Life on the Lough

I don’t like to ride my bike against the wind. So I often double back alongside Lough Atalia, letting the air guide me past the expansive lake. An eternal klutz, I never appreciated cycling until I experienced the warmth of fleeting October sun against the back of my neck, fingers snug inside woolen gloves as they grip leather handlebars. I learned early on to leave for class two hours early. Then I can allow myself to stop, to get lost, and to appreciate the chattering streets of Galway in the autumn.

In particular, I always dismount my bike halfway down the road so I could stop and look at St. Augustine’s Well. Sometimes the entire embankment is flooded over with water and swans, but occasionally I can walk right up to the well and its cross. There are so many swans in Galway. They put me in mind of funny water cats with the way they approach for food, only to glide away, shielding disappointment with elegance.

The noises of cars rushing by mix with the calls of the birds, and of children and dogs in the park nearby. On days when fog rolls over the entirety of the lake, I sit on a bench and imagine that there is no boundary between lough and sky.

A rare clear day on the lough.

With no synagogues in Galway, I sometimes wring my hands beside that hidden well, mixing Jewish guilt into borrowed Catholic spirituality. I never considered myself particularly religious, but come Friday nights I inevitably take the long bus ride to Dublin where I can attend services.

After Shabbat services, the Rabbi collects all the foreign stragglers into his home for a dinner. At a recent dinner he told a story, both distinctly Jewish and Irish:

A man tries to visit his Rabbi. The Rabbi turns him away at the door, shouting and screaming, forcing him away. The man is distraught by rejection, and sits on the curbside crying. A group of passerby see his distress and bring him with them to the pub. Together, they toast, “L’Chaim!”  - A Hebrew phrase meaning, “to life”.

When the man next sees the his Rabbi, the Rabbi explains, “When you came to my door, I saw the Angel of Death behind you. I tried to scare you away so you could spend your last remaining moments with your family. But now I see you are well, and the Angel of Death has departed!”

The man, confused, explains that he never made it home, and instead drank with strangers. The Rabbi understood and said, “Every L’Chaim shared amongst friends encourages a small bit of life.”

“L’Chaim,” we toasted one another.

Time moves slowly in Ireland and yet the air thrums with vibrancy, of life lived consciously. Shabbat dinners last until midnight, as strangers become friends. The walk to school takes hours, paths ever changing, guided by a kind of lackadaisical curiosity, and saturated with questions of permanence. Likewise, my hand now moves slower as I paint, influenced by the humor and tranquility of swans that inquire after food from one who is watching the fog.

Less melodramatic people just get up and feed the damn swans.

I'm 22 and I Built A Desk

Spoiler alert: I built a desk

The other day, one of my favorite undergraduate art professors linked to the article Misled Into Leadership by Paul Dunion, ed.D., LPC. Although my professor posted the article to 
Facebook in reference to the administration at the University of Connecticut, saying, "Upper administration may or may not be leaders, yet this is the perception that has been created and bought", I couldn't help but think about the article in terms of my own development as a leader as facilitated by years of public education and an unintentionally male-centered family unit.

The article breaks down the definition of a leader and speculates what causes a person to go with a leader regardless of what that person might actually want. So I too will follow the outline of the article to tell you the story of how I built an IKEA-style desk for my room.


Leading from the Interior: A person who understands herself is a person worth following, particularly if that person is able to recognize their fear and seek necessary support, rather than making fear-based decisions.

As you know, I recently moved to Ireland. I have new housemates in a new apartment, and for the first time I am independent of any facilitating program (or family) that would care about the particulars of my living situation. One of my first concerns was obtaining a desk so I could paint and draw. With my budget, that meant a deconstructed desk that came in a long, skinny box. The instructions had no words, only images. And no parts were labelled.

Ehhh...

Internal Balancing: Recognition, acceptance, and employment of the emotions guiding our actions.

Is it crazy to have a lot of emotions about cheap wood and screws scattered across my bedroom? Because I had a lot of emotions about this deconstructed desk. Growing up, my dad always had my older brother and I trailing behind as he made repairs to our two hundred and fifty year old house. Scott, though developmentally delayed, was taught to cut wood, finish decks, and patch up walls. Yet my hand never touched a hammer. Perhaps I'd be allowed to help by carrying materials or painting a little, but I was never taught how to complete a "manly" task from start to finish. As I grew older, my chores moved completely indoors, where I could then watch my little brother learn chores not meant for me.

Over time, I started to think: I'm bad at woodworking. I can't build a bench. This lesson was reinforced at school, where a boy who slacked off in Woodworking class was reprimanded, while I was rewarded with good grades when I giggled instead of worked. I figured everyone was letting me off the hook because they understood I was incompetent. I was in awe of men, who could do everything I could do and more. I understood my place.

Now, as an adult, I know I can do any simple task. Even those "meant for men". But I feel a lot of worry. I am scared that if I mess up a "manly" task, I will prove to the world that I am incompetent after all.

One down, two to go.

Internal Centering: An awareness of who you give up power to simply because you perceive them as being better educated or otherwise better off in society.

I might have achieved some modicum of independence at my university, away from home for the first time, but I tend to be a serial monogamist. There was always a boyfriend around to complete undesirable tasks, from running errands in the snow to building shelves for my art studio. BEB (beautiful elf boyfriend) was perhaps the worst offender. Brimming with love and hyperaware of the uselessness I projected and reinforced every day, he'd do anything for me. It's really quite odd how I do reinforce the label I grew up with. I'll complain to no end about carrying anything heavy. And if I need to build anything in front of another person, I freeze up and joke about my own lack of skills.

Even beyond that, I convinced myself that BEB was hyperskilled. There was no point in me even trying to build a shelf for my art studio because he was SO GOOD AT IT. It's true that BEB is talented at many things, but I used my perception of his experience to justify why it would be impossible to match his skillset.


Internal Discretion Identifies When to Listen and When to Have a Voice: Speaking and taking action is only as important as listening excessively.

Naturally, the first thing I did with my unfinished desk was sit and panic. I wondered if I could pay someone to build it for me. I even thought about how much easier it would be to do enough commission work to buy BEB a ticket. That's right, I believed in my ability to raise a thousand dollars more than I believed that I could put together a simple desk.

Then, of course, I started to try to join pieces together. I must have spent a solid hour fumbling around randomly until finally I opened the manual.

Not pictured here: the back part of the desk, where I accidentally broke the wood, rendering three screws useless. Then I tried to make up for it with an extra nail but gave up halfway through because it wouldn't go in.

Internal Commitment to Bring Compassion and Forgiveness to Themselves When Making a Mistake

I got glue all over the floor. Two of the weird twisty screws won't hold the desk together the way they should. It took me half an hour to figure out which slab of wood was supposed to be "part E". My housemates watched an entire movie in the time it took me to build half a desk.

Yet I decided not to get frustrated.

Over the years, I've worked with a number of animals. I especially learned a lot of patience in the last few weeks, training my mom's new puppy. I opted for positive reinforcement, never punishment, and I offered affection at every turn.

Finally I wondered: What if I were to teach myself with kindness, too?

Why do I lead animals with love, while showing only impatience and ambition to human beings, both myself and others?

I'm 22 and I built a desk. Perhaps it's odd to relate a solitary activity to the qualities of leadership, but after spending so much time in undergrad focusing on my strengths, I'm past overdue to work on my weaknesses. I can't lead others until I learn to take action with confidence, empathy and reflection.

Things that make me feel whole

A blog post about the positive and negative stressors associated with moving, and why I feel worried even though I am insanely lucky and privileged.

The question

My face when people ask me "the question"

"So what are you doing next year?"
The standard question. It very neatly avoids asking if I found a job now that I've finished my undergraduate education.

"Well, I'm going to Ireland for my postgrad. Galway," I specify.

"Oh how great! What are you studying?" asks my dentist, my grandparents, my gynecologist, and my parents' family friends who come over once every five years.

"Writing..." I trail off, expecting the inevitable "Oh how nice reply", their enthusiasm gone and mine wilting. I want to defend myself and explain that I'm going on a national scholarship, but I'm more scared of sounding conceited than I am of sounding lame. And then I kick myself, wondering, why am I buying into this culture of writing and visual arts as "lame"? I see my artist and writer friends as elevated humans achieving the ultimate in higher thought. Yet in myself, I see a self-indulgent slacker who will never live up to her parents' expectations. Worse, those expectations have become my own.

I lapse into the anxiety that keeps me awake night after night. People tell me I must be so excited for the move to Ireland, and part of me is definitely over the moon. Besides, outwardly my parents couldn't be more supportive as they help me pack, sort out finances, and prepare academically. I can't help but wonder why I feel like I'm balancing between chasms - familiar chasms, but ones from which I have previously escaped and thought myself free. Fixed. Moving on.

Ten things that make me feel whole, in no particular order

Sadie, a sugar glider with no passport.

1. My beautiful elf boyfriend (BEB). I don't even know what to say about that. I feel like I am in the process of breaking something delicate, fragile, and unspeakably beautiful. And yet there's some excitement, too. I'm looking forward to getting to know him all over again when I come home.
2. Sugar gliders. I adopted my two sugar gliders, Icarus and Sadie, a few years back. I've been obsessed with animals my entire life. After years of threatening to get sugar gliders, I finally rescued a pair off of some guy I found through Craigslist who was looking to trade them for a camera. I was entranced. I could carry them around all day without anybody knowing while they clicked contentedly away. When I was having an off day and was reluctant to get out of bed in the morning, I had to anyway to clean their cage and give them attention. They had to be fed every night. And the more I took care of them, the more I took care of myself. Gliders are difficult exotic animals and I adored researching every aspect of their care. Their metronome-like clicking soothed my anxiety and the way they gradually grew to trust me made me feel worthwhile. I spent the better part of a year trying to work out how to take them to Ireland with me, from getting them registered as emotional support animals to looking into cargo transport to acquiring importation documents. But in the end, it all fell apart. However, they'll be living with BEB while I'm in Ireland, so at least I can smile imagining them snuggling together.
3. Family. I'll miss my siblings and parents. And after a lifetime of begging for a puppy, my mom finally adopted a little King Charles Cavalier Spaniel to cope with her last child (my little sister) moving out to start college. I always knew I wanted a dog but I didn't expect to bond so quickly or thoroughly. I'll miss the family cat as well, but at least he understands I always come home in the end.
4. Stuff. What can I say? I love my things. I have animal skulls and dried roses, a million thrift store shoes, shirts I never wear with nostalgic value, childhood stuffed animals, fragile gifts from BEB. But I'm only bringing a suitcase and four boxes to Ireland, and two of those boxes are filled with linens and art supplies. Part of me is relieved to lighten the materialistic hold, but part of me is already looking around for more stuff.
5. Schedule. I settle so easily into the day-to-day routine. I do relish the opportunity to break out of my comfort zone and recognize habits for what they are, so this might actually be positive change.
6. Mentors. There were so many professors at the University of Connecticut I relied on for advice and support. I am always searching for people who can influence me, and I am afraid every time I have to start fresh, especially considering that I will only have a year in Ireland.
7. Taking care of Scott. My older brother, Scott, has Asperger's Syndrome. I remember when I was around seven years old my dad took the four of us siblings to New York City. I don't remember what we saw, but I do recall the moment Scott got distracted by a poster and was left behind. Though he was only lost for a few minutes, my dad yelled at me for not doing a good enough job taking care of Scott. Even at that young age I was convinced that the situation was ridiculous and that I wasn't a parent. And yet I was steeped in guilt. I'd always naturally taken care of Scott, but from that point onward I made a concentrated effort. When he gets in trouble, I make sure it's my neck on the line. But pretty soon, my neck will be in Ireland.
8. Planning. I want to know everything far in advance. I consider 9 minutes early to be 1 minute late. But Ireland does not run in my time zone. People don't reply to emails. The director of my MA program told me I would pick classes after school began. And Mitchell alumni explained that it was better to arrive in Galway first, and then find housing while staying in a hostel in the meantime. But just like the separation from my schedule, this could have positive impact. My killer planning instincts nearly always rub people the wrong way. I would like to learn to feel less controlling.
9. Art.
10. Resilience.

Art and resilience

One of my paintings. 

There are only two items on my list of things that make me whole coming with me to Ireland.

Art: When it comes down to it, all I need to express myself is an instrument that leaves a mark and a surface. Luckily, my favorite mode of expression fits into a travel watercolor kit and a bag full of micron pens.

Resilience: I used to think that my sadness made me weak, but I realized that I could find strength in the stability of my character. I've always been myself, no matter who my friends are, or where I pitch my tent. This consideration influenced the title of my blog, No More Forts. I don't need to build myself a permanent enclave where I only associate with certain people, where I tie myself down to a building because it's "home", or where I put up defenses to keep out new ideas. I want to let go of my fears and trust that I will come through intact.

Of course, the title is a bit humorous as well, with its reference to pillow forts. Yet even this has meaning as I move into adulthood and try to ignore nostalgia in favor of less comfortable experiences.

Friends

Owi and me.

It might seem odd that I haven't talked at all about the friends I'll leave behind. This is an incredible function of the age in which we live. I have friends I've never met and have only ever interacted with online. And those friends I have from university will remain my friends no matter where I travel. I'll see their updates through Facebook and I can video chat whenever I desire. Some of my closest friends are in China, California, Chicago, Iowa City, and more... so it won't feel too odd to add Connecticut to that list.

And, in a startling twist of coincidence, one of my close friends is also studying in Ireland on a scholarship. Because she might come up from time to time in this blog, I'll protect her anonymity by nicknaming her OWI (Obsessed With Italy... more on that later). Obviously anyone who knows me in real life knows who Owi is and that's fine, but I've been getting hits on this blog from random corners of the globe so I just want to be careful.

In conclusion

I'm going to Ireland to study Writing at NUI Galway. I'm scared, but I'm excited, too.  I can't wait to get started!

Sudden Collapse - The Death of a Road Trip

BEB (beautiful elf boyfriend) waves goodbye to the hippies after they drop us off at the airport.

A Brief Summary of Despair

I knew we wouldn't make it to California two days before the road trip began, when all six of us sat down to give a realistic nod toward the calendar and map. We pointed out that if the hippies (referred to thusly for the sake of anonymity) went to their music festival, Electric Forest, we could never reach California. For the festival fell squarely halfway through the road trip, meaning we would only have a week and a half to get from Michigan, to California, to Colorado, to home. I had an extremely important orientation to get to by July 10, so my hands were tied timewise. The hippies insisted we could still make it. But how did it make any sense to go to Iowa City, then Chicago, then Michigan - if the goal was to reach the west coast? I had my doubts. My dad had his doubts. And a day before we were to leave, my beautiful elf boyfriend rang me up to suggest that we ditch the trip and visit his Aunt Sally instead. I was infuriated, so determined was I to make the road trip work. I wanted to feel like an adventurer, I wanted to spend intimate time with my boyfriend before embarking on a year of long distance, and I wanted to hang out with my Fei Fei, who was to return to China on July 15. So when the RV departed, we went along for the ride.

The Timeline of Doom

On June 25, we dropped off the hippies in Rothbury, Michigan. Determined to have an amazing time despite the detour, we immediately headed towards Ludington State Park to swim in Lake Michigan and hike around the Lost Lake, a lagoon of Hamilton Lake. We got along quite well, joking with one another and getting closer to Damon despite the age gap.

June 27, we decided to fulfill Fei Fei's lust for art by heading to Grand Rapids to check out some galleries. The RV was struggling in minor ways - the radio was broken, the speaker disconnected. A few minutes into Grand Rapids, the muffler fell off. Damon was driving. Though a decent driver, he was young and panicked. He pulled into the first parking garage he saw.

Fun fact: RVs do NOT fit into parking garages. The RV lacked air conditioning, but still had a large plastic cap on the roof, which was promptly knocked off and destroyed, leaving a huge hole. It took us over an hour to carefully maneuver the RV out of the garage, scraping bits and pieces as we went. We spent many more hours repairing the muffler at an auto parts store. My beautiful elf boyfriend used four layers of tarp and some duct tape to patch up the roof. We realized that the fix was actually a huge improvement over the previously leaking air conditioner part.

We hightailed it out of Grand Rapids and went for a swim in Lake Michigan at Muskegon State Park. Somehow, my beautiful elf boyfriend lost his ring to the waves. It was a promise ring I had given him a year or so previously - a representation of my assurance that I wanted to spend my life with him, a cool titanium ring with inlaid dinosaur fossil. He was devastated, and though the water was freezing, he searched through the rippling sand as long as he could.

And yet, the day was fine simply because we were all encouraging and friendly to one another. That night, we picked up the hippies from Electric Forest at 2:30 AM.

The roof is "fixed", wow.

June 28, it was my birthday. BEB somehow managed to snag me a rose and some shrimp (I am obsessed with seafood). He gave me a sketchbook I had been eyeing back in Chicago, with gorgeous handmade watercolor paper.

Later that day, Damon drove straight through a toll gate and knocked it down while nearly everyone else slept soundly. After that, I didn't sleep.

June 29, everything began to fall apart. The overdrive was off, for which everyone blamed Fei Fei, though the real reason would later become apparent. The vehicle overheated. Perhaps relatedly, suddenly it became impossible to pump gas. Even at an extreme angle, gas would just fall right out onto the ground.

One of the hippies had a carving tool which he used to make acorn top rings. He wanted to use that tool to put a hole in the RV to make a new gas line. He said if that didn't work, "I'll use this hammer to smash a motherfucking hole right in this fucker.

"The gas pipe is in a weird spot. Why is that even there?" asked BEB.

The hippy responded, "Rednecks. Motherfucking rednecks."

Yesterday I joked to my beautiful elf boyfriend, it's a good thing the whole roof didn't rip off because then the trip would be over - but, I realized we would probably just continue on anyway with a giant tarp over the RV or something. I used to be worried about the lack of seatbelts, but then I realized we have a grill and propane on the RV's deck anyway. Dead is dead. Remember, if this thing blows up in a fireball: my little brother gets all of my things except whatever he wants most. That goes to my little sister. (Text I sent to my parents.)

"It's okay," said Alpha Hippy. "We were meant to stay at this gas station for a while. There were signs. I bumped my head earlier."

 Later, same day, June 29 - We had only made it as far as the Badlands. After buying a $15, seven day pass we raced through with barely a pause to take in the sights. A glance at the calendar told me we had no chance at all of making it to California. I asked everyone to gather around to discuss revising expectations. Damon was so angry, so set on making it to the Redwood Forest, that he refused to join the conversation. He blamed me, even though I had no driver's license, didn't own the vehicle, and was in no way leading the trip.

At 5:45 pm, the transmission died.

Stuck and in need of a place to sleep, the hippies brought us to a public park that closed at 10 pm. I was already half asleep in the lofted bed above the steering wheel, and I was unwilling to camp out illegally. Everyone else pitched tents outside.

Around midnight, June 30, a police man pulled up and knocked on a side window of the RV. My heart instantly began to spazz out.

"This is the police here. Come out with your IDs," he called.

"Hold on just a minute, sir", I responded hoarsely. Sir? Since when do I say sir? I grabbed around for my sandals, pulling one out of the garbage can where it had mistakenly fallen in.

Everyone gathered round as we passed over IDs and explained that we were from Connecticut. "Let me just run these IDs," he said, "and then we will discuss what happens from there."

Shit. I'm supposed to be a Mitchell Scholar. I can't get arrested. What if one of the hippies has a record? One of them is embroiled in a pyramid scheme, though only god knows if he's aware, and all of them smoke.

He looked at the RV with mild concern. "Six of you fit in there?"

"Yes sir," answered one of the hippies.

A grin spread across his face. "That's. AWESOME." he stated. "But this is a public park, it closes at ten."

"Oh no," I gabbled, "we didn't know... do you have any recommendations?" My panic was fading but in its place, anger spread. I did know the park closed. Why did I allow other people to decide where I slept? It was my fault that I didn't take responsibility for myself.

"Our overdrive stopped working," explained one of the hippies.

"You're going cross-country without overdrive?"

"We had one-" I started to laugh, but one of the hippies cut me off to say, "We have six seatbelts." What?? No we don't! Why would you bring in a lie he didn't even ask about? Fei Fei gave a short, choking, sarcastic laugh that was only cut off when Damon nudged her.

The policeman gave us some recommendations as to where we could sleep instead. He was conversational, asking if we had been caught in the tourist trap town Wall Drug (we had), and told us to swim in Hippie Hole tomorrow. Everyone stuck their tents onto the RV's porch, and Damon held them down as we drove away.

From my journal: 15 things that Alpha Hippy knew needed to be fixed before the trip started, but instead said "This baby is perfect and ready to go!"

On June 30, instead of getting the part we needed for the vehicle, we decided to hike to Hippie Hole. The policeman had told us to find a parking lot leading to a gravel path. We pulled over on the side of the road to a location vaguely close to the instructions and walked down a completely random ATV path.

"I don't think this is the parking lot," I said, to which Alpha Hippy responded, "Well we aren't looking for a Walmart parking lot." I know that. I'm more well traveled than you realize. But this isn't a parking lot, and we aren't in the correct location. 

"Let me just grab my hiking boots," I said. Beta Hippy frowned and said, "It's just a mile walk, you don't need those." Five minutes into the strenuous uphill hike through mud and high grass, I was glad I didn't listen to her.

The hike was four miles and led to a random town. Because I only had one water bottle, I ended up drinking creek water near the end. It was a long and horrible hike. Between the hippies implying that my negative energy was causing us to remain lost and my beautiful elf boyfriend refusing to walk with me (we'd had a fight over nothing, which had become typical of the trip), I was not having a good time. Finally I asked some locals for directions. We made it back to the RV, and drove to a different but suitable watering hole close to Hippie Hole called Little Falls.

July 1: Despite my introverted nature, I did ask a stranger for advice on finding parts for the truck. Alpha Hippy thanked me out loud for sharing the information but did not seem to take the advice to heart. He proposed stealing the part from a car he saw parked in Wall Drug (tourist trap town near the Badlands), an idea I loudly and disdainfully put down. The next morning, after illegally camping in a closed Starbucks' parking lot, Alpha Hippy seemed to have fallen apart. He fell asleep across the front seat in the early morning. Beta Hippy tried to coax him into bed, but he was crying, saying "I haven't slept in three days." He kept moaning that he was hungry. Beta Hippy tried to feed him the breakfast she'd prepared for everyone (eggs and veggies on the grill), but he wouldn't eat. She dragged him into bed.

I looked at my watch. I looked at the calendar. I noticed we'd spent days in Rapid City, South Dakota even though that was never a planned stop. And with us so near Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse! We'd sped through the Badlands, and spent barely any time in the Black Hills.

The entire trip, the hippies told us again and again that my negative energy was effecting the physical state of the RV and the emotional state of Alpha Hippy. My propensity for planning, my voiced refusal to participate in illegal activities, and my interest in scoping out the area before hiking to unknown locations was, in short, "killing their vibes". Said Beta Hippy, "[Alpha Hippy] is psychic, you know. He can feel that your thoughts are pushing him. And the RV can feel your negative energy."

I felt unwelcome. As a fundamentally negative (and yet adventurous and humorous) person, I could tell my presence was having ill effects on the rest of the group. So I spoke with BEB, and we booked tickets to immediately fly to Phoenix, Arizona to stay with his aunt.

A Predictably Obnoxious Aftermath

Fei Fei wanted to come with us, but Damon wasn't letting her leave without a fight: he punched the RV and promptly ran away, which left us in an awkward situation. We'd been illegally parked at Sonic all morning and the manager was keen on us leaving.

A day later, BEB and I safely in Arizona, she called me near tears herself. She said that the hippies told her that we (beautiful elf boyfriend and myself) weren't the problem - she was. Fei Fei bought a ticket, slept in the airport overnight, and joined us in Phoenix. She found a note in her backpack from Alpha Hippy.

I am sorry you are not happy... I wish you the best as I always have... I am sorry I hurt your feelings by expressing mine last night, and all tho I feel as though you contributed nothing but money & bad vibes I still made you a samich & I still love you like a child of my own. Go get em tiger. Stay grateful, [Alpha Hippy]

I texted the hippies the next day, July 2, to check in, make sure they were safe. Alpha Hippy replied, "Everythings been great and we blessed one of you 3 with all of my money so weve been having good karma left and right :)". Naive, I asked Fei Fei if the hippies had snuck any money into her backpack as a farewell. My beautiful elf boyfriend pointed out that Alpha Hippy had simply been passive aggressively accusing one of us of stealing from him. Yet when I texted her, Beta Hippy insisted nobody was accusing anybody. I felt bothered and firey. I knew Alpha Hippy had no money. How can you steal something that doesn't exist? Not only had I never touched the safe, but I'd left the hippies with extra money: I'd only stayed for half the roadtrip, but I paid for a full trip's worth of gas.

Later I pulled a business card I'd forgotten out of my back. It belonged to Alpha Hippy. He was part of a fairly notorious pyramid-scheme-esque business named Qivana. He left business cards all around Chicago when we were there with Ali Noe, and I picked up after him. I remembered how on one car ride, a homeless man came around to windows at a stop light to ask for money. Alpha Hippy gave the man a couple cents, then said, "Come on! Smile!"

Any worries I had for the hippies and the RV dissipated. I was with my best friend and my beautiful elf boyfriend - it was time for us to figure out how to get to California.



Yoda - RV Roadtrip to California Blog Entry

Bees of Chicago

Chicago: Second Stop on the Road Trip

Sketch by me - Montrose Beach at night, Lake Michigan, Chicago.

Five years ago, one of my closest friends, Ali Noe, graduated high school. When asked how she chose Columbia art school in Chicago she replies, "I picked the furthest school I got into from home." Every year I would promise to visit her, but between expense and inconvenience, it never happened. Finally, I fulfilled my promise with our second stop on the road trip. Ali is a year older than myself, a working artist, and manages at an art studio.

Feel free to scroll down if you just want to look at food recommendations, but I'll start off with some art.

Studio Visits & Art

Although I could fill an entire blog post with Chicago's graffiti, I will instead focus on the Ali Noe perspective. She generously took off from work to show us some of her favorite parts of Chicago. We started off by visiting Autotelic Studios, a building filled with cluttered studio spaces, with a community garden out back.

Ali works primarily with bees, drawing comparisons between the hivemind and technology. The left side of this photo collage is her laser cut bees, the right side features bees printed onto an enormous pillow.

The pickle prize - the artists of Autotelic occasionally have a pickle-making contest, and the winner gets the pickle prize.

Beehive in a nearby community garden.

Later, we stopped by the MCA (Museum of Contemporary Art), which is free to residents. Luckily, they let us in when we claimed all of us lived at Ali Noe's residence. The museum was sadly empty, with its main gallery transitioning between shows. However, I adored two of the available exhibitions. 

First, I saw Keren Cytter's video installations for the first time. Cytter is an Israeli artist. She writes screenplays based off of television shows, often filming with actors the same day. Her work has a sense of immediacy and honesty. 

Anke just went fishing.
She left her parents at home.
The rest she carried in a plastic bag.
The day was hot and warm. (quote from Cytter's website)

I also responded positively to S, M, L, XL which was a collection of interactive installations. Kris Martin's T.Y.F.F.S.H (2011) was a crowd favorite, consistently surrounded by clusters of people photographing the hot air balloon from the outside. The balloon, inflated by fans, seemed to press against the wall of the gallery, but actually extended through the wall so that viewers inside could go all the way inside. But I found myself spending the most time and thought with Passageway (1961) by Robert Morris. Only one participant could enter at a time. I walked through a spiral passageway until I could no longer see my friends waiting at the entrance. It became progressively more and more narrow. I removed my hat to squeeze farther towards the end. My admission tag fell off as I pressed against the walls. I sucked in, but could go no further. I touched the end, just barely, with my fingertips from outstretched arm.

Finally, we visited the Museum Campus, a park in Chicago.

The roosters of the group standing in front of a Zodiac sculpture by Ai Wei Wei.

We could see Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline from the pier.

Food

Since we intend to cook and fish for ourselves the rest of the roadtrip, we splurged on food while in the city. Ali took us to some of her favorite spots. No matter where we went, we always heard other opinions from passerby. When we stopped at Glazed & Infused Doughnut, a stranger shouted to us that we should go to the place across the street - but I was more than satisfied.

We went to Honky Tonk one night for barbecue. I didn't take any photos because I was far too overwhelmed. Ali and I waited at the bar until a table opened up for all seven of us. We shared a beer that came with candied maple bacon, which was indescribably delicious - thick, savory, and sweet. For dinner we split two platters and some sides. I admit I took more than my fair share of ribs. After we finished eating, my beautiful elf boyfriend remarked "I didn't know I liked meat." 

Although it was no restaurant, I do want to give a nod towards Chicago's mulberry trees. My hands were perpetually stained purple.

Another night, we went family style in Chinatown with a heavy concentration on seafood. We split soups, Thai style shrimp, cuttlefish with glass noodles, and udon.

Cuttlefish at Joy Lee, set in Chicago's Chinatown.

Perhaps my favorite meal was last night (June 23, 2015). We went to the beach at Lake Michigan, opting for the dog section to catch up on some furry cuddles. For dinner, we bought food at a farmer's market to grill on the deck of our RV (yes... our tiny little RV has a deck). Everyone pitched in with food prep and cooking.

Salmon, kale, asparagus, mushrooms, and veggies (potato/celery/onion/carrot).

Parting Words

Ali Noe, everyone's favorite bee-obsessed friend, showed us an amazing time. So we made a card for her as a thank-you surprise. Each of us drew one bee, except my beautiful elf boyfriend (wasp) and Damon (poem).

BEES

Yoda - RV Roadtrip to California Blog Entry

Gaslight Village

Iowa City: First Stop on the Road Trip

Stopping by the road - drawing of me, by Fei Fei

We drove for twenty-six hours from Connecticut to Iowa City, six people packed into a custom RV 'yota filled with tapestries, sleeping bags, and art (fun fact: I'd been mishearing "'yota" as "Yoda" this entire time, and have thus named the RV Yoda. It was a colorful arrangement of people: two hippies, their cousin Damon, my friend Fei Fei from China, and my beautiful elf boyfriend. We stopped periodically to stretch, relax, and eat - then finally arrived at 1 am to join Anna's bonfire in the Gaslight Village.

Anna and Erica 

I met Anna and Erica in India the winter of 2014/15 when I studied abroad with a University of Iowa studio art program. Both have blue hair, which made them star attractions to locals all over India. Though we only spent a bit over three weeks together, we bonded over mutual sarcasm and chai. I promised to visit as soon as possible, though I didn't expect to see them only six months after that promise.

Sketchbook entry - outside Anna's house on Brown Street: In Iowa, everything starts to look like poetry - like the signs lining the street that say "No parking on odd days." We laughed. Can you mail back the ticket, arguing that today was a perfectly normal day, a very standard day? We joked about the reasons behind the sign - maybe on odd days you're more likely to get into an accident, we reasoned.

The Gaslight Village

Upon arrival, Anna took me to the side and asked, "You can't play chess here." 

I nodded in an exhausted haze while Anna explained, "The gaslight village has a weird history. It was designed by Henry Black." She pointed out the oddities surrounding us: buildings cobbled together with an alarming randomness. A wall lined with appropriated tombstones. And, she whispered, a basement door with the scratched out remnants of the word "DEAD".

Some years ago, Anna said, two methheads sat playing chess. One grew angry and smashed the other's head in. Later, a third person passed by. Upon seeing the dead body, they wrote the word DEAD onto the door. 

The path to the door was dark and creepy, under construction, and lined with disturbing murals and partial poems. The Gaslight Village is the outdated home to sixty or so tenants, ranging from art students to misguided writing professors. I didn't take any pictures. There was too much to take in, and I was certain I would die down there beneath the ground. I traced the "E" with my finger. It was just barely there, obscured by countless other scraped away leavings.

Day of Gay Pride

It just so happened that we arrived in Iowa City during a weekend of gay pride events, so Anna was immersed in tabling events. On our way to a farmer's market we passed three stunning queens. 

"Can we take your picture?" asked my beautiful elf boyfriend.

"We're late to the parade," one responded, irritated. So we just stood and admired as they passed by.

The city was awash with pride from cross-dressers to drag queens to small children with rainbow-dyed hair. And yet I couldn't stop looking to the ground, where the sidewalk was peppered with poetry and quotes engraved into the concrete. Every few steps, I had to pause to read.

Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the universities stifle writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. -Flannery O'Connor

Hamburg Inn

We stopped for a snack at the Hamburg Inn. My beautiful elf boyfriend went to the writer's workshop at the University of Iowa when he was fifteen, and he urgently remembered pie shakes. One picks from an array of pies, then a slice is whirred into an ice cream shake. I learned with few regrets that pie shakes only come in a size large. The pieces of apple pie crust sunk to the bottom were like a reward after a hard day's work. Fei Fei laughed as my eyes glazed over.

Tornado

We were hot and dirty, so we made a quick stop at the lake to swim and relax.

Sketch by me - Coralville Lake

But our visit was cut short by the the heavy roll of thick, dark clouds. A park ranger warned us of high winds and possible hail. We booked it back to Anna's street, folding out the seats into a massive bed to settle in for Cards Against Humanity. But Anna texted me with increasing urgency about forming funnels nearby, high winds, and a tornado watch. We sheltered in her house for a few hours, only returning outside briefly to pick up Mediterranean food from Oasis. We hunkered down to eat lamb, tahini, and falafel. The tornado never formed, but the sky outside turned an eerie yellow. We went outside to stare. "We don't have yellow in Connecticut," I told Anna.

We had planned on checking out a drag show at the Studio 13 bar, but decided to instead drive straight through the night to Chicago. We were taking a roundabout path because the two hippies had tickets in Michigan to see Electric Forest, a music festival. So we were killing time circling around until June 24.

But we had one final stop. The beautiful elf boyfriend recalled a strange sculpture in a graveyard. Us three girls huddled together in a steamy swarm of mosquitos as the boys ran wildly all across the graveyard, searching for a looming angel. We joined them under the two spread wings, the wet ground rising between my toes. I looked at this stranger's grave. She had died so long ago, her husband inevitably dead as well, and yet only his birth date was engraved onto the stone. The death date was left empty. I pictured an immortal man, one who had been married to an angel. Then I poked the ground with my foot, thinking of an empty plot. I imagined myself beneath the ground. June 19, 2015.

SIX TIMES WHEN HAVING YOUR FIRST UNDERGRADUATE SOLO SHOW IS A WONDERFUL BUT NERVE-WRACKING EXPERIENCE

1. When the room is giant and empty and full of potential

and your beautiful elf boyfriend has a cooler jumpsuit than you

2. When your beautiful elf boyfriend is supposed to help but he is too busy being beautiful

and he made a bet with you that he'd stop playing Vain Glory on his IPad for
two weeks if you do a handstand for ten seconds, but you can't figure out how to do it

3. When your friend is supposed to help but she is too busy sleeping

and you're so deliriously tired that you consider using her in
your art show as a performance art piece

4. When you're rushing too much to get the keys for the tools closet so you squeeze through the bars instead

and you're so stressed out about having less than a week to
install your first ever show that you've lost enough weight
to actually fit

5. When even your sugar glider is stressing out

and you just want to reminisce on your own glory days of relaxing
in a pineapple, except you never had any days like that

6. When you're broke so you make all the food yourself

and the chocolate strawberries turn out great but your beautiful
elf boyfriend made them, not you

and you put candied dried flowers onto the cupcakes
as decoration but people actually eat them

Top Five Reasons Why I Loved My Time at UConn

A strangely picturesque view of South Parking Lot

I was skeptical at first, but I loved UConn in the end and here's why:

Metropolitan Opera: Behind the scenes

Spring Semester of Undergrad, 2015

A crooked iphone photo of the Met Opera

For a lady obsessed with cities and clusters of people, the University of Connecticut felt like a farm. I quickly developed a history of escapades to New York City, some three hours away. My drug of choice: the Metropolitan Opera.

I first joined the Met Opera trip as part of the Leadership Legacy Experience. We were meant to bond as a group, so of course I snuck my boyfriend along. In fact, it was our first ever date. My fabulous and very gay friend from Leadership Legacy accompanied us as we shopped for suits, ate $1 pizza, and slept through an extravagant opera performance. As I sat watching my two boys admire their own slender profiles in suits they couldn't afford early that day, I felt a warmth spread through my chest despite the chill winter air. I might have been a bit of a third wheel on my own date, but I was in love with life.

My next visit to the Met was less of a whirlwind thrill. My Oma (grandmother) was dying in Queens, NY and I had no car, no family willing to help me visit her. UConn students were required to sit through an opera rehearsal in the morning before a stingy allowance of only two and a half hours of free time - after which attendance was mandatory at the evening performance. On the bus ride to NYC I quietly drew the trip coordinator aside and explained my situation, dreading all the while that the words coming out of my mouth sounded like excuses and lies. Please believe me, I begged internally. My Oma is alone.

"Can I visit her in Queens during the rehearsal? I promise I'll make it back for the main opera."

Without breaking stride he responded, "We never had this conversation." For a moment I wondered if I understood him correctly. I fretted. I overthought his every word.

Heart pounding as we got off the bus in front of the Met, I tore away from the group, ears aflame, head down. I walked in the opposite direction towards the 1 train without looking back. My identity changed on the hour and fifteen minute trip to my Orthodox Jewish grandmother. I pulled on a long, shapeless skirt over my short opera dress. A jacket hid my shoulders and a scarf covered my bare skin up to my chin.

All my anxieties came pouring out. My fear of getting lost, of new places, of talking to workers I don't know. "I'm looking for my Oma. Ilse Norton. I'm her grandchild." I blurted out to the receptionist. I was nervous, but there was no cause for concern. I quickly found myself in my Oma's hospice room. Her skin was a myriad of pale yellows and greens, draped over bone like thin paper. But her smile spoke of joy. We discussed operas. I begged her to eat. She complained about her Jamaican caretaker - I always did think it was ironic that a Holocaust survivor could be so unequivocally racist - and she praised the two Orthodox girls who visited her weekly. I tried to tell her about my nonJewish boyfriend, but she was very suddenly deaf. Before I knew it, I had to leave. She turned her head in relief and fell asleep.

"Visit her more often," the caretaker asked. "I have never seen her so happy. And she needs to eat!"

It was the last time I ever saw her.

----------------------------------------------------

But it wasn't the last time I went to the Met Opera. Days before the bus was set to depart, and with a full waiting list at that, the boyfriend and I realized we wanted to go along. I emailed the trip coordinator directly and had an unusual bit of luck: he needed a student to take over UConn's official Instagram for the day. Not only could we come along, but I would be the official photographer and invited backstage for a tour along with the Dean of the School of Fine Arts and members of the Board of Trustees.

Naturally, since this was a trip of refined culture and prestigious administrators, I blogged about dumplings, art supplies, and drawing my friend Fei Fei. Not pictured: the obliging boyfriend taking pictures with my phone.

From left to right: me and Fei Fei, delicious dumpling lunch,
my drawing of Fei Fei, who drew the cooks

The Dumpling Man (@ 100 St. Marks Place) has been my favorite go-to for cheap and delicious dumplings for years. Whenever a friend is relying on me for a recommendation, that's where I go, because everyone leaves satisfied.

Glorious art supplies at New York Central Art Supply

New York Central Art Supply is my favorite art supply haunt. Unlike Utrecht and Dick Blick's, NYCAS has a personalized atmosphere. Crowded, tiny, and packed to the ceiling with supplies, there is something for everyone. I never leave without a new pen and at least one soft pastel stick, cradled dustily in its paper.

And yet - somehow - the backstage tour of the opera house surpassed both dumplings and art supplies. At their core, these were artists. I don't know how I didn't realize it before, but somehow I didn't recognize the performers and hands and directors and peers until I saw the insane mess backstage. It felt like my studio space. It felt like home. "No pictures allowed here," said our tour guide. I grinned back at him with vacuous eyes. Click.

Floating house props framed by tons of clutter

Finally, at last, the main event. A thrilling performance of La Bohème. How do you use words to describe an opera? Have you noticed that I went an entire blog entry about opera without once describing the music?

My hand brushed Antonio's and I felt energy from the tips of my fingernails straight through to my core. The translation screens on the backs of the seats were angled so I could see only my own, and the row going straight ahead, and so my mind carried that glow in sync with the music - the chandeliers - the movement of the set and the dance of the actors. An out of body experience: I was in my seat, reading words, and yet I was on stage. In stage. Only the story existed, the story and Antonio's arm around my shoulders.