebook. Oh, that little black book had become more valuable to me than gold, sitting in my back pocket while holding my secrets of the past two weeks. Every question I had, every song I heard, every new thing that I had learned was kept filed away in its pages. Snug, compacted, loved, protected.

I looked up and Devlin's family was staring back expectantly. There were so many faces that I didn't recognize yet, and the kitchen seemed to close in on me. It was halfway through my first day in Ireland and I had scribbled incessantly within the pages of my moleskin. Now it was time to share the things that I had mindlessly jotted down. "Alright," I said, and flipped the cover open. Devlin was already smiling.

"Guinness before breakfast," I started. They laughed. It was the first thing we did when we got into Dublin: We found a pub and suckled on the lifeblood of Ireland. "With a splash of blackberry currant," I added, as it was the miracle additive that turned Guinness, that heavy midnight beer, into the juice of gods. The ladies smiled.

"Trinity College and then an Irish breakfast on O' Connells Street." I saw chops licking and mouths salivating at the mention of it. Toast, eggs, bangers, tomato, black pudding, white sausage, baked beans and tea. What a meal, I remembered it clearly, and that lingering feeling of lethargy and laziness and yet, immense and total satisfaction.

"Go on," someone said, pulling my attention from memories of food to the next bullet point. "A pint of Guinness at Toners." That would mean I had breakfast sandwiched in between two pints. I already felt at one with Ireland. "And then a walk over the Ha'Penny Bridge and a stroll through St. Stephen's Greens." We were only accomplishing so much because we had met up with one of Devlin's friends, Mark, who was a native Dubliner. He pulled out the stops to show a new girl around, and we efficiently traversed between one landmark to another, usually with a beer in between.

"We had an Irish coffee in Bewley's." Bewley's on Grafton Street is a Dublin landmark, known for being not only the longest established cafe in Ireland, but one of the biggest as well. "And then another pint of Guinness in Temple Bar." That would be the fourth drink of the day, not to be confused with night. Laughter. Rapid Irish/English was throw around the kitchen, and jokes were made about me being tossed right into the midst of Irish culture. I blushed.

Although it was dinner by the time Devlin and I had arrived in Arklow, and despite feeling as if I had already lived a full day, we were hardly halfway through. I would have been awake for a full 24 hours before I fell asleep, but I had no idea such events were in store. So, when invited to go out for yet another pint in a small town pub, I willingly agreed and was swept away into the inner workings of an equally small town lifestyle.

Although we left the kitchen community, we were happily joined by Alan and Carol, Devlin's cousin and girlfriend respectively. I ordered a bottle of Bulmers Cider to mix things up, and secretly nursed on it for a few hours. I had a foreboding fear of the intensity in which the Irish were presumed to drink, and I was determined to stay above it.

The pub was small and mostly empty, probably because new years eve was the following day and the citizens of Arklow were on reserve. As one would expect in a small town, each person knew the other in an intimate way and I was sticking out like a sore thumb on a crustacean. At one point, when all my comrades were out for a smoke, a man stumbled by and stopped at my empty table. He stared at me in a way where I knew he was trying to figure out just what made the scene before him so unfamiliar. New curtains? Different chairs? Better lighting? As soon as he realized that it was me who was the surprise new addition, he cracked a large drunken smile, pointed in my direction and said, "Woaaaaahhhh!" I blinked and looked around and then back at the man who was gawking at me. Except, he was done, arm down and stumbling away. Devlin came back and I was still trying to figure out what had just happened.

Soon we were joined by John, Devlin's uncle, who took my hand and kissed it upon his arrival. I looked around for answers to his behavior, but everyone was simply looking up and smiling. I didn't get it then, but it was just a show of Irish humor. I sat down perplexed, sipping away at my drink and straining to understand what everyone was saying.

At one point, after everyone had a few beers, Devlin caught on to the fact that I was only half way done with my cider. As soon as this was announced, I knew I was in trouble. It took about sixty seconds for a shot of Baby Guinness to appear before my face, John grinning and Devlin looking satisfied. Suddenly, everyone began singing Happy Birthday. For the third time that night, I looked around for answers to the absurd behavior that surrounded me. It wasn't my birthday. Not knowing what else to do, I took the shot and the table cheered.

It's funny what a little bit of alcohol can do to a persons outlook. I went from being the only sober person within a two mile radius to the happiest girl on the block. I even began to understand the Irish chatter that a half hour before was entirely nonsensical. My innocent mistake was that I announced this, and with great amusement, I was brought out another Baby Guinness. Suddenly, not only my friends were singing Happy Birthday, but the entire pub as well. Two shots in thirty minutes and a total of three merry unbirthdays to me. What was going on?

By this time, it was well known that I was the new kid in town and everyone was sauced enough to openly inquire where from. My meek, "Hawaii," was always responded with a drunken, "HAWAII 5 O!!!" Which was followed by pantomimed surfing that would last until they stumbled, fell, crashed or just forgot what they were doing in the first place. It was around this time that I learned the commonly used word, "Craic," or the Gaelic equivalent to having a good time.

Eventually, the old drunk guy who had pointed at me earlier stumbled by and introduced himself. Carol said he was a great poet, and he took that as an invitation to swoon me. The poet-god pulled up a chair and steadied his gaze, staring me in the eyes. The table grew quiet and he recited:

"Allow my eyes to close

and leave my dreams untouched

to cradle my tomorrow

and for the moment that is now.

I think I've crossed the Rubicon

as there are few moments in any given day

that I don't catch a fleeting glimpse
of you passing my minds eye.
You may have sown the seeds
of all that you will ever wish to reap
within the gardens of my heart."

And with applause and pub-wide cheer, he got up and walked away. Joe, the poet-god, the gawker, the drunk, just created a poem for me. I looked up at Devlin and I began to think that that mischievous smile hadn't left his face the whole day.

Inspired by this spontaneous bout of poetry and fueled by the rumor of me being an avid writer, John came over and asked me to create something. Intimidated by the natural talent around me, I declined while he insisted. "What do you see around you, right now?" He asked, and my heart panicked at the thought of instant literature. "Family!" I shouted, as it was the first thing that came to mind. "Good," he said, "I want three lines when I come back from my smoke." I don't do quick poetry, in fact, I don't do poetry. As much as I wanted to ignore this game, I also felt like I would be missing out on something larger if I didn't at least attempt to humor him. Understanding that participating was part of my experience, I scribbled the following onto a clean page in my notebook, "Family. Small town living, it's like nothing I've ever experienced. I've seen cathedrals and distinguished monuments, stood in places of great historical events, and yet none of that compares to the feeling of instant family." John came back as I doodled in the final period. He held out his hand, I ripped out the page, and he put it in his pocket. The anxiety of having my thoughts scrutinized in front of me was eliminated, and I felt instantly glad that he had such honest words hidden away in a place he'll soon forget. I imagined him stumbling upon it in the morning, sober and residually fuzzy, and it would make him smile or laugh or gag, and that would be that.

The juke box swept itself into my head, putting forth incredible songs that eased my tension and caused the pub to sing along. John, a renowned singer and musician in his own right, was even having his songs played back over the speakers. Confused, yet again, I leaned over to Alan and asked, "is he famous?" He laughed out loud. No one takes me seriously.

Eventually, as all good times go, it was time to leave. The pub was closing and the barman was coaxing us out. The atmosphere had changed into something more unified, and the table that was once occupied by four had become an island that housed many. The juke box was unplugged, but John and the rest sang songs with no bass line or drums or steady rhythm. It was the sound of soulful, Irish song in the heart of an empty Irish pub. This would later be described to me as a session in the midst of a lock in. I was told later that I wouldn't have had this experience were I not in a small town as a friend of a local family. I felt a surge of gratitude for such a personal and once in a lifetime experience.

After an hour or two of singing and drinking past closing, it really was time to go. Devlin, Alan, Carol and I drank what was left of our pints and walked home. Here, we drank yet some more, listening to music and lounging on couches. At one point, near 4am, Carol walked in with four cups filled with a swallow of something that visually resembled vodka. "Don't smell it, just drink it," Alan said, and after a slurred "Slàinte," (Gaelic for "Cheers") we drank something known as Poitín, a traditional Irish spirit that is among the strongest alcoholic beverages in the world. Had I known what I was drinking at the time, I would have found an excuse to evade the poisoning of my liver. And yet, I imbibed and survived to tell the story of Irish Moonshine. Let's just say we all fell asleep shortly after and didn't wake up till noon.

My first day in Ireland would set the tone for the rest of my stay, drinking for lunch until breakfast and sleeping whatever time in between. Guinness, more Guinness and a lifetime of inebriation.

Torchlight Procession

2009-01-11T12:01:00.001-10:00

The Torchlight Procession kicks off the New Years festivities (called Hogmanay) in Edinburgh, Scotland. I managed to catch this opening act and my heart will forever be fulfilled by the experience of it.

Celebration, community, extravagance, beauty; it was the most spectacular thing I had seen during my holiday travels. I remember feeling so moved by it all, by the over-abundance of people and their unspoken synchronicity, by the fire that blazed through the streets and the hills that it set aflame. It was the largest procession Edinburgh has ever seen, and I walked as part of it.

Not knowing what to expect or how things would turn out, I made recordings throughout the night to help depict the grandeur of what unfolded before me. Although this video will do it no justice, I hope that it can at least put the desire in your heart to see it for yourself.

Thoughts on Edinburgh, Scotland

2009-01-08T11:40:00.000-10:00

Imagine the following: You get off an early morning flight to jump on a bus into a city you have never heard of in a country you have never been. Although you have a friend by your side, you are glued to the window as you would be in any new place. Transfixed by the green of the grass, you stare out wistfully, wanting only to be surrounded by authentic Scottish air versus alloyed Scottish steel. Then, as the bus rounds the corner, something greater, more magnificent than emerald dirt catches your eye.

There's a hill that rises majestically from the center of the city, and atop this mound is the most commanding castle you have ever seen. It sits above every building and rooftop, making use of its position of infinite surveillance. It steals your breath.

Then, before you have a chance to inhale, you see a gothic city skyline made of stone. The buildings jut up into the sky from the floor of an empty loch, reaching up like urban crags.

Welcome, friends, to Edinburgh, Scotland.

December 23, 2008
I woke up at 4:30 in the morning to the sound of London hustling by outside my window. Scotland, I remembered, I was going to Scotland.

Officially 23 and just short of hung over, I floated from England to Edinburgh in a daze. Here I found Ben, an old friend who had long ago shoved my NIX Welcome to Scotland sign into his jacket pocket. It seems I maintain my tropical island pace no matter where I am in the world.

We went to his place where I dropped off my tumor of a backpack and settled in to watch an episode of Top Gear - like, the best British show in the world. Do I like cars? No. Will I ever? No. Can I watch a show comprised of a silly men, vehicles and insane challenges? Yes. On with the show.

When that was done, we headed off into town where I got acquainted with The Royal Mile. The Royal Mile is just longer than an actual mile by 107 yards, starting at the gates of Holyrood Palace and ending at the stone walls of Edinburgh Castle. The Royal Mile is lined with shops and museums, churches, courtyards and breweries, and provides the perfect environment for a leisurely stroll.

We walked up to Edinburgh Castle and though cold as it was, I stood there for as long as possible. I was in the presence of gradure and power and history, and all I could do was take a photo.

Still in awe, we walked down a side street to Frankensteins - a Frankenstein themed church-turned-pub with the pulpit as the DJ station. I couldn't believe such a place existed. Eccentric and yet full of a soul that wasn't pretentious. I was already falling in love with Edinburgh.

Following a pint of Bulmers cider, Ben and I headed next door to the Elephant House, a place that prides itself for being the birthplace of the infamous Harry Potter. Indeed, it was in this cafe that JK Rowling sat by a bookshelf writing The Sorcerer's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets. Newly divorced and unbelievably poor, Rowling calculated that it was cheaper to sit in The Elephant House with a cup of coffee than it was to heat her apartment (ironically, she is now more wealthy that the literal Queen of England). It was here, next to JK Rowlings table, that I ordered my first meal in Scotland.

December 24, 2008
Christmas Eve on my second day in Edinburgh. What better activity to do than a free walking tour of the city? We hit main sights such as St. Giles' Cathedral, The Heart of Midlothian (the dirtiest spot in all of Edinburgh as all Scots spit on it as they walk past), Greyfriars Kirkyard (graveyard), Grassmarket, and the inspiration for 'Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

Along with these sights, we heard stories that I wasn't expecting to hear. Turns out that there was a real citizen of Edinburgh who's life story inspired the creation of the infamous Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!

After the tour, Ben and I roamed the Scottish version of the German Christmas Market, and then wandered over to The Standing Order for a few pints and a basket of curry chips (french fries with curry on top). The beer was amazing, the chips a little less so.

December 25, 2008
Merry Christmas from Scotland! It would be my first Christmas away from home and though I missed my family, I was also very excited to be spending it abroad. Ben and I got ready and headed over to Tim and Rebekah's house (two of Ben's friends) where there was a grand Christmas feast waiting. I was absolutely delighted to be invited, considering that I really did appear out of no where. Through their generosity, the spirit of Christmas ebbed on.

The meal was absolutely fabulous with the desert a perfect finish. We then settled down to watch The Queen on TV. And I mean, The Queen. Apparently, The Queen always makes a short speech on Christmas that gets broadcast over the airwaves. It was cute!

By the time we returned home, I was stuffed and exhausted, the nights wine and festivities encouraging me to slumber. I said my Christmas prayers and didn't wake up till noon.

December 26, 2008
Boxing Day. I have never participated in Boxing Day, or been aware of it for that matter, until this trip to Scotland. Boxing Day is also known as the "Day of Goodwill," which is based off the tradition of giving gifts to the less fortunate (ie. your service workers). Of course, being the consumers that we are, Boxing Day has evolved into a shopping holiday in which we spurge on post-Christmas sales. Go figure.

Instead of buying into consumerism, Tim played the bagpipes for me and gave both Ben and I a miniature (and dare I say, failed) lesson. Come on, you didn't think I was going to leave Scotland without playing around with their defining instrument, now did you? And you got to admit, it kind of looks like I know what I'm doing.

We then proceeded to climb up Authors Seat - an extinct volcano sitting on the edge of the city. The trek wasn't as gruesome as one might imagine a volcanic hike to be, and in fact, it was rather pleasant. The entire walk up took about half an hour, and once on top, the sweat was instantly worth it. There, before my eyes, was a panoramic and breathtaking view of Edinburgh.

Up here, above it all, we flew kites and had a picnic until our appendages begged for warmth. Glad for a reason to imbibe, we headed down to the nearest pub and had a pint. The rest of the night was spent curled up on a couch, watching Top Gear. :)

December 27, 2008
It was a beautiful day, again, for it seems God likes to grant these moments of spacial purity simply because he knows it makes me happy. I try my hardest to take advantage of his generosity.

So, it was a day out alone in the city for me, wandering around in the way that I do, discovering how this road is actually and mysteriously also connected to that road. Surprise.

I walked the Royal mile again, people watching and sight seeing, enjoying the fleeting feeling of sun against skin. I allowed myself to indulge in street performers and tourists shops, cafes and monuments. Eventually, I wandered around to the National Museum of Scotland (where entrance is free), and spent the rest of my day learning about Scottish history.

December 28, 2008
Ben took me on a brief walking tour of Leith, the port of Edinburgh that has had a reputation for inspiring such works of fiction as Trainspotting - a movie with an ongoing theme of heroin addiction and drug escapades. Ironically, Leith took on a whole new appeal for me after I found this out, being that Trainspotting had actually turned out to be a fairly good film (starring Ewan McGregor and his penis, if I remember correctly).

Of course, Leith isn't the same as it was back in 1996, so our morning walk was done safely and soudly. The harbor was gentle and the bridges serene, the boats were in their docks and the sea gulls were annoying as usual. Eventually, Ben and I entered Cameo Bar to have a light brunch by Scottish standards (which wasn't light at all).

Upon returning home, we played a heated game of Monopoly with Ben's friend, Silje, who had just flown in from Norway the night before. I will only fight to the death while playing RISK (the game of world domination) and so I gladly handed what was left of my winnings to the losing player (Silje) and resigned myself to my book.

December 29, 2008
This would be my last night in Edinburgh, and I refused to let it go without a fight. Silje, Ben and I ate haggis for lunch, which was a better dish than expected, and headed home to prepare for the nights activities.

Although Ben and Silje would be going over to Tim and Rebekah's house for another Christmas dinner, I would be heading into the city to participate in Edinburgh's torchlight procession. December 29th is the start of Hogmanay (the Scots word for the last day of the year), a festival that celebrates the coming of a new year. Little did I know when I planned my trip, but Edinburgh is host to some of the largest new years celebrations around. You want to watch a ball drop in New York City? I'd rather watch a hilltop in Scotland blaze.

The Torchlight Procession was the most amazing experience of my trip, an unexpected event that moved me to tears from the extravagance and beauty of it all. So incredible was this night that it deserves it's own post. Fear not, it won't take me another two weeks to update, but the footage I have will be well worth the wait.

When the procession ended, I dragged my feet home knowing that my time in Scotland was coming to an end. The city itself had helped to feed my imagination. History and preservation, culture and ambiance, all the things that I have never seen captivated in one place before. Though I flew off to Ireland early the next morning, I new that between then and the rest of my life, Edinburgh and I would meet again. It's one of those places, those few few places that captures your heart and begs you to return.

Haggis and Spotted Dick

2008-12-29T07:48:00.000-10:00

While in the UK, there are certain food items that surely can not be found in abundance elsewhere. This means that within my 18 days of holiday travel, I must eat them all regardless of name or ingredient. Today's meal consisted of what is perhaps the most... curious of dishes.

First off, Haggis, a traditional and popular Scottish dish. You can find this in most restaurants and pubs, as Scot and Scot alike have all tried and devoured the infamous Haggis, neeps and tatties (turnip and mash potato). Yes, Haggis is so famous that they even wrote a series of children's books based on Hamish the Hairy Haggis. So what is Haggis? My dear readers, I'm still not entirely sure.

Haggis is a mixture of a sheep's heart, liver, lungs and sometimes throat, stuffed into its own intestine and boiled. Of course they add spices and garnishes, but the bulk of it is simply a smorgasbord of innards. Was it delicious? Well, I wouldn't put it like that. Would I eat it again? Most certainly.

For desert I had Spotted Dick. I first saw this word plastered in pubs around London. It was a dish, like any other, casually written in chalk as if it were yesterdays happy hour special. What is it? Spotted dick is a steamed cake of sorts with raisins or currants (the spots) baked inside. It's usually served with ice cream or custard, and served as the perfect trashy dessert. Was it delicious? It was a little too sweet for me and I couldn't manage to devour the whole thing. Would I eat it again? That really depends.

Traversing London, England

2008-12-25T01:36:00.000-10:00

I say this now in retrospect, as the English days are over and I am no longer in the vicinity of The Queen. From Scotland, I sit back with a tall glass of rum and coke and reminisce on the first five days of my journey. I knew it would be all too soon before I was elsewhere, but London delivered and I couldn't have had better stories to tell.

December 18, 2008
The day began in Kate's room, fog in my eyes and a backpack half my size waiting to be holstered and carried cross country. The next few hours would be filled with travel, and as excited as I was to begin such a trek, I was just as equally hesitant. The road from Germany to England is not as smoothly paved as others, especially when traveling on a miniature budget. Thankfully, I can look back on this and say that not only did I survive the journey, but I mastered it, conquering multiple transfers and modes of public transportation. Here's the rundown, which is totally uninteresting but completely validating to my travelbility: Train from Dusseldorf to Kevalear, bus to Dusseldorf Weeze Airport, plane to England, train to Liverpool Street Train Station, and [red double decker] bus to Burough High Street where I booked into my hostel all by myself and with little to no fear of failure. Ironically, every success I had in London, I owe to my failures in Paris.

I spent the rest of the day being too exhausted to explore, and decided to settle into the hostel accommodations by reading a book in the common room. Nothing special, except that I talked to a middle aged man for a two hours. He was bald.

December 19, 2008
Breakfast in the hostel, which was simple, though all the more delicious being free. I tried to test out my friendliness by talking to a woman with a Doony and Burk purse, but she was way way way more interested in spreading butter than chatting with me. I finished my meal in a defeated silence, then went off to meet up for the free walking tour of the day. This is how I made my first two friends in England.

Meet Emily, Seattle raised, New Orleans educated and pursuing architecture like a mad geek in Glasgow, Scotland. She had giant wacky glasses too, which destined us to be friends, obviously.

Then there was Tom, the Australian boy who needs no introduction. What made him a total joy to be around, I can't say, but his presence made London that much more fun[ny]. Together we embarked on the Royal Walking Tour around the city, hitting the usual spots as Buckingham Palace (where we witnessed the Changing of the Guards), Big Ben, Westminster's Abbey and Houses of Parliament accordingly. Allow me to inject the fact that it was another astoundingly beautiful day.

When the tour ended, Emily and I headed back to the hostel where we attempted to figure out a plan for the last half of the day. After browsing a plethora of brochures and travel guides, we came upon an advertisement for Lost and Found Orchestra (from the creators of Stomp, where music is made from mundane items ranging from glasses and saws to children's toys and traffic cones) and were immediately sold. Best part? It was opening night, seats were still available and with our 'student discount,' we got in for a £5 steal. Let me just use this sentence to reinforce the fact that it was an incredible show!

Still on a production-high, we headed back to St. Christopher's Village (our hostel), bought some clementines and sat back in the common room to people-watch. Highlights of this event: Drunk Irish guy accosting the cutest little French Canadian you ever saw. "Which one would you die for? French or Canada?!"

December 20, 2008
Breakfast at St. Christopher's was a lot more eventful as I was immediately joined by Tom and Stagemaster, another Aussie who was staying in the same room as Tom and Emily. Stagemaster builds stages for crazy rock stars in order to travel and live in London, and we called him Stagemaster because any other name would be less fun to say. We made it very clear that we never wanted to know what his real name actually was, except, I figured it out. SPOILER ALERT! If you wish to remain forever oblivious to the true identity of the human named Stagemaster, then I suggest you skip over this sentence to the picture of Weet Bix below. His real name is Nathan. Disappointed, aren't you?

At breakfast there was an item that looked just like a granola bar, and as I bit into it, Tom straighted up in shock and yelled, "What are you doing?!" What I had just took a bite of was something called 'Weet Bix,' and is supposed to be devoured with milk. Without it, Weet Bix will absorb all the saliva from your mouth and make you cough out dust like a Hollywood mummy. Let's not even get into my experience with Vegemite.

We were later joined by two of the cutest Germans who's words were so lost in translation that you ended up hearing things like, "Ven ve arrived in London, ve buy many alcoholics at ze Duty Free. So, before ve go back to ze Germany, ve need to destroy all ze alcoholics. Maybe you can help." Huh? "Ja."

The agenda for the day was a trip to Tate Modern, a modern art gallery that is free to the public. With it's high ceilings and naked walls, modern art galleries are perfect for the people who love the sound of their own footsteps. I listened as a pair of gentlemen discussed depth, perception, reality. Focus, observe, interpret. 'You guys are amazing,' I thought, 'The only pieces in this block of empty space that amuses me.' Art, it seems, is all relative.

I tried to find something meaningful in Monet, something minimal in Mondrian, something abstract in Picasso, something surreal in Magritte. I failed at art appreciation, why was I there? A handsome London boy walked by and I found myself instantly distracted. I decided to pretend that I was an art enthusiast, throwing my back into a proper posture, furrowing my eyes, putting a thumb under my chin, pointer under my lip and even going so far as to push my spectacles up from the sides of the rim and let out an overly pensive sigh of comprehension. Are all these people faking too? What a show! Suddenly, we were all pretenders and Tate Modern was the most interesting place to be. Art. Is. Relative.

I found myself people watching; the art of people watching. I walked past a red-headed MILF in a Burberry mini-skirt just as she reached down to scratch the penthouse of her upper thigh. I bear witness to accidental vaginal art.

After this, Tom, Emily and I ate ostrich burgers in the Burough Street Market and went out in search of a pub, which was harder to find than expected. Half an hour of aimless wandering left us standing at the door of The Old Thames Side Inn ordering such obscenities as Bangers and Mash and Spotted Dick. Don't ask folks, just Google.

When meals were consumed, we headed to the downstairs bar which was curiously over-crowded... with Santa Clauses! We walked in feeling out of place, but were way too enthralled with the prospect with drinking at the North Pole to turn back. Let me be as clear as possible here, I'm talking 50 St. Nicks, drinking till drunk and having a great time advertising red velvet and faux fur. I was kissed on the hand twice, once on the cheek and even slapped on the butt for the first time in my life, proving that Mrs. Claus does not put out nearly as much as she should. We stayed until the bar closed and stumbled home to our hostel, merry and festive.

December 21, 2008
Tom took off on his own adventure to lands far off, so Emily and I made a goal to hit the main bridges. London Bridge, as infamous as it is, is also the greatest disappointment in all of England. We had walked across it, completely oblivious to the fact that we had just crossed over a nursery rhyme.

Tower Bridge, on the other hand, was a lot more impressive with it's regal towers and Tiffany Blue embellishments. But still, you don't hear anyone singing about it.

Later we embarked on a partially failed attempt to find Brick Lane Market (Brick Lane is elusive, so good luck fellow expeditioners). We did, however, discover Petticoat Lane Market, which momentarily reminded me of The South K. with it's cheap garb and persistant peddlers.

Around dusk, we adventured into and out of Kensington Gardens, feeling closer to Peter Pan and 101 Dalmations than ever before. After people watching and juggling clementines in the common room, we called it an early night and went to bed.

December 22, 2008
Happy Birthday. I felt like I carried a really cool secret around London that day, getting oddly excited to know I was 23 in the midst of a city that didn't actually care. Emily left for Amsterdam that morning, so I had the whole day to celebrate by myself.

My first stop was an impulsive visit to Southwark Cathedral, as it was both free and nearby. I wandered inside to a lady who greeted me warmly and took me on a brief and personal tour of the church. Eventually I made my way to a small room designed specifically for meditation and prayer and gave my thanks for guidance, purpose and clarity. It was here that the confusion and heartbreak of the past six months came into line with each other and every mistake and wrong-doing had an understandable purpose. I cried a little as I strangely do in these cathedrals, and felt an overwhelming sense of love. I was in London, embarking on the sub adventure of the greatest adventure of my life. Maintaining a love in Hawaii would have detracted from my experiences abroad, and though I wondered why it had to end as painfully as it did, I understood that any other way would have held me back from embracing every moment in Europe as my own. Though I still hurt and though I often still feel surges of frustration, I also have faith that there is a divine purpose behind the situation. I have been praying for clarity for months, and in the first Gothic church in all of London, I received it.

Following this minor pilgrimage, I did some light shopping at a variety of markets, revisited The Houses of Parliament, London Eye and Buckingham Palace and then returned to the Hostel to write postcards. Later, I met up with Stagemaster who was thoughtful enough to remember it was my birthday and suggested we go out for a birthday pint (or three). Introducing Bulmers, the greatest drink I've never had. After a couple bottles, we found a certain fascination in defacing candles (ie. bending them out of shape and getting wax everywhere) before it was high time to head home. I did, afterall, have an early flight to Scotland the next morning.

December 23, 2008
I have had no sense of time since my phone gave up on life and my ipod decided to freeze. I couldn't remember how to reset it, so I had to let it die out, leaving me wondering if I was going to make it to the train on time. I must say that I looked rather endearing with my massive backpack, navigating my way ever so politely through the rush hour crowds of London in my summer dress and floral boots. "Sorry, excuse me, entschuldigen."

On the train out of the city, I had a sadness in my heart that came from parting with a place that I had grown attached to. There were only good memories and large achievements that had birthed itself from England, and leaving suddenly seemed premature. With no ipod to distract from this minor breakup, I remained pensive and scribbled in my notebook. "Dear journal, I like London."

On to Edinburgh, Scotland.

Possible side effects

2008-12-14T10:05:00.000-10:00

To cut costs on my numerous flights around Northern Europe this winter (four in all), I have booked every ticket for no check-in baggage. Due to the cost-per-bag rule that airlines have implemented within the past year, I will be saving an exact amount of 96 Euro; an atrocity that I am proud to avoid.

Still, such decisions have minor, yet equally irritating, consequences. Most of my concern stems from the fact that I can not bring aboard any sharp and potentially harmful items. As a lady, I always make sure I do carry at least one sharp and potentially harmful item, in fact, most of us do: The razor.

Hear me out. I will be in three different countries which means three different errands for three different razors, and three different trash cans to fill three different dump sites to contain the wastefulness of three different errands to buy three different razors from three different countries. Are you following?

So, I'm in the midst of figuring out if there are any possible side effects of not shaving for 18 days.

Oh, right.

Improve your English

2008-12-13T22:38:00.000-10:00

I have never been more proud to be living in Germany than the second after I watched this video. When you're done, WATCH IT AGAIN! (Once again, if you can not see the video, you must view the original page).

The Metaphorical Lemon Takes Center Stage.

2008-12-12T08:01:00.000-10:00

Time, it's the most precious thing about this place. I'm not even sure where it goes, if it gets stored or invested, gaining 1.7% interest in a golden Swedish vault. I've accepted that I'll never see it again, for in exchange for my time, I receive a continual supply of stories and lessons, experiences and memories. Spend time wisely, purchase a year of life in Germany, invest in a weekends worth of losing direction and finding ones self in Paris, splurge and celebrate your 23rd birthday with strangers in London, put a down payment on Christmas in Scotland, and donate the rest of 2008 in an Irish New Years celebration. Time is our metaphorical lemon, and I have decided to get drunk off of lemonade wherever I want.

I leave in exactly 5.5 days for a place I have never been. Five nights in England to do things I have never done. It'll be the first time I travel somewhere where nobody is expecting me. I am not with the YMCA or with a family or meeting friends; it will be just me and my willingness to discover a place.

These five days with England will be followed by one week in Scotland. Here lives Ben, someone I haven't seen since I was 19 and living in Portland, Oregon. After all this time, I'm still finding reasons to be grateful to have stayed in touch. Now, in a land far away, I have an old friend to celebrate Christmas with.

From there I move on to Ireland to meet up with a boy who was just a stranger one week ago. Devlin, my fourth friend in Germany, completely altered my winter plans by inviting me to spend New Years with him in Dublin. I'll have six days in Ireland before returning to Germany; exhausted, overstimulated and whole.

Perhaps there is no better recipe to make lemonade than the one that creates itself within us. Happy holidays.

Blond chicks suck and they're not sexy.

2008-12-10T03:43:00.000-10:00

The weekend, oh, how I live for it. Every week it's me calling out for Kate, "Let's DO SOMETHING." That girl, she saves my life every time.

This weekend had to be spectacular, it had to be jam packed and tiring and wild, as there's nothing that nurses out a broken heart like good beer and an adventure. So, we started Saturday early, and headed to a Fortuna Soccer game. This is basically the disappointingly mediocre team out of Dusseldorf. It was cold and rowdy, and when the ref made a bad call or the other team scored a point, the crowd would throw their beer cups on the field and stick out their middle fingers.

The best part of the game were the beer guys (nerdy looking beer solicitors with a backpack full of beer on tap that can dispense you a cup whenever and wherever you want) and the guy who walked the isles with a basket full of bread and pastries. Hot dogs? At a stadium? Not in Germany. Now pass me the 9 grain loaf please, danke.

When our team ceremoniously tied, we left the field for greener pastures. We headed to the Christmas market where we imbibed Gluwein (once again, the traditional Christmastime beverage), and then moved on for some Alt Bier (once again, the beer traditional to the Dusseldorf area). Here, Kate and I sat with Cherub and Lazy Eye (I don't remember names when I have had alcohol to drink, so we'll just call it like it is) for a brief dinner. She and I abstained from food as we had a dinner date at a friends house, so we just had beer and watched them eat. This is where the night shifted.

For some reason, it is okay for strange old men to feed a young woman from their plate of food with their personal fork. "Here, try this." "No, thank you.... I said no thank you. What is your fork still doing in front of my face? Is this a cultural difference? Do I really have to, because I think it is gross and it also makes me uncomfortable to have your saliva in my mouth. What's your name again?" So, to settle the situation, I ate the portion that they spooned out for me and hoped only that it didn't happen again. But it did. Kate sat on the side the whole time, watching me get force fed other peoples sauerkraut while claiming to be a wegetarian (Germans switch their V's and W's around). Eventually, Cherub asked if I was extremely conservative or if I was just sarcastic.

"She's just sarcastic."

I chugged the rest of my beer so we could freely evacuate the bar. Before long, we were back at Kate's place, picking up essential dinner items: A pumpkin, a carrot and a food processor. Yes, she carried it around with her for the rest of the night.

Soon, we met up with Devlin, new friend #4! Fellow expat with an Irish passport, we all got along swimmingly as we made a mess of his kitchen. Pumpkin soup was in the making, and while they peeled carrots and boiled onions, I sat on the side sloshing wine in my mouth to kill other peoples bacteria. Drink, Nix, alcohol kills germs.

When our soup was digested, we headed out to the altstadt (old town) for more fun and excitement. Here, we met up with Sebastian and tried to look classier than we were. One round of Jäger, please, coming right up. Cheers to friendships abroad, and let me tell you why.

Conversation turned to holiday plans, who's going where and for how long etc. Devlin, Mr. Irishman here, mentions returning home to Ireland and my eyes light up. "You should come," he says, "round trip tickets are like 50 Euro." I'm heavily inebriated at this point, but I can still comprehend the value of a week in Ireland for 50 Euro. "I'll show you around, we'll do this we'll do that," and all I can process is Ireland for 50 Euro. I slide my little black book across the table and order him to give me his information. Email, phone number, social security number, whatever I need to track him down because I am going to Ireland for 50 Euro.

My entire holiday plans changed like that. I tossed Greece and the 200 Euro plane ticket that would get me there for a birthday in London, Christmas in Scotland, and new years in Ireland. Cheers to Friendships abroad.

If that wasn't the best part of the night, then this was; A video I do not remember taking, where my only friends abroad stood by my side and blond-bashed. (ps. if you can not see the video, you must go to the original page).

Highlights of the video: Kate's self righteous and overly positive, "to Nix!" Sebastian's, "Nix, don't ever get blond." And my extremely drunken slur depicting just how awesome I really am. Cheers to friendships abroad!

We ended the night as perfectly as possible. And though still woozy in the morning, I had a new spirit in my soul that always comes back when I watch that ridiculous video. Blond chicks suck and they're not sexy! I'm going to Ireland! I'M AWESOMEEEE!!!

Oh, hail no.

2008-12-04T08:03:00.000-10:00

I had just returned from my daily run (which was extra dangerous on this particular day for the high winds and sporadic weather left me with a small bump on my head and a leaf in my mouth) when The Mom sat me down to have our daily lunch. Our habitual seating arrangement has me facing the window, so when abnormal looking rain drops began to fall I was the first to jump up and declare that it was hailing!

"Girl, the sun is shining. It don't hail when the sun is out."

"Mal-func-tion. I don't know anything about hail," I told her, "tropical island, remember?"

A little disappointed, I sat back down to finish my meal. Ten minutes later, after nearly giving The Mom a heart attack, I was screaming and dancing in ice cubes. (Even robots can tell when rain is frozen).