I am on a flight heading west, and I'm blogging from my phone, like a silly star trek girl. I'm in Houston on stopover watching a strange sight from my plane window. The baggage people are loading six, no, seven large boxes of live crickets into the cargo hold. Hmmm.
I'm flying back to California this morning, after a nice it's-almost-my-birthday weekend with my family. My Mama (yet again) made me more carrot cake than I could eat. I wish I could share it with you.
Last night I ended up chatting with Rosie Thomas, in the most unsuspecting of places. I was washing my hands in the girls' room, and she was there. I asked, "Are you Rosie? I like you." And she proceeded to spill out the horrendous story of how they'd gotten two-hours lost in Washington, D.C., but since her tour van was filled with boys (she tours with her brother, even!), no one would pull off the road to ask for directions. Classic.
"I need some girls with me on my tour! And...I need a hug!"
I could, at least, hug her.
Over the Rhine was more splendid than I expected. It was of the best shows I've ever seen. It was Linford's birthday, and Karin sang her little heart out for him. Their percussionist was absolutely unreal, as we surmised by the outrageously expensive recording mic set to his snare and the six other microphones surrounding his set. And oh! I love that upright bass. When they played "The Trumpet Child" I didn't just cry, I borderline wept.
At the final song, the entire music house lept in a standing ovation. Now, I do not give my standing o's away easily. (I just don't give in to peer pressure if I don't think it was really merited. Snarky, I know.) I think I can count on one hand how many times I've given a standing o. But last night was one of them. Over the Rhine is more superb than they've ever been, after all these years. Rosie was delicately wonderful, too. Her nervous banter in between songs made us giggle so much!
See you on the left coast. Happy Monday.
(Airport seats by Flyzipper)
I had to go to the E.R. tonight. I've been having these weird heart-palpitations since I got back from Africa, and today they were on the rise. I was just shrugging it off as little-girl excitement over my transcontinental-skipping and my upcoming move to California.
That was until nurse Mama Rose said, "I think you should read the fine print on that Malaria prophylactic you're taking." So I did that.
It's always a good idea to listen to your nurse Mama. Especially when she says big crazy tyrannosaurus rexy words like, "prophylactic."
If you experience irregular heartbeat while taking this medication: CONTACT YOUR DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY.
EKG.......$500
I.V. dripping salt-water into my arm.......$50
Multiple blood tests.......$200
Doc saying I'm all-normal and should just stop taking my Malaria pterodactyl......Priceless.
I'm blogging from the sky on my flight back to Baltimore.
I almost always request the aisle seat because I think it's the seat with the most freedom. I can get up and skip down the aisle if I like to.
I am sitting next to a bona fide arm-rest hogger. Travelers, you know these people. They have these quick-moving elbows that overtake the arm-rest within seconds of sitting down. It's all over now, baby blue. Lean in to the aisle and don't start a fight.
Paris Je'taime is an excellent film that reminds me of why I like one-acts. 18 short scenes of life in Paris through the eyes of different directors. The very last scene is so ridiculous and true and lovely. A somewhat pathetic single American lady narrates as if she's awkwardly telling her French class all about her trip to Paris. Her accent is horrifically American. But by the very end I am crying these accidental wonderful tears, with her.
There's another scene where Natalie Portman is in love with a blind French guy. This little 8 minute scene is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. I mean, it's incredible. I want the DVD just for this scene.
If you've happened to fall in love with Salinger since we last talked, this would be a good time to pause and read Nine Stories. My favorite is #6: "For Esmé - with Love and Squalor." It should make you raise high your eyebrows and laugh.
This is feeling like the longest flight of my life. I am a stationary bird flapping her wings forever atop the Atlantic.
At least British Airways has some interesting entertainment choices. I'm watching a documentary about Mary J. Blige. Did you know that Mary was considred the anti-Whitney Houston? I'm learning all about the soundtrack to all of the awkward seventh-grade dances where I tried to bob my head to a beat I couldn't translate. I was a terrible dancer. I'm still not great. I try.
Mary J. Blige made it to the record industry when a producer happened upon a tape of her singing in the mall. She was still living in the projects when her first single went big. I like this lady. Especially because BBC claims that she invented the curious phrase, "Ghetto Fabulous." Oh!
Ladies and Gents, I survived my very first tsunami warning. We took a nice road-trip down to Dar es Salaam on the Tanzanian coast to visit Young Life Africa's illustrious Dyan Larmey. (Oh, I love Dyan!) It was such a nice visit.
But then late last night a guy out in the road yelled in Swahili from a scratchy megaphone that we should all be prepared for a tsunami. The Indonesian earthquake could have watery aftershocks. We were in a house only about 100 meters from the beach, so this was a pretty unnerving warning. At least for me, it was. Calmly, the rest of the house just went to bed, remembering that the African side of the Indian Ocean was barely effected by the last Tsunami warning. I sat on the couch wondering if I was the only sane person in the house! A tsunami might come and we were only armed with flashlights?
Well, said tsunami warning was then retracted, but I still stayed awake. I sort of went into I-will-rescue-the-house-from-any-gnarly-wave mode, imagining how I'd run up the stairs and wake everyone on the ground floor. Silly. I used my cataclysmic adrenaline to edit a road-trip travel log video #3, which is (slowly-by-slowly) uploading for you. Hopefully after we return from an Indian dinner feast the video robots will be done with the loading.
Check out sweet Lisa's side of the Tsunami-story right here.
Well, I arrived in Nairobi, and then took the lovely, long, beautiful (but bumpy) Impala Bus ride to Arusha, Tanzania, where the Bordens threw their arms around me.
I happened to sit on the not-as-scenic side of the bus because I missed most of Mt. Kilimangaro. But my side caught the Maasai tribe and the trees and the Kenyan skies blending into Tanzanian skies. (So there.)
So here's another 2 minutes of lo-fi adventure for you as you sit next to me.
(Thanks so much, Janers, for the camera...can you believe what great video it takes?!)
Will try to post more soon. There is so much to say, but the internet here in East Africa is shoddy, at best. The electricity has been out every other day!
(Drum circle beats by the wild men: Jesse, Trevor, Colin, Skyler, and Chase.)
In just a matter of hours I'm getting on a plane to Africa. My destination: the Borden's house in Tanzania. I'll spend a couple of weeks with these dear friends who are more like family, living alongside of them, and getting a feel for what life is like working with their Wild Hope International.
I'll post as I can. This is my first trip to Africa and I'm thrilled for the adventure. But, no matter where the Bordens were in the world, I'd be excited to spend time with them. It's less about the place and more about the people, if you know what I mean.
I'm very grateful for this space in my life to do such crazy things. And for frequent flier miles. (Thanks for the help, Mama!)
On the Bus to Porto
Two minutes of lo-fi travel, designed to be a calming pause in your day, and to make you feel like you're sitting next to me on the bus. Music by Yann Tiersen (Amelie soundtrack).
Jesse and Trevor's travel log from Tanzania to California was my inspiration. Oh! Their video surprise for their Mama made me so happy.
It is raining and I've been walking 'round London--traversing the underground wearing my soft pink jacket and carrying the big blue rucksack. Mid-jaunt I spun my iPod through two scratchy-sweet melodic records by Appleseed Cast: Two Conversations and Peregrine. Somehow it seems that drenched urban landscapes should have driving, percussive soundtracks supporting them in the distance. (I'm not certain if "percussive" is really a word, but I'm drum rolling it out now.)
I find it strange how the London underground and train systems tend to overwhelm me. I've navigated myself through buses and trains from Italy to Germany to Lithuania, even. But there's something unsettling about seeing signs in your native English, and still being a bit confused. I remember feeling like this while in the guts of Brooklyn, too.
Maybe I feel more free to be me in the bellies of cities where I don't necessarily speak their tongues, exactly because I expect to make some mistakes there. In those places I leave more grace for my feet. But in London, it's different. I've been to this city enough times that I feel I ought to understand its underbellies and trains. And it's all in English! But I still always feel a bit lost here.
The information lady at Liverpool Street station said that my train ticket out to Guildford counted for the tube, as well. I trusted her, especially when they let me through the tube turnstiles on that ticket. But after six stops on the Circle line, and then one stop on the Jubilee line (I almost took a photo of that nice sign), I was stopped at the exit. The underground ticket-check-man very nearly hit me with penalty fares for not having the proper ticket. Oh dear.
"If it were anyone else, you'd have to pay penalties, you know," he said, reluctantly, after assuring him that Liverpool lady had given me some misinformation. Penalty fares in pound sterling are a scary thing to an American girl. It's almost two dollars per pound now, yikes.
Everyday Grace, how sweet the sound!
(Liverpool Tube Photo by Loukreu)
I'm traveling by train from Lisbon to Castelo Branco, on the way to spend a night at Barbara's land. We're stopped. The Portuguese lady on the recording calls it a brief "interruption on the way." But the other passengers say there is a fire up ahead, somewhere near the tracks.
Catherine is with me, and we laughed that just a few moments ago I'd quipped: "Those dark rain clouds don't sound good for us in the land." Turns out those rain clouds were actually made of smoke. It is dry in Portugal, and brush fires are common.
It is nice to have a traveling companion for this part of my journey. I met Catherine about four years ago at St. Dominic's International School. She was in year ten and I was in year one of my Young Life internship. I met her at lunch-break, and we chatted about life and books. I remember thinking that she was one of the brightest thirteen year-olds I'd ever met. We continued to meet up for lunches over the years, and kept the conversation going. We spoke a lot about Jesus. I prayed for her and asked many friends to do the same, because I so wanted her to know how much God loves her.
Today Catherine sits next to me knowing that Love personally. Somewhere along the way--was it in a 24-7 prayer room, or as she was walking along the Atlantic?--Catherine committed her life to following Jesus. Now she's two train seats away from me reading and journaling Madeleine L'Engle.
When we settled into the train she'd grabbed a book from my tiny portable library a'la red Samsonite carry-on. I've been grinning to myself as I watch her scribble old M's words into her Portuguese/English journal.
"What good words did you find, Cat?"
"Oh! It's this great bit about how when we're too self-absorbed and analytical, we're not really able to live."
"That's the part about us being more like children, right?"
"Mmmm, yes."
It is a joy to see others losing themselves in the same words that have held me. With Catherine, I'm reminded how simply-chewed words over lunch can be a part of the relentless in breaking of God's love in another's life.
May we keep that conversation going.
Thanks very much for the prayers on behalf of my rucksack. I am at a conference in Hungary and have been feeling awfully bohemian in my lack of clothing. But I sort of get a kick out of that, I suppose.
Well, the Iberia web site tells me this exciting, but rather uninformative news:
Which means, I think, that the bag is definitely located somewhere in the known universe.
So I called the happy Iberian hotline whose robots told me,
"The call center is busy, please stay on the line, thank you," every 30 seconds until my call was disconnected, 30 minutes later. I had just decided that after waiting 34 minutes I'd hang up, so I felt like the friendly Skype internet telephone robots were trying to beat me at my own game.
Most of the important information on Iberia's site is in Spanish, but I managed to figure out that if you send a special almost-morse-code message via cell phone, their happy computer robots (might) text back with some info on your lost bag. So I sent my almost-morse-code message with my bag tag number and wrote: Solicito la información sobre la localización de mi bolso. (Muchos Gracias for Altavista's robot translators.)
To translate, my text message to Iberia basically said, "Please send me some news about my rucksack that I can put in some Hungarian goulash and actually chew on."
But I have the vague feeling that robots in Spain go out clubbing at night, and probably don't answer their work messages. That's probably why I haven't heard back from them. I hope they at least eat some tapas for me.
Continued words to the CEO of the Universe are welcomed.
Missing : One Blue Jansport Rucksack
Last Seen: Lisbon Airport
Contents:
-shampoo, conditioner, toothbrush, pastey stuff
-all of Nelly's clothes for this journey (nothing folded very neatly)
-one pair of very old brown Reefs, almost worn through in right toe
-one pair of new Reefs, still wearing in
-one pair of running shoes
-old swimming costumes
Iberian Airlines: Say they cannot yet locate said bag.
Prayers Are: Always Accepted
I'm writing from London Heathrow, en route to Lisbon, and then on to Christian Associates' annual staff conference. I can't wait to return to Portugal. I have that excited/exhausted nausea from skipping across time zones during the night. I feel a bit like a little girl on those groggy mornings when I knew I was going over to play at a friend's house that afternoon, and so awoke too early on account of happy nerves. My body is happily confused with an excited lack of sleep.
On the flight over from Baltimore, my next door seat neighbor asked me whether I was going home, or going on vacation. I said I didn't quite know how to answer his nice question. I lived in Portugal for a little over three years, so it is like going home. But then again, I just left home, and already miss my family. These home questions are strange. (TCKs know so well.)
Not long ago, someone much smarter than I said that we're only really "at home" when we've pitched a tent in the center of obedience. I think that might be the most accurate definition of "home" that I've ever heard. What do you think? I've always liked the image of our bodies as tents. I think the metaphor stretches out nicely.
(Photo of Warwick Castle by Jedi58)
I have just returned after an intense last week of class with my wonderful Fuller cohort in Pasadena. Please forgive me for the extended blog absence. As one of you mentioned, seeing that bloody Harry Potter post each day for the last week has been quite irritating and horrendous. My apologies. I might offer the following condolences:
{alpha} I hope to post each day for the next week, providing I have sufficient internetting to span my Northern journeys.
{beta} These artful words slash prayers:
"For who am I? ...Am where my feet take me...
Come unto me, you say. I, even to myself, turn.
O Lord and lover, I come if I can to you down through sleeping and waking and eating and saying goodbye and going away and coming back again. Laboring and laden with endless histories heavy on my back."
-from Frederick Buechner's The Alphabet of Grace
(Photo by Phil Hilfiker)
On Saturday I wandered up to NYC with my Dad and little brother for a Yankees game. With all of the insipid construction, the subway was nearly more difficult to navigate than most of the foreign undergrounds I've traversed in other languages. Starting in Brooklyn and headed toward the Bronx, I needed assurance that we were going the right way. And so, I approached a rather large Italian cop wearing awkward shorts.
Me: "Excuse me, officer, could you help me find my way to Yankee stadium?"
Cop in awkward shorts: "Yankee stadium? Fuggedaboutit! It's about so easy, you can just fuggedaboutit!"
Me: [caught off guard by the hilarity of his helpfulness] "I'm...I'm...already fuggedin about it!"
Cop in awkward shorts: "Take the 4-5-6 to 125th, and then it'll go local alltheway to 161st."
I couldn't stop thinking about how appropriate awkward-shorts-man was as a welcome mat for my week in New York. His classic fuggedaboutit-ness with a thick Brooklyn accent made me so happy for the rest of the afternoon that I barely noticed how miserably the Yankees played against the A's. (And it was really miserable, sports fans.)
I must say that as soon as I entered into the city, I exhaled quite noticeably. In some way, it felt more like home: international people everywhere, alternate smells, thousands of holes-in-walls offering good eats. I am feeling fresh new life breathed into me in this raucous metropolis. Particularly after eating phenomenal pasta in Little Italy and getting cupcakes and cold milk from Magnolia's bakery. (I hope they'll all be served at the Wedding Banquet of the Lamb.)
I shall post other highlights as they are squeezed out in fluorescent yellow over the next few days.
(Little Italy photo by Funkybug)
Tomorrow I'm taking a couple car loads of teenagers down to colonial Williamsburg for a Girls Retreat. I'm a very happy Nelly that dear Elise is flying across the country to join us, all the way from California, on her way back to Portugal. She'll do a lot of sharing from her life, from her lovely songs, and in just being Elise. I'll follow alongside and take the girls through 1 John and some prayer. I'll try to keep them well fed and laughing, as well.
Please pray for us that the nice Holy Spirit would do excellent things in all of our hearts. Particularly pray for the safe space for good conversations together. I expect that we will have many conversations on sex and sexuality and love. Our theme is "love letters," so I hope to share some simple things on these juicy matters through the lens of love being sacrifice. Pray for Elise and I, please. Particularly as I'm writing papers and am in the midst of finals. And as Elise is flying the red-eye from Santa Barbara.
(Photo by Neurotic Jose)
Today I played in a golf tournament to benefit Young Life. It was my first time out all season. I was happy to make a couple of birdies and 20 footers. (I hit some real duffs and embarrasing putts, too.) I won the long drive competetition for both the men and women. That was fun. I like winning stuff.
On the way home I realized that I've played in one golf tourney every year for the last 3 years (two in Portugal), and at each of the 3 tourneys I've won the long drive. If only I had a short game, I would be money.
(Look out kids! My pride is spilling all over the blog page.) That photo above is me at 3.5 years, showing my I-think-I'm-so-fantastic face.
I don't really understand this golf thing. I feel like God gave me the ability to play just to help me pay for part of my college education. (And I'm very thankful for that.) But since then, I don't really know what to do with it. I'm not insane about the game. But I do enjoy it from time to time. It's just so dang expensive.
Sometimes I just get nervous with all of those don't-you-bury-your-talents parables.
Today at the tourney I played on a team with my Daddy and we came in third. I was able to buy a sweet 80 liter hikers' pack with the Sporting Goods giftcards we won. That will make traveling much easier. Thank you, Jesus.
At the risk of having my blog censored for adult-content, I must comment on the love bugs in Florida this time of year. They are everywhere. And they are massive. Massive bugs making love in the air. And they're doing their thing while acrobatically landing on your arm, face, et cetera. It is really quite bizarre. And gross. Or beautiful. Or something. I'm not sure.
In any case, I had a great couple of days down south with the sun and the fam and the flying lovers. Someone mail me an aloe vera plant. Please.
On Thursday I took a nice long drive through Maryland--from La Plata to Frostburg. (If MD looks like a raggedy pistol, I started at the trigger and ended up near the pistol tip.) The mountains were really incredible. I forget how much I'm an introvert until I have these long-drives to myself that shoot energy into my veins. And with a hot Volkswagon stick-shift that isn't even mine! (Thanks, Patty.)
I drove up to Frostburg State University to share my story with the nice folks at Intervarsity Christian Fellowship. The unexpected sharing-deal came through some cute little connections with people, and IVCF being open to all kinds of guests.
I talked a lot about pain, healing, and the Psalms. And that we all have a story to share, and when we do, we're inviting God to do the same good things in the lives of people around us.
I tried my best to put aside the fact that it didn't make much sense to drive almost 7 hours to talk for only 20 minutes. It was nice to hang out with some of them at a diner afterwards. (I really love diners.) I hope that I'll keep getting to know a one or two of the gals through the wonders of email/Facebook. And oh! someone even gave me two of their favorite CDs for my drive home!
It was a nice little break from the pace of things.
