How quickly do we take things for granted? How many years, days, hours before the initial wow fades? Believe it or not, this isn’t a breakup blog post as Carrie Bradshaw would have you believe. It’s an honest ponder. I just wrote about my illicit love affair with the ocean. Just. Wrote. It. Only to realize the other day while sitting on the beach that I haven’t actually visited her since I’ve been back from South Africa. Three weeks ago. I liken it to the grandma you adore, but rarely make it to the old age home to see.
What’s in an accent? Surely that by any other pronunciation would sound as sweet?
Clearly the Bard was calling on base comedy. I bite my thumb at thee. Everyone knows accents are cool. No, let’s be honest. They’re dang sexy. Well except for some. Sorry, Midwest. The best ours can be described as is “nasally.” Not exactly erotic.
Living by the ocean is the best. The intoxicating uncertainty of her moods thrills me. Will she be blue and calm, turquoise and flirty or gray, rough and full of fantastic anger?
Being near the ocean is an absolute treat. It centers, grounds me, puts things in perspective. It is my loyal friend to visit – well, my loyal friend with multiple personality disorder.
Back in my Teach for America days I was fat with self-righteousness, certain that my life was one With Meaning because TFA told me so. I was the chosen elite; smart enough, brave enough, good enough to save America’s education system!
Now, I don’t really mean to diss TFA. It’s a great organization. It means well and it gets results. But it’s even better at marketing than education. It convinces 22-year-olds, otherwise set to become Contiki tour guides, that they have a greater purpose. I’m thankful for their influence.
But now that the un-glamorous glamor of working in America’s worst performing school district has long past, and I am a sell-out, rich-kid teacher at a private international school, I am more cynical.
Southeast Asia continues to splatter Awesome and Weird onto its diverse, fantastic canvas.
Recently in Chiang Mai, Thailand JD and I marveled at ancient temples whilst sidestepping lady boy lookers. We ate delicious pad Thai with a dessert of tarantula from a street stall next to McDonald’s. We went whitewater kayaking through proper rapids, and quickly paddled out of the way of elephants bathing in the river. They waved goodbye to us with their trunks when we moved on. In the wake of the beloved king’s death, there was no alcohol served, except sangria and margaritas at Mexican restaurants. In Bangkok, the millions of mourners who flooded in from across the country were met with stands of free food, free drinks and free tea to anyone who wanted it in the spirit of the king’s generosity. As we learned, we were also welcome to partake. We bypassed the magnificent paintings of aspiring Thai artists and, instead, bought beetle wing earrings as souvenirs. We tuk-tuked through alleyways of the Sweet, the Strange and the Sublime.
Or rather how the East won me over – East as in Eastern Europe. After spending most of my American life pining to be exotically French or Italian or even British and being obsessed with all things Western European, I have come to admire Europe’s other half. My trip with my mom to Hungary, Czech Republic, Croatia and Italy (just couldn’t resist!) transformed Eastern Europe from intriguing to enchanting.
Budapest startled me. The fine beauty I associated with Western Europe interlaced with the darkness of far and recent past so perfectly that I was sure I was in a storybook. Here the opulent Parliament building sits just in front of walls still suffering from Soviet bullet wounds. The Jewish Quarter hosts one of the world’s largest – and most beautiful – synagogues in between lots that have been abandoned since most of the Jews there were deported in the last months of World War II. From the Danube River you gaze at a fairytale castle just next to the statue made to commemorate that the people wanted no more war. Budapest quickly became one of my favorite places.