Sunday, June 1, 2008

10 taxi cab rides

I sit in an empty living room, surrounded by my backpack, my trusty orange suitcase and my purse. Anxiously, I peer out the window behind me every five minutes. There's nothing worse than waiting for a cab at 6am to take you to the airport. Well, almost nothing. The bittersweet time has finally come, and this is the last leg of my journey around the world.

Last night, while conversing with a poet, I confessed that I was nervous about returning home. When he inquired why, I was unable to give him an answer. I'm not sure why I'm nervous. I'm excited too. It's funny, when I began this trip, I felt the same way. And a poet told me that excitement and nervousness were the same emotion with two different names.

I guess it's the knowledge that I'm starting, yet again, a new chapter in my life. I don't know where I'm going or when, or if I'll settle down someplace. My plans last until next sunday. Planning 1 week in advance: yeah, that sounds about right.

This trip ended much earlier than I anticipated, and that aspect makes me a bit sad. There were so many more places I wanted to see: more people, more poetry. But things never work out like we plan them to, and that's always meant to happen.

I have so many memories, and have met so many incredible people. Not a day went by this year when I didn't at least once reflect on the privilege of this journey. Even through the rough times: the fact that I felt stranded and isolated in a foreign country was a gift in itself.

I've learned so much about myself, too. No offense to previous Bristol fellows, or the fellowship itself, but I'm starting to think that's the real point of this whole journey. To find the world, but really to find yourself. It's so trite, in a way, but at the same time, so necessary. In a world full of video games, high speed internet, 24/7 in demand entertainment, it's necessary to pick up passionate and brave people and plop them in an uncomfortable situation. How passionate and brave are you now, eh?

I didn't know how this project would shape up, or if it would turn into something bigger. I know now, for sure, that it will. Over drinks on thursday night, during a heated discussion about page vs stage poetry, a poet referred to me as "possibly the most knowledgeable person of spoken word in the world". What a weird thought. But then again, no one *has* ever done what I've done, the way I've done it. And suddenly, I no longer feel like an outsider, observing the spoken word scene from a stand-off, third party standpoint. Suddenly, not only am I qualified to speak about my opinions on the scene, I have a responsibility to do so. So much can come out of what I've learned, who I've met. I owe the global spoken word community so much.

10 taxi cabs. I have taken 10 taxi cab rides to the airport. And every time, without fail, they always ask me if I'm going home.
Today, finally, I can say yes.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

woes of international travel with my kind of passport

I'm tired of feeling like, as an american, I alone am responsible for the whole world's problems.
I'm tired of having to make excuses for the ignorant face the media paints on my country.
I'm tired of feeling like I must know every single detail of american politics, or else I am just another ignorant american.
I'm tired of having people whose own countries have committed the same or far worse atrocities criticize me for being american.
I'm tired of feeling like I need all the answers
I'm tired of having to pretend I am different than the rest of america so I don't get treated poorly
I'm tired of feeling ashamed of my country.
I'm tired of people constantly asking me "Obama or Clinton" as if it were a given that I am a member of the Democratic party

I don't know everything about my government, nor do I know everything about its previous international relations strategies, war policies and health care industry. I don't know everything about the elections or campaigning or super delegates.

I can't even tell you how many times I've sat down at a table of strangers, and once they hear my accent, or get wind of my nationality, I can actually see their faces change. They challenge me. They think it's fun, like it's a game. They make me feel like I have to represent an entire country- a country so much bigger than their own, and so much more complicated. They don't care that we're all different, that it's impossible to generalize a country as big as mine. They don't care that some of us are ashamed, some of us are angry, and some of us are proud. All they care about is making a point to sound more educated than the american. Most of the times it makes me so angry that I can't even say anything. I can feel my throat tense and I've got so many words to say to them, but I don't. Out of fear of being seen as that "belligerent american"who can't participate in civilized debate.

It's not that I don't enjoy a little political discussion. I'm always interested in the views of others, even if I disagree, because I know I can learn from them. It's just those times where it gets personal, when I can feel everyone in the room looking at me like I'm somehow personally responsible for all the evil things in this world. There isn't even a word for how I feel when that happens.

The truth is, much to the dismay of the rest of the world, being american feels just the same as being canadian or british or australian. In the end, we're all just trying to get by as best we can. Nationality has nothing to do with it.

Back in North America. Back to drama land

As I dragged my beat orange suitcase up on to David Silverberg's porch in Toronto, I had a little moment of reflection. I started here. I will finish here. Strange.

I have always regarded Canada as having one of the most hectic yet successful performance poetry scenes that I have witnessed, and now that I have finished my trip, I can officially say so. Scenes in Canada are organized, efficient, in touch with each other and cooperative. It runs like a finely oiled machine... all because of a mutual love of poetry and community.

That being said, there is something to say for smaller performance poetry scenes. I've been asked a lot lately about which scene was "the best" or "the most alive", and it's a hard question to answer. Vienna had enthusiasm like what I imagined the Green Mill was like during the adolescent years of the poetry slam- a crowded bar,simply packed with people smoking cigarettes and drinking large pints of beer, the audience mouthing off to the MCs, booing the judges and cheering the poets. And, as I said before, Canada certainly was the most efficient scene I've witnessed (efficient to the point where I have to stop and wonder if it is possible for performance poetry to get *too* big, *too* mainstream that it might end up killing itself- like Rock n Roll?) Each country I went to had it's own idiosyncratic style, it's own networking abilities and it's own issues. And I realized, there- while standing on David's porch- that there was one poetry scene that made me really excited about performance poetry; one place where the events were commercial, but not too commercial, where the poets worked together even though they competed against one another. There was a place, a very small and quiet city that I almost skipped over entirely, where the poetry actually touched me, the way it used to when I first began this trip. Auckland, NZ takes the prize for my favorite. Small, polite Auckland that seemed to buzz and teem with energy and creativity. It was organized and advertised enough to pull a strong following for the weekly events, yet still managed to maintain a renegade, sub-cultural vibe. Its places like Auckland that remind me why I got into poetry in the first place- to make a connection with people through poetry who normally wouldn't read poetry.

Alas, I'm back in North America, welcomed so graciously into Silverberg's home. Over dinner last night, David mentioned a recent blog entry that has turned the Toronto Poetry scene into a tizzy. I decided to check it out to see what all the fuss is about. You can check it out too, here:

http://paulvermeersch.blogspot.com/2008/05/rant-why-i-hate-spoken-word-poetry.html

Reading this blog entry made me want to puke. Not necessarily because I disagree (he's got a valid point), but because it's such a pointless, empty and tired argument. The "page vs. stage" battle (oh yes, it's so common that they've made up a clever rhyming name for it) has been going on.... forever. You could trace it back to the Beat generation: how many critics scoffed at Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac for their writing styles, for the way they mixed music with poetry. And as we all know, those who prefer "classic" art styles often clash with those who prefer "contemporary" art styles. I even recall one Harold Bloom saying "spoken word is the death of art" which raised quite the scuffle in the USA poetry scene in the mid 90's.

But here's how I really feel about it. My honest opinion: (and since I've spent the whole year traveling around the world studying this "art form", I think I'm pretty qualified to voice my opinion now).

It doesn't really matter.

Wake up guys. Put it in perspective and stop being so serious. It's poetry. Or not. It's art. Or not. The fact is, it exists, it survives and it's drawing huge crowds. It has the power to bring people from all sorts of backgrounds and countries together. I've seen first hand how it can cause a productive dialogue between sexes, races and nationalities. It is an outlet for a kid whose parents ignore him, or for the one who gets beat up in school. It's a way for people to remember stories, or tell someone in the audience that they love them, or tell the whole audience that they love them. It's a way to bring people together- to get people to turn off the television, laptop, ipod or whatever their brains are permanently hooked up to and listen to other people. For no other reason than the simple fact that they want to listen and be listened to.

I'm tired of poets or spoken word artists or whatever you want to call them (us), getting so defensive about what people want to call them (us). Because in the end, it doesn't matter if some guy named Paul or Harold or my uncle george thinks it's "real art". Whatever it is, it's out there, it's beautiful and it's growing like mad.

And I think we should just be happy with that.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Hugs to the land


Goodbye Europe.
You're beautiful, and you'll always be my favorite. Don't forget.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Return

I'm finding myself headed towards another waterfall in my life. That's how it feels anyway.

There are these moments where it would just make sense for life to pause, for time to stay suspended till we catch our breath. I'd like that to be right now.

This trip has been so strange for me, I can't quite explain it. Part of me wants to keep doing this forever. And part of me wants to go home. But I don't really have a choice in the matter. It's time now, and I'm coming home.

I feel a bit guilty, in a way, though I'm not sure why. I guess I wish I could've travelled longer, seen all the places I proposed to see, and visit all the festivals I had read about. But life on the road comes with it's bumps and unexpected twists, and so I suppose I should've known it wouldn't work out as planned.

I purchased a book the other day, called "The Kindness of Strangers". It's a collection of travel stories. And it made me realize what traveling does to us. It pulls us out of our comfort zone and it sticks us in awkward situations. If we do it long enough, we will all eventually find ourselves stuck in the mud, absolutely lost and broke, in some foreign land where we don't speak the language. And just like clockwork, just when we've figured all is absolutely lost, just when we least expect it- some stranger will enter our lives and save us. And then disappear.

It's happened to me on this trip more times than I can count. In New Zealand I got off at the wrong bus stop and was lost in a "bad neighborhood". The first person I stopped and asked for directions took it upon himself to not only escort me to the poetry reading, he actually stayed for the reading and then showed me around Wellington for the rest of my time there. In Brisbane, I was lonely and depressed around Christmas because I had no one to share it with, when this french student invited me to the beach with her friends and then took me out to the movies on christmas day. Her reason was simple "Someone did it for me when I first got here. I know how awful it is to be alone on Christmas." In Vienna, the kindness of strangers went nuts in my life, and I was given free accommodation plus was invited to give a workshop on poetry in a school. In Ireland, two students took me in and let me stay with them in their dorm room during their exam week; and later as fate would have it, I met a musician over a cup of coffee who had more in common with me than anyone I had ever met. In Woodford, I had missed the last train to Brisbane, and was stranded ankle deep in mud at the folk festival, when a poet and his wife allowed me to stay in their super huge tent for the night. In Melbourne, a girl I had met once invited me to stay with her and became one of my closed female friends. In Belfast, after scrambling and failing to find accommodation, a poet gave up his hotel room for me, and then offered to take me on a tour of Scotland.

The stories just continue. I was not totally "down and out". I wasn't begging or even asking for help. It just happened and worked out. But the kindness of strangers is one of those phenomena that really change a person's view of humanity.

As the book says:

"Kindness is really, so to speak, all of a piece- an absolute, which cannot be graded; but its most symbolical expression is the sudden, unpremeditated act of sympathy, offered without hope or reward to an unknown and perhaps unappealing soul in distresss- to a foreigner, a truculent vagrant, an unwashed backpacker or a cat."

The point is, I've had so many wonderful encounters on this trip, that I know things will be different when I get back home. It won't be like Granada, where my heart was broken after leaving Spain. No, it'll be a bit slower, a bit heavier, I imagine. The slow transformation from being an adventurer back into a normal person. Just a girl with lots of stories. And that idea hurts, a lot. I've come to identify myself by my stories. But that's wrong too. I'm more than just what happened this year. I just have to learn to integrate it into the bigger picture. And that'll happen, eventually. It's soon going to be time to pay it forward. I owe the universe a lot. I'm going to have to become one of those strangers.

Scotland whirlwind

The drive up to the highlands was epic. One minute we were in Edinburgh- beautiful fairytale city, grey stones and narrow winding streets; and then we were in the country. Like a big Pow! of green and blue. A different kind of green than pennsylvania or Ireland. A thick rugged green. And then brown mountains rising up out of nowhere and no cars or houses. And castles and ruins. I felt like I was drawn into a picture book, or maybe part of a post card.

Once we hit Forress, we were welcomed into a beautiful venue on a farm. The owner- a slightly abrasive man with a thick accent and a disinclination for americans. So obviously I needed o become friends with him. Andy played to a small audience that night, and the owner lamented about lack of community support. Seems the same problems exist everywhere- people would rather go to the big cities to hear music than support the same acts in the local venues.

The next day we drove for an hour to the nearby town of Cormarty. A small artistic community set by the waterside. I don't think they even have a corner store, but they do have great art and music. The streets were narrow and the only word I could think to describe the town was "cute". Small houses like cottages, and such artistic, vibrant people all in one community. It was gorgeous.

Glasgow is Scotland's largest city, but when doing the art thing, I took the advice and stuck to the West End. Good choice. I met up with some local film makers, got some drinks, went out to dinner. Fabulous.

While in Glasgow I got a last minute message from a poet in Edinburgh. So I packed my bags and off I went.

Once in Edinburgh, I met up with Ant, a "I guess I'm a poet kinda" poet- which of course means he's a great poet. My first evening in Edinburgh I performed at a Ladyfest Open Mic in a dive cafe. It was cafe-love at first sight.

I talked PJ into coming to visit me, and I'm so glad he did. It made the Edinburgh trip that much better. We climbed Arthur's Seat, and explored the castle. We ate weird vegetarian food and gawked at the beauty of the city. Travelling is so much more fun with another person there to enjoy it with you.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Definitions

I know I should've wrote this post earlier, but I think I needed time away from Dublin in order to form my thoughts about this topic. While in Dublin, I took a friend of mine to a poetry event called "Love Poetry Hate Racism".

I asked my friend, after we left, which poet he enjoyed the most. His answer surprised me a bit. He described a soft spoken poet, whose poetry was dark and described hardship and poverty in a city. He said that this poet stood out in particular because he was attempting to define what life was like in a particular neighborhood in Dublin.

It's a strange time for the Irish people. Now, as never before, they are faced with the task of identifying themselves. In the past, people left Ireland. But now, due to the echoing booms of the Celtic Tiger, immigrants from all over the world are flocking to Irish cities- Dublin in particular. And as great as it is to introduce people to diversity and tolerance, it's interesting to watch how the Irish are dealing with this "identity crisis". What does it mean, exactly, to be Irish? In the past it was easier: things like family heritage and religion were markers of one's Irish-ness. But now there are Irish-Arabs, Irish-Czechs, Irish-Asians. A friend drove me past a mosque and pointed it out as if it were evidence of aliens.

Just like any city experiencing the effects of a booming economy, there are prices to pay. The irish are quite proud of their history, and often define themselves by it. How, then, will they be able to open themselves up to people who do not share that history of hardship? When we think of Ireland, we don't think of intolerance or racism. But it would be naive to say it doesn't exist just because we haven't heard of it. True, it exists in a different form than racism in the US, but it is still there, and it still causes tension.

I'd be interested to see where this takes Ireland. How will parents, teachers and the media approach this incoming wave of globalization? It's an interesting time to be in Ireland. It's a more interesting time, I think, to be Irish.

Borderlines

I don't know if its because of travel or because I'm just getting older. Probably a bit of both. I find myself remaining neutral on issues that I previously would've intensely researched, formed an opinion, and argued that opinion ad nauseum. It's not that I don't research things anymore- I certainly do my fair share of research on issues. It's just that I've found myself hesitating before engaging in intense political or social debate with anyone.

I've been told that traveling makes a person more liberal. And I've seen these effects first hand: students returning from foreign countries, swinging fists at american based corproations which are ruining the lives of those abroad, or complaining about our lack of healthcare or governmental services which are geared to helping the people etc etc. It's only natural to compare your home country to the outside world. I've seen the opposite happen as well, though, where Americans are so uncomfortable with their surroundings that they refuse to even partially assimilate and instead spout slight untruths about how superior the US or Canada is to the rest of the world. Being around people like that makes me feel a bit ashamed, but I know how they feel as well. I can't even count how many times this year I have been faced with a tough situation and though "oh man, we would handle this much better where I come from".

Yet this trip has picked me up and landed me right smack in the middle. I still hold my values, my opinions and alliances; however I must admit that I am far more hesitant in flaunting these as "truths" or "facts" or "the right ways of being". I've suddenly found myself of having developed a new ability to see both sides of the situation. Even a painful and political one.

I know, I'm surprised too. I'm still anti-war (I don't think anything could change that ) but now not only can I understand why an American (or anyone else whose country is involved in this war- an aspect that many people forget!) would be pro-war, I respect their opinion. Who am I to judge someone for their worldview. Because, remember, someone's world view is more than a reflection of their personal character. It's a reflection of so many different aspects of their world: socioeconomic status and interests, education, familial upbringing and involvement in the war. There are so many variables that go into a person's opinion and political persuasion that I just can't bring myself to write off someone as "an ignorant jerk" for disagreeing with me anymore.

So what? That's just a part of growing up. Well it just snuck up on me, I guess. I went to countries where I was well aware of conflict, and I went with premeditated opinions on that conflict, only to have them pulled apart and re examined once I got there. In Australia, I began to understand why it was so difficult for the native people to achieve reparations and equal treatment. In Northern Ireland I was faced with the fact that during the troubles life was scary as hell regardless of what "side" you were on.

It's easy, attractive and exciting for people to take radical sides. The independence movement is more interesting when there are guns and car bombs and violence and it *looks* like a revolution. But revolution like that hardly works nowadays. People just want to live their lives without having to worry about carbombs or propaganda.

I guess all these thoughts are coming out now because I've been in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland and I've talked to people about their experiences during the Troubles and I've learned that effective revolution looks like compromise, equal representation in government and forgiveness. And there's nothing small, easy or weak about such acts- they take bravery and strength of character. I've been to Scotland where an independence referendum is being proposed, patiently, it seems because there is very little talk of "revolution" and more talk about "referendum".

No, perhaps my generation won't have as much fun as our hippy forefathers and foremothers. But perhaps this was always the way to go, dissent through discussion, small compromises making big changes.

Am I becoming moderate in my age?

I know, I couldn't believe it at first either. But upon further reflection, I think I've always believed all this. I think I always knew discussion and diplomacy were the best ways to achieve a goal. But I think the difference is, for the first time, I'm not disappointed with this method. In fact, I'm excited by it.

Because what does this mean for America's future?

I left last August feeling guilty and a bit hopeless about my country's future. But I've seen a candidate who is so well spoken, I get chills after almost every speech. I want to know more, not less, about this candidate's platform. Mainly because the idea of a charismatic candidate who can speak well gives me hope.

I was told by a recent visitor to the US that if aliens invaded the US today, they'd think one of the candidate's names was "Hope".

Gosh, I like that.

Friday, May 16, 2008

There were Roses

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Isaac Scott from Banagh, he lived just across the fields
A great man for the music, the dancing and the reels
McDonald came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair
And we often met on the Ryan Road and laughter filled the air

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together

Now Isaac he was Protestant and Sean was Catholic born
But it never made a difference, for the friendship it was strong
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said it won't divide us, we always will be one
For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil it is the same
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names
We talked about the friends who'd died and hoped there'd be no more
It was little then we realized the tragedy in store

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round
Another killing had been done just outside Newry Town
We knew that Isaac danced up there, we knew he liked the band
But when we heard that he was dead we just could not understand
We gathered round the graveside on a cold and rainy day
The minister he closed his eyes and for no revenge he prayed
And all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

Now fear it filled the countryside there was fear in every home
When late at night a car came prowling round the Ryan Road
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score
Oh Christ it's young McDonald they've taken from the door
Isaac was my friend! he cried, he begged them with his tears
But centuries of hatred have ears that do not hear
An eye for an eye, it was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Now I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end
But I wonder just how many wars are fought between good friends
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die
It's Scott and McDonald and the likes of you and I
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
-Tommy Sands-

There were only about 40 people in the small bar in Scotland, but when Andy White sang this song, the whole bar echoed with people singing along. Not in shy "i'm at a gig singing along" voices. In loud, sad, solidarity voices that echoed.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Belfast

I had heard a lot of things about Belfast before I got there. The old man at the Bed and Breakfast in that small town, the girls in Dublin, the students in Cork. They all had their own stories about Belfast, their own versions and rumors of the strange city that was “lost”.

I was criticized, a bit, for not really knowing what I was getting into by going to Belfast. I had been educated about the conflict, as much as any American, and I had an interest in talking to people about it. But all the answers I got were hearsay, because though everyone had an opinion about Belfast, no one had ever actually been there. Read these books, see these films before you go! They told me. You’ll be disgusted. But I didn’t want bias. I wanted to go and see it for myself.

Belfast is a hard and sensitive city. It wears its scars publically. Though at first glance it appears just like any other city: busses, taxis that don’t stop for pedestrians, shops, apartments, old buildings etc. But the past is evident in small details: “unite ireland” in spraypaint on the side of a building, protestant propaganda murals still painted and perfectly intact, British flags flying over the sidewalks- a constant reminder of conflict and conquest. A troubled, tragic city, you can almost still feel the ground pulsing with tension that was only just quelled. I always believed that art, worthwhile art, needs to come out of conflict. It’s all fine to talk about sunshine and happy love etc etc, but the art that moves, quakes and elevates the spirit, that art understands pain. Even something classic and beautiful, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night- I would venture to say that his famous painting wouldn’t have been so beautiful if Van Gogh himself wasn’t so troubled.

It was an interesting time to be in Northern Ireland. Peace talks were finally turning into action. Sudden realization that blowing eachother up was not an effective way of resolving the conflict.

“They’re blowing up the boarder!” Musician/Poet Andy White proclaimed, tuning his guitar “kind of ironic since they spent so much time checking cars at the boarder checkpoint for bombs. But it’s a new ireland- that is to say, they’re building a big massive highway.”

Sunday, May 11, 2008

English?

"Farkin hell that's a rightauolrant!"

"What?"

"A rightauol rant!"

"a rhino rant?"

"No a right auol rant!"

"What's that middle word?"

"auol"

"how do you spell it?"

"A-U-O-L"

"what does that mean?"

" Auol! Do you not understand plain English?!"


Ugh.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Cross-Ireland adventure part 3

When we drove through the mountain crossing, I had a flashback to lord of the rings. You know, the part where they climb that steep mountan ridge and go into the cave where they find gollum. Yeah, that’s where we were.

But soon the road opened up and we pulled in to get some ice cream. I almost dropped the cone, though when I saw the view.

Unbelieveable. Pictures cannot capture it. The mountain,s the grey haziness of the bay, the flat smooth rocks.


After a bit of staring and when we caught our breath, we contineud the drive. There was a big momma sheep and her baby sheep on the road, and we drove slowly around them, I snapping photos the whole way.

We pulled into dingle around early evening and grabbed some delicious fresh fish at a pub. We found a small bed and breakfast by the bay and collapsed into a warm sleep.

The next morning we woke early to the smell of freshly baked bread. Slightly still bleary eyed with sleep, I walked into the breakfast room to find a whole array of delicious hand baked goods and a table of cheery australian women. I poured myself a coffee and sniffed. The smell of good freshly brewed coffee reminded me a bit of home, a bit of icy cold college mornings where I would stumble into Café Opus, flip on my tunes, put muffins in the oven and sip on coffee.

After stuffing myself with the best yummy baked goods I’ve ahd in a long time, I dropped off the keyes and we headed out. Next destination: Sligo.

But the road to Sligo was long, and we decided to stop for dinner just outside of Galway in a smaller town. We were blessed with another gorgeous dday, very not typical of Ireland, as all the shopkeepers would remark. Beautiful beautiful blue sky, the water sparkled a mirrored reflection and boats sailed in the distance.

It was getting late though, and Sligo was far. At about half past 7, we stopped in a small town called Knock. Now, for such an incredibly small town, there certainly was a massive amount of religious paraphanalia in Knock. Apparently, this sleepy town was famous for a beautiful bassilica. We stopped at another bed and breakfast and fell fast asleep.

Cross-Ireland adventure part 2

When we arrived in Blarney, the crowds were absurd. After driving around in circles, PJ pulled out of the parkinglot and began driving to the next town. In response to my protests he replied cooly “Do you really want to spend 3 hours waiting in line to see a rock?”

Good point.

But where were we headed next? We were headed west, the sky cleared and the grass was so green so green. We were lost, of course, and I scrambled frantically for the map.

“Wait wait what town is this? We should see N 22 somewhere. Whoever designed the roads in Ireland must’ve been drunk.”

I quieted down when we pulled over a narrow stone bridge which lead us over the River Lee.

After a bit of aimless wandering on country back roads, we eventually pulled on the 22 and found a sweet town called Killarney. The town was brightly colored and for some reason was reminiscent of Lisboa for me.

“Let’s drive up the coast tomorrow.” Said PJ.

And so we did.

Cross-Ireland Adventure Part 1

I didn’t think he’d agree to it. But for some reason, he did. And I was happy. So we piled into the car with all our things: 2 small backpacks, and my orange rolly suitcase and hit the road to Cork.

The way was long and scenic, the usual sights you would expect from Ireland: sheep, cattle, churches, small towns with brightly colored facades. It was beautiful in Dublin, but the farther south we went, the more grey the skies grew.

I had heard mixed reviews of Cork, but considering I had only spent my time in other main cities (namely Dublin and Galway) I wrote off the reviews as intra-city rivalry.

We pulled into a grey, rainy Cork and found our hosts waiting for us in a lovely little yellow town house. We presented them with wine, guitar music and poetry, chowed down on indian food and- bellies full and minds at ease, fell into a warm and cozy sleep.

The next morning I woke up famished. The rare ireland morning sunlight poured through the windows and roused the grumbling in my stomach. It must’ve had the same effect on everyone else because within the hour we were up and dressed and headed in search of a “real” irish breakfast. Now, I know the jokes we all make about irish food (namely: drink the beer) but man they know breakfast.

After a sheepish departure from our hosts, we went in search of our hotel. Something else that is good and glorious about Ireland: Bank Holidays. Meaning that the first Monday of every month is a holiday because the banks are closed.

I vote that we instate this in the US.

The downside to the Bank holiday of course is if you happen to be traveling during one of them. Traffic is awful, and all the hotels, bed and breakfasts, hostels and even (sniffle) couch surfing hosts are booked. But lucky for us, we scored a reservation ina cute little hotel that reminded me strangely of boarding school.

I curled up with my laptop, Die Hard playing on the television in the background and we planned our trip to Blarney.

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Another reason to love Ireland

Today I found out that all artists, musicians and writers living in Ireland are exempt from taxes.

This is a wonderful land.

:)

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Balance

It came as no surprise to him that I was traveling around the world, conducting research on poetry as a reflection of society. I just remember the look on his face when I told him; this calm happy look, almost proud, but not giving it away too quickly. It was the look of a teacher remembering that one quirky student (with her nose constantly in a book, slides obscure references to Thoreau and Whitman into every day conversations to see if anyone would notice).

"None of this surprises me."

And here I am, further down the line, a daunting 8 months later, having traversed the width of the world, I find myself in Dublin, Ireland, wandering through the campus of Trinity College. And I laugh at myself as I stand infront of the statue of Oscar Wilde; the image of my dear teacher's face flashes into my mind- again, with that not surprised expression on his fae. Of course I would end up here, on this campus on a rare beautiful blue skied day in April, rubbing shoulders with the ghostly likes of Mr. Wilde, Mr. Beckett, and Mr. Joyce. Of course, right? But it still hits me in these moments, how close I came to being a barista at some Starbucks in a small Pennsylvania town. And I feel immensely lucky and grateful.

When I received this fellowship, it came with a small biography about Mr. William Bristol, the man who made all this possible. And beneath his name and picture and the title "The Bristol Fellowship" was a mission statement in italics:

Discovery of the self and the world

In a conversation with my mother a few weeks ago, while sipping coffee in a Viennese cafe, I disclosed to her my doubts about half of that mission statement. It seemed to me that I had certainly discovered the world, but that in doing so, I had lost myself numerous times. At that time, I believed I had already found myself two years prior, while traversing the Iberian Peninsula (aka Spain and Portugal). I told her, in a slightly disappointed tone, that I didn't feel any different than the girl who began this journey 7 months ago.

Of course, that sentiment isn't even remotely true. I know that now, as I near the end of my journey.

The funny thing about searching for yourself is that its a mission always doomed to fail. What I mean is, while we're out there, looking for ways to define ourselves, filling in online social networking sites, joining clubs and fraternities or whatever, we're just adding more dust, mud and earth to bury our true selves. Underneath all those layers of labels, underneath religion and nationality and egotistical labels we like to slap on ourselves to make ourselves feel better, is our true self- already there, just being. You are not what you write in your facebook profile. You are not what your passport says, or your drivers license. No, sorry, you are not your Greek Society or your fifteen minutes of fame or your honors society or your glowing transcript. You are not that story you tell yourself. As soon as we spend some time and stop trying to become what we are and just be what we are, its like wiping dust off the mirror. No hidden treasure, just what was already there all along.

While wandering in an old monastery in Lower Austria, I stumbled across this sign on a wall. All around me were beautiful books, reaching from floor to fresco painted ceiling, but all I could do was stand there and read this sign. Maybe I'm slightly nuts, but I just think its beautiful.


I guess what I mean to say is, I've spent a lot of this year waiting for some incredible realization to take hold of me. I've been waiting to find a place in the world, or someone or something to make me feel at home. But as a dear friend in Melbourne once told me, "Home is in your head."

It really is. And it still surprises me every time.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Vienna Pictures

So it's been a bit since I've written, sorry for that. Much has happened! After arriving back in Dublin safe and sound from an amazing Moroccan adventure (See below posts), I received a beautiful email from my hosts back in Vienna, complete with pictures! So here they are, little memory snapshots from my time in Vienna.
Enjoy!





Monday, April 14, 2008

Fes

The medina of Fes is a bustling little world of color, sound and smell. As we stepped through the old wall which divides the old city from the new city, I was immediately swept away into a parallel universe, narrated only by my thoughts and syncopated by the sounds of a language, however beautiful, impossible for me to decipher. We walked briskly with the flow of people, through narrow streets lined with stalls selling identical silver jewelery, knock off designer clothing, bootleg dvds, drums, silk pieces of cloth, intricate dresses and tunics and the like. It all seemed so famililar, in fact. The whole city seemed something from a dream I had once; the way dreams take things from reality and spin them into alternate webs of beautiful fantasy. Its so easy to get lost here, and often I feel like I'm floating five inches behind myself enjoying what I can, even if in a dream like state.

I always said there was no place like Andalucia. But walking through those narrow streets scented with spice, rainwater and humanity, I realized that I felt like I was walking through an old familiar neighborhood in my beloved city in andalucia. And of course, however much we talked about the arabic influence on cities in southern spain, it’s true resemblence cannot be fully understood until it is seen first hand. Al-Andaluz, the last stronghold of the arab empire in europe, and the Alhambra, the red fortress, which stood majestically on the hill behind the whitewashed labyrinth neighborhood where we would sit on rooftops and watch the sunset, singing in spanish and playing guitar....

It all seemed so familiar, walking though that old neighborhood in Fes, and yet contained elements so foreign, a simultaneous struggle between comfort and discomfort that I have felt so often during this trip around the world.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Poetry update

Ive been writing a lot lately. for some reason, i've been reminiscing of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry. Perhaps its because she was a strong woman from NYC and I'm about as far away from there as possible right now.

Morocco is beautiful, but so strange for someone like me. All around me is a completely new kind of culture, a culture where women are treated with highest respect, and I am left unsure whether or not it offends me. My travel partner is a boy (the other bristol fellow- oh world wide adventurers unite!), and I wear a ring on my finger (because we are seen so much together, it might be assumed we are married, and it would be in our best interest, i think, not to deny that notion). And as much as I enjoy embracing new cultures, certain things will always rub me the wrong way. Like if I pay for dinner, the waiter returns the change to the man at the table, even if he saw that it was coming out of my wallet. Its expected that Jesse orders my food, and as we walk down the street, some men shout "take care of her!" and we smile and I look down because I dont want to give anyone any death stares, nor do I want to take count of how many people are staring at me with my freckled skin and western clothes.

Everyone wants to know what I think of the head scarf "issue" that seems to be plaguing places like france and turkey, but I'll get into that in another entry when I have more time.

There's so much wonder about this country that I absolutely adore, despite my feminist grumblings. Like sipping the best mint tea on the planet while listening to the call to prayer every afternoon. And the way the women here smile at each other knowingly and everyone seems much more light hearted than people in New York or Europe. The way outdoor spice markets smell, and the colors of the head scarves match the long flowing robes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me to be here.

Enough rambling. Here's some poetry.

Desert Sonnet

I fled to the desert, far from my love
To seek answers in solitary sands
To questions we were so unaware of
and to return warmth to my small cold hands.

His image lingers on my horizon
Like an unreachable sun-induced dream
So tempting to keep my lonely eyes on
And forget about fate’s bewitching scheme

I wish to return to my beloved soon
And long once more to gaze into his eyes
The song of him echoes over the dunes
And evokes from my breast a tearful cry

-Oh cruel fate, why should I even bother?
For that song he sings is for another!



Response to Edna St. Vincent Millay and Sor Joana Ines de la Cruz

They talk of the ways of a woman’s heart
As if it were a maze
That captures and tears a poor man apart
And leaves him in a foggy daze

But if she should feel for a man deeply
And get her heart broken
They’ll say she acted emotionally
For his love was never spoken

And so I am left hinking to myself
If I’m under a spell
Because what am I if not a woman
Who has loved both wisely and well?

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Morocco

It truly is a shame I wasn't able to conduct more research in Arab countries. On the one hand, I'll be the first to admit that, as an American woman, I feel really out of place here. But on the other hand, as I've always said, great poetry comes out of discomfort, struggle and the unknown. And this country is a beautiful country. In every way- the buildings, the landscape, the food, the people. And there is poetry. Oh man, is there poetry.

"Kifa, nabki, min zikra habibin oua manzili, ala sikkat el'liqua" (My friends, let's stop here and weep, in remembrance of my beloved, on her traces, here at the edge of the dune).
- Prince Imru' al Qays-

I was just told recently about an epic love story that is famous in the Arab world. It sounds like the original Romeo and Juliet. It's the story of Majnun and Layla.

The story, according to our anonymous friends at wikipedia goes something like this:

Qays ibn al-Mulawwah ibn Muzahim, a Bedouin poet, was from the Bani Aamir tribe of Arabia. He fell in love with Layla bint Mahdi ibn Sa'd from the same tribe, better known as Layla Al-Aamiriya. He soon began creating poems about his love for her, mentioning her name often. When he asked for her hand in marriage her father refused as this would mean a scandal for Layla according to Arab traditions. Soon after, Layla married another man.

When Qays heard of her marriage, he fled the tribe camp and began wandering the surrounding desert. His family eventually gave up on his return and left food for him in the wilderness. He could sometimes be seen reciting poetry to himself or writing in the sand with a stick.

Layla moved to Iraq with her husband, where she became ill and eventually died. Qays was later found dead in the wilderness in 688 A.D. near an unknown woman's grave. He had carved three verses of poetry on a rock near the grave, which are the last three verses attributed to him.

Many other minor incidents happened between his madness and his death. Most of his recorded poetry was composed before his descent into madness.

Among the poems attributed to Qays ibn al-Mulawwah, regarding Layla:


"I pass by these walls, the walls of Layla
And I kiss this wall and that wall
It's not Love of the houses that has taken my heart
But of the One who dwells in those houses
--

Poetry was his refuge, the only way he could escape his love-stricken madness was to put it into words.

The name Majnun means "possessed by a jinn" or "love stricken". Leila means "sweetheart".

Then of course, there's the popular poet, Kahil Gibran, who is much loved all over the world. Originally hailing from Lebanon (I believe), he's most famous for his work, "The Prophet". Everyone I've met who has read this book has a favorite section or chapter. Mine is actually a tie between "Joy and Sorrow" and "Love" Here's the excerpt on Joy and Sorrow:

"Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow." And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater." But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall."

And here is "Love":

"Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love." And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God." And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips."

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

First Impressions of Ireland

Cab drivers always want to know when I'm going home.
They're always surprised to hear my answer.

The cab driver who took me to DCU (where I was to stay) was an elderly man, with big light eyes and a silly smile. And when I told him I studied poetry, he gave me a short poem that he wrote a bit ago. It was only one stanza long, and simple in rhyme but so so strong with imagery of friends slowly fading away. He blushed slightly as he recited it, and then demanded I read him one of mine. I did, but only half of one of my sonnets. He looked in the mirror expectantly, waiting for me to finish. I'm not sure why I stopped.

But as I learned that day, wandering through Dublin's zoo-like streets, this country is full of poetry and poetics. The Gaelic language itself is poetic. See, I'm starting to think poetry and poetic-ness (word? hmm..) is more of a view on the world than something you can just study or appreciate (meaning look at from a distance). It just exists or it doesn't. But the thing is, I think it has the possiblity to exist for everyone, if they were willing to change the way they see the world. Things like struggle, poverty, civil war, religious oppression, religions fundamentalism, suffering, heartbreak, death; these are the things that make good poetry. They make a sad sad life, but beautiful art.

But why? During my Bristol interview, I was asked if it was true that the only good poetry out there has some image of death in it. Of course, I laughed because I sincerely hope not. But now that I think of it, it does involve death of some kind. Death of innocence, death of love, infatution, in a change there is always dying. It's a change of emotion, of world view. Caused by a cathartic tragedy of some kind. And what seems so great about the irish culture (from my very limited exposure to it thus far) is that they not only have a strong tradition of struggle, but they are proud of it, they define themselves by it. And out of that struggle for identity, independence and words is birthed a mastery of literary tradition.

Maybe I'm just saying this because I have an infatuation with James Joyce (I read Ulysses way back in High School, and will proudly admit that I didn't understand much of it.... it reminds me of that introductory bit in Kerouac's "Lonesome Traveler" (I believe) where he says that his Aunt wanted him to define what a writer was, and he said that it was someone who talked a lot about things like James Joyce's Ulysses, but when asked to further expound on the details of the work, quickly changed the subject.) But there's got to be a reason why whenever I traveled through all the other countries of the world, whenever I mentioned Ireland people quickly added "of course."

My cab driver recited poetry to me in the first 5 minutes of landing in this place.
I think I'm going to like it here very much.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Slowly but with meaning

A year ago, I was afraid to eat alone. Just a silly phobia that haunted me. I told my mother that I don't think I could ever travel alone, for business or otherwise, because I was afraid to eat alone. How awkward, sad and lonely those business men look when they enter cafes with their newspaper, and sip their coffee while watching wistfully the display of people walking by on street sidewalks outside. I didn't want to be one of them.
Now, 8 months in, it's a rarity that I don't eat alone. Silence has become my strange travel buddy, often leaving me to my thoughts and memories. Quite a dangerous partner for a poet. And she's caused me lots of trouble, for sure, but more than anything she's forced me to cope with my true fear, a fear that has always followed me throughout my life; exposed just for a moment when I was 10 and my uncle said to me -You entered this world with another. You've never liked being alone, not even in the womb.

A few weeks ago I was at sitting at a bar in Prague, watching this girl socialize with everyone. She was a friend of mine, and the life of the bar, mingling around starting random conversation with whoever was willing to talk. I remember sitting there and wishing I could do that, that I could be that character. A student of Public Relations, this girl could spin anything. And it never occured to me that perhaps wishing to be like her was silly because I already was like her. It never occured to me until one night in a basement dive bar in Vienna (the walls streaked with black sharpie marker graffiti and flyers painted with brilliant colors duck taped to the walls with writing in half german and half english). I was talking to a girl about her dreadlocks, and the various ways one can acquire such cranial decoration. I was with an acquaintence from Hamilton (how I love to meet with study abroad students! So new to life outside the states, outside the strict confines of college society, where no one gives a care whether you were a part of what fraternity because no one knows what a fraternity is). And as we walked away from our dreadlocked conversation, he turned to me and said

-Well, that's where we differ
And I, completely clueless said
-Oh no, I don't want dreadlocks either. They're too much work.
And he said
-No, I mean, you started a conversation with a complete stranger about her hair. That's where we differ.
And I immediately thought of the girl in Prague, and smiled to myself. Surprised and somewhat embarassed by my ignorance to my own social tendencies, I realized that I, despite how awkward and strange I often felt, had the capability to cause random conversation.

So we sat in that bar, and listened to bands play. A sweet singer songwriter from Scotland played love songs on the guitar and I thought about everywhere I've been, and everyone I've met. But then, oh then tricky little miss silence moved in. Apparently the next band was running late, and they needed a time filler.
-Anyone know how to play guitar?
the MC shouted.
-Any stand up comedians?
Nothing.
-Hey! She's a poet!
Crap. I had been outed. Maybe if I held real still, and acted like I was in an intense but enjoyable conversation, he'd leave me along.
-No wait, you! The one in the green sweater!
I turned slowly to the stage
-I don't know you're name. But you're a poet. Come up here!

So I got up on the stage. Because let's face it, I love it. And I poured my poor little poet heart out to a mob of strangers, as usual. And when I paused between poems, I noticed the bar had gone silent. Completely silent. As I stepped off the stage, awkwardly after my five minutes of talking to bright lights and blurry silohuettes, I thought about how life really is about making connections. Whether through music or conversation or poetry. It's all about breaking down those walls we put up between each other, to protect ourselves from "getting hurt". Because things are temporary, and attachment is natural so why even get involved with all that? But to me, I just love that connection too much. The feeling of looking out into the bright lighted, blurry abyss and *feel* something looking back at you. And it hurts because after making that connection, Loneliness and Silence seem to win. But really, all it does is motivate me to make more connections. Maybe I'm just masochistic. But, as trite and silly and emo as it all sounds, getting your heart broken is the best way of knowing it still works. And I'd rather have a broken heart than a lonely one.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Poetry in Schools (pictures on their way)

- Ok so who here likes poetry?

My question was reflected right back at me through the quizzical looks on their faces. Typical response, really, the one I was actually going for. A few shy hands in the back row made their way through the air, but half heartedly, and they suddenly fell as quickly as they rose.

-Hm. Ok. How about Eminem?

I'll stop there for a moment. I know it might seem like I just did something a little nuts (calling Eminem a poet). But hey, I had to get their attention and I had a point to make. The class erupted

-Kanye West? Taleb Kwali?

Even louder yays.

-Cool, well the type of poetry I do is called Spoken Word or Performance Poetry. Its a miz between the poetry you read in books for school and the music you listen to on the radio.

They looked at me expectantly, growing silent. Like I had three heads. The strange notion that there could be some demonic love child mixture between The Roots and Shakespeare was a little strange to them.

People have a really short attention span these days. Particularly people between the ages of 11 and 16. Even more so when those people are learning English as a second or third language, like these kids were. It wasn't the time for one of my longer, awk shucks, hands in pockets, girl next door poems. It was time for a fast, punchy poem. One that sounds good.

So I broke into my Drop Beats Not Bombs poem. Vaguely political, an explanation of the uses of modern poetry with simple words and a strong beat to keep them awake. It lasts about 30 seconds.

First I did it quickly, then again, a bit slower. They picked out words and phrases they recognized and then tried to analyze the poem. I was really shocked to see how quickly they picked up on themes and symbolism.

They wanted to hear another poem. A slower one, called out the boy from the back. So I did that same old love poem I do everywhere. And at first the kids giggled a bit when I finished, until one girl in the front row with big melted chocolate eyes asked if it was a true story. And when I said yes, she turned around to the rest of the class and said in fast german what I can only imagine resembled "shut up! it's true!" and caused all the girls looked at me sadly and let out a big unison "aw"

After class, a girl who had stayed quite most of the lesson approached me. She told me she wanted to be a singer and wanted to know if I could tell her where she could start. I gave her information about a few open mics that I knew about. I told her to look in the newspaper and in cafes that had advertisements for open mics, and that once she started performing there she would meet people who know more about the music scene than I do.

I went down to the teacher's lounge (oh how cool! so long during my academic career I had dreamt of hanging out in the teachers lounge with cool teachers, sipping on strong coffee and talking about the lessons). The teachers from the two classes I had just visited seemed really pleased with the students' reaction. The idea of spoken word poetry itself, let alone using it as a tool in the classroom was new for them. They were enthusiastic about attempting to integrate spoken word into their English as a foreign language classes. I was excited for them.

Back in Canada, someone once told me that he enjoyed performing for lots of different crowds, particularly for younger people because you never know who you will inspire. I remember I was inspired when I was 14 and just happened to catch a spoken word performance at summer camp. But unfortunately, most kids don't get the opportunity to be exposed to such alternative art, especially when dealing with public schools that aren't funded well, or when they come from limited financial backgrounds. But those are the kids with the most amazing stories. Those are the ones that need to hear it the most. Why deny them the opportunity to create an escape for themselves?

And that's how I felt about these kids. The "rough" kids. The ones whose parents are too busy integrating into Austrian society. The ones who didn't have the opportunity to learn English until now. These kids came from all over central and eastern Europe. Who knows what they've seen, or what they've experienced.

At the end of the second lesson, one of the teachers asked her students if they felt like they could write a poem now, after meeting a "real poet" (a title which still causes me to giggle, even after this whole year). The entire class raised their hands.

Oh, satisfaction

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Inside the enemy bunker

--Wait, youre not seriously going down there, are you?
He looked at me with a childish grin and began to lower himself down a hole, no wider than the width of his body
-- But, but WHY?
He paused, rolled his eyes and gestured for me to follow him
-- Pero, Por QUE!!!?
I shouted after him as he completely disappeared down the hole.
-- Porque es la puta madre. Vamos
He called back up to me in musical argentinian spanish. There I was in Lower Austria, crawling into an abandoned world war two antiaircraft bunker. Who wouldve guessed Id be speaking spanish. But it was not the time to muse over cross cultural ironies. I needed to figure out whether or not I would squeeze myself down that hole. And, perhaps more importanly, how Id convince myself it wasnt a bad idea.

We were at least twenty feet undeground. At least. The floor of the bunker was covered in sand. I half expected to stumble upon a magic carpet and a genie bottle which housed a large blue man with Robin William´s voice. My lighthearted musings were put to a dead stop when I looked at the wall of the bunker. In front of me, in red spraypaint was a swatstika, about 10 feet tall. Next to it was a peace sign that was crossed out. The two austrian boys infront of me, who were until now chattering in dialect german, fell silent.

I always hesitate when I talk about things like ´energy´ and ´vibrations´. Im not some super new age thinker or anything. But walking in that bunker, you could feel the energy being sucked out of you. The worst part was not seeing the racist graffiti on the walls. The worst part was seeing the date next to the graffiti, which indicated its recent creation.

We wandered through the gigantic caverns of the bunker for hours,with the light of a small lantern to guide us. And with each step, the pace slowed, the mood darkened and the air got colder. We were all afraid- but of what? It was the feeling that we shouldnt be there tha was scaring us. Not that it was private property or that we should be somewhere else. It was the simple, gut wrenching feeling of being on the wrong side. Your heart races for no reason. You are out of breath but not tired. Your eyes and ears play tricks on you and you see figures in the dark shadowy crevaces of the caves. We shouldnt be here, yet its just so interesting. Just 5 minutes more.

Finally, when I couldnt take it anymore (and I could tell the boys wanted to leave as well, yet said nothing perhaps due to some ridculous macho mentality that escapes me) we turned around and climbed towards the exit. One at a time, we squeezed ourselves through the tiny rabbit hole entry to the bunker.

Outside the air was fresh. The trees were dark and radiant. The stars were glowing. I know I wasnt the only one who felt the energy shift. We three sat on gigantic rocks for a moment, awkwardly taking large gulping breaths and not talking. Only looking at the dark night sky spotted with branches of pine trees covered in snow.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Textstrom Rocks!

The bar was located in an underground archway. I was momentarily transported back to New York... the roar of the train passing overhead, the smoke filled room, the sound of beer glasses clinking and loud laughter.

The woman on stage (Diana) spotted me immediately (I was the girl with the "What the hell is going on?!" look on her face, so I must've been easy to pick out). She waved me over excitedly and pulled aside a waitress and ordered me a beer. She introduced me to her co-host, MiezeMedusa (stage name... obviously). They both spoke beautiful lilting english, and were so excited and dynamic I was immediately hooked. They showed me where I could set up my camera and as I turned to leave the stage, they started giggleing nervously and said they had a present for me. Out of her bag, Diana pulled a t-shirt with the logo of the poetry collective on it. It was so cool! I thanked them and set up my camera.

Seeing as we were in Vienna, the slam was in German. But it was such a cool experience, sitting there in the corner watching a poetry slam in a language I can't even remotely understand. The most interesting aspect was, of course, that even though it was in German, and even though I coulnd't understand the words, much of the sentiment (from the poet and the audience) was easily understood from gestures and intonation.

I had the priviledge of catching up with MiezeMedusa and Diana again last night at a book launch. We got to talking about the rarity of women in poetry slams, an issue which seems to be pretty universal around the globe. For whatever reason, women are aways in the minority when it comes to competing in poetry slams, although their presence in the audience is evenly split with men. It was really interesting talking to MiezeMedusa about it, because in addition to being a poet (Diana is just a slammistress, not a poet), she is also an MC in a hip-hop group. As rare as female slam poets are, female MCs are even more rare. We theorized about it for a good hour or so, and just couldn't come up with a reason for this gender divide.

Afterwards, I wandered to a nearby cafe and encountered a friend from Hamilton (who was visiting Vienna with her boyfriend), He introduced me to a group of university students, one of whom lives with a collective of MCs, and another who knows the slammaster of the other spoken word collective in Vienna. I took down numbers, tried my first bit of Schnapps (not my favorite) and then wandered home. It was on this walk home, accompanied by my friend and her partner, that I realized how fast my year has gone by. And yet, when I think about how things were when I was just starting in Canada, I laugh to myself. I truly had no idea. And although this trip has been full of its ups and downs, it's been an experience for sure- one I will never ever forget.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

Vienna in the Springtime

I had stumbled off the bus from Prague to Vienna into a live snowglobe.
The snow stuck to streetlamps and tree branches, and matched up against the frilly white baroquesque buildings, it all looked like lace or a world made of decadent icing on a large wedding cake.

I wandered towards one of the large buildings, hoping it was a bank to exchange money into euros. It was. I groaned slightly as I walked through the doors, glancing at the neon red numbers: USD: 1.67

Why oh why does this have to be the year the dollar loses all value?

I walked down the streets a bit longer, enjoying in some silly way the manner in which the snow fell and stuck to everything, simply everything. I hate cold weather but I love snow. Snow in 80 degree weather would be heaven. I didn’t recognize any of the street names. All the signs were in german. The two people I asked for directions didn’t speak english. I felt like an alien. But for some reason, I wasn’t worried. My familiar travel companion “Anxiety” did not rear his ugly head. And for a brief few minutes, I enjoyed the feeling of being completely anonymous and alone inside a snowglobe of a city.

Backpack firmly stuck to my back, protected by a scarf, woolen hat and mittens and my small orange suitcase and a pocket (not quite) full of euros, I hailed the first cab I saw and handed the driver the address of the apartment.

My friend Maggie once told me that when you travel, your soul lags behind a few days. If that's true, I think it takes me about 5 days to rejoin myself. The first five days in a city are filled with panic: "I've made the wrong decision" or "why did I come to a country where they don't speak english" etc etc. And thusly went my first few days in Vienna, full of ups and downs (unfortunately, more downs than ups, but so it goes). I traveled to the smaller city of Melk for the weekend, where I stayed with an adorable family on a farm.

Flash foward a couple days later, driving through Melk at night in a car with 3 Austrian guys, talking over loud Goa electronic music in German. We're speeding down winding country roads, passing through landscapes that look a little too much like pennsylvania. It is day 5 in Austria, and just as the winter clouds clear, so does the thick layer of my discomfort, revealing the star filled night sky and myself, breathing it all in.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Czech me out!

It took all my energy not to purchase every single beer mug, shot glass and tshirt which sported that corny pun. But I needed to maintain my image as a serious poet, right?

After a wonderful week spent in Italy, visiting family and a friend from Hamilton (Allison) I had decided it was time to cntinue on my journey. Next destination: Prague. Ah yes, Prague, supposidly the most beautiful city in the world, with good food, cheap beer, friendly people and awesome architechture. Prague, the home of Kafka and apparently a lively spoken word scene I had to see it.

Stepping off the plane to Prague was like stepping into an ice box. My poor blood was so thin from spending the past 6 months in warmer climates (Mexico, Australia, New Zealand), I had to bundle up like I was back up at Hamilton. One tshirt, two sweaters, two jackets, a scarf, woolen mittens, a hat and sunglsses to keep the snow out of my eyes. Oh yes. Snow. In March. Just my luck.

We wandered through the streets of Prague and I was filled with a sense of incredible joy. The buildings were dark and looming, spiraled and ornate covered in light touches of gold that sparkled when hit by the sun. There were beautiful friendly people everywhere, many spoke English but with accents as ornate and dark as the buildings. And they sold us beer in huge glasses for 50 cents. I loved it. I wanted to move there. Immediately I began searching for a job- there had to be some opening with a Peace and Conflict resolution Center there, right? Or maybe some firm needed an events manager? Perhaps a travel writer? Ok Bartender? Fine, Fine.

Because it was Easter week, all the poets had left the city. It was a heartbreaking discovery, that was soon soothed by a hot chocolate made by a Scotish bartender. We asked him how he ended up in Prague. His story is one of those stories that makes me really and truly believe in the goodness of humanity, and the power of being in the right place at the right time with the universe on your side.

He had landed in an airport while coming back from a trip out east. His bags were lost, and he did not have a ticket back to scotland, nor did he have any money to buy one. He had 5 euro in his pocket, so he did what anyone would do. He found the closest bar and bought a beer. while at the bar he sat down next to a man, and told him his story. They got to talking for a while, and then Chris left for a moment to go to the washroom. When he reurned, the man was gone but had bought him another beer. As Chris sat down, he saw that wasnt the only thing that man had done for him. Underneath the glass was folded approximately 300 Euros. Chris bought a plane ticket to Prague with the money and has lived there ever since.

I talked to many foriegners while I was in Prague, especially ones who owned English Language bookshops. I had the great pleasure to stumble into one english language bookshop that happened to run the Prague Writers Fesival in June. When we entered, the owner, in a loud American accent (Boston, I believe) was reccomending to one of his customers alternatives to 1984. `Oh Oh wel if you liked Orwell and you liked Animal Farm, youll lke this book too, its political without all that... animal stuff.`

I liked him instantly. I liked him even more when he gave me his card, told me to email him when I knew for sure if I would be attending the writers festival and he would set up a media pass for me. Hooray for networking.

Prague was mostly spent with wide eyes and full bellies. Its officialy on my list for `places to visit in warmer weather´ and also my ´if i ever becme a broke poet, i will move here´ . Rent, I´m told, is only 600 dollars a month. Who needs Brooklyn?!

Friday, March 21, 2008

Verona Sonnets

Verona is the perfect city to sit at a cafe and write sonnets.
Sititng next to the river in Verona, munching on brioche and café, I enjoyed the momentary silence of the Shakespearean city. Wandering around those medieval streets, it was easy to see why Shakespeare had chosen Verona for the most tragic of love stories.

I’ve just recently started in the habit of writing sonnets again. It’s a good exercise in the archaic, and I find the strict form forces me to find alternative symbols and metaphors.

There are a few popular types of sonnets: the or “Italian” sonnet (ABBA, ABBA), the “Shakespearean” or "English" sonnet (ABAB, CDCD) and the "Spenserian" sonnet (ABAB, BCBC). I chose to write mine in the style of the Shakespearean sonnet. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been partial to that rhyme scheme:

ABAB CDCD EFEF GG

Each sonnet has 14 lines total, written in iambic pentameter (10 syllables per line that give it a heartbeat feeling: “TA-dum”. Or atleast it should… I’m still working on that aspect).

The rhyming couplet at the end allows for a relevation of sorts, or some type of emotional turnabout or catharsis.

Typical sonnet themes include death, love, and heartbreak. They’re pretty much stereotypical in every way. Though they may seem a little trite, they’re quite difficult to master without sounding silly or pretentious. I’ve just sort of embraced the fact that, although heartfelt, my sonnets could be laughable, especially since they are so dramatic and use the stereotypical middle english iamb fillers (O! Or Alas! Etc etc)

There are modern spins on sonnets (read Edna St. Vincent Millay, for example) some with less lines and looser rhyme.

Some people play sudoku. I write sonnets. Boh.

Break up sonnet

So the waves of romance have come and gone
Fickle, like the tides we watched from your shores
The mystr’y of moonlight gives way to dawn
Revealing secrets we dreamt of before

The morning lark chased away fantasy
A love at once lost, though never quite gained
I do not ask your sky reflect of me
Only that some fond memory remains.

I won’t break the silence, calling your name
Nor my precious nights dreaming of your voice
I am not a school girl, playing a game
I’d shut off my heart, if I had the choice

If only I could’ve seen this from the start:
Beneath those warm sweet eyes rests a cold heart!


Secret Sonnet

When brought face to face, they hardly did speak
Remaining distant like orions stars
Alas his eye to hers they dared not meet
Just admir’ng eachother from afar

In dreams she often heard him calling out
Her name in a voice so lovingly clear
To her from mountains high he did wish shout
A declaration of love she might hear.

Though fate has driven them so far apart
With mountains and seas standing in between
But as it’s known, with matters of the heart
Love’s made the all magic this world has seen

But though this love tale may make them swoon
Fate’s fickle hand may end it all too soon.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Venetian Glass

If Rome shouts, Venice whispers.

At least when it isn't high tourist season.

I had the great pleasure of visiting Venice with a friend from college. It's really wonderful to take a few days and spend some time with a familiar and friendly face. It's exactly what I needed, I think, to recharge myself for the next few months.

We wandered through Venice, picking through tiny side streets, over and over tiny bridge after tiny bridge, bracing ourselves against the strong breeze which flies off the water, and taking deep breaths and photographs in the breaks of sunlight.

There is a Titian exhibit at the Academia, and because both Allison and I are Art-History nerds (although I think she's a bit worse than I am...) we gobbled it up. "Love Love Love" was all she could say as we walked out of the building, and I couldn't agree more. Art like that is truly a gift, and I was happy we got to experience it.

While in the gallery, I received a phone call from a teacher at my boarding school who was leading a group of students and faculty through Italy. I knew they would be in Venice that day, and had left him a message earlier that morning, posing the possibility of a meetup. And meet we did. There was a happy charm to meeting up with Doc that day; the man who took me on my first overseas adventure when I was a 6th former at The Hill. It was the trip that prodded my travel bug to life. It was great to see him, years later while I'm on my own excursion around the world. In a way, I owe much of my curiosity and bravery to him and that first trip.

It was a day filled with adventure, singing gondolieri, hole in the wall pizza joints, familiar faces, twisting canals and a piazza I've dreamt of seeing since I was a little girl of 8 years, learning to play Vivaldi on the violin.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

The Roots

"Everything you need to know about Italian culture, you can find out about in our architecture. Anglo houses are built with brick and wood. They are moveable. Italian houses are made of heavy stone, with deep foundations. We remain."

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Kiwis and Ozzies

Some poetry antics and goodbye shots from the southern hemisphere:


Kiwi Poets


I don't know if you can see that, but it says "<---prose 10 km Poetry---->" At the Newtown Word Collective in Wellington


The singing word, I only wish I could've experienced a bit more of it.


Maori dedication


Guerrilla street poetry, painted on a sidewalk in Auckland by a Professor at the University of Auckland (!!!). The city liked it so much, they decided not to paint over it.


Emilie Zoe Baker, Ghostboy and Tug


Post-Night Words festival poet love.


They wouldn't let me leave the country till I tried some vegemite. It is as bad as everyone says. Sorry guys. :)

Friday, March 14, 2008

Goodbye Australia, Hello Europe

Truth be told, I had to leave australia or else I'd just stay there forever. I *had* to leave. My body was freaking out, my nerves were at their wits end. I couldn't look people in the eye during conversations because I was daydreaming about other places. I had to leave.

I hate saying goodbye, and the few hours i spent in the Sydney International Airport were filled with quick rushes to the bathroom where i would splash my face with water and tell myself to snap out of it. Because there's so much world to see. And besides, I had to leave. It was obvious.

In sum, Australia was an interesting time for me. More than anything, I think it was spent more on personal growth than on the actual "poetry" aspect, if you want to look at it from a strictly research standpoint. But I think the personal aspect of this project shouldn't be overlooked. As Ginny once told me, the fellowship picks the person, not just the project. And besides, pain, suffering, heartbreak, homesickness, weakness, loneliness- these are all tools of a poet. We love having our hearts smashed, our brains twisted, our capacity of seeing the world and faith in humanity altered immensely. It makes for good poetry. Right?

I had lunch in Sydney. Dinner in Singapore. Best of all, I got to see the stars over Afghanistan. OK, I'm not 100% sure we were exactly over Afghanistan, but according to that map thing on the plane, the stars came out right when we crossed into Afghanistan. It was beautiful, and it reminded me of something I thought about when I was first bitten by the travel bug: people are incredible because they can survive even the worst situations. I felt so much love and sadness for those people below, whose lives were being ruined by the wrecklessness of men in power. I wanted to send a big note down to all of them "The stars are the same in my country too." I don't know why, but I always thought the night sky would be different there. Ignorant me.

We arrived in Rome from the East, with the rising sun. Literally. As the plane touched down on familiar Mediterrainian territory, the sun peaked over the jagged skyline a burning orange. I stepped off the plane and shivered, unaccustomed to typical european weather patterns after being in the southern hemisphere for so long.

I've been to Rome before, and I have to admit, I've never been a fan. I preferred southern coastal cities, I told myself, away from the touristy crowded streets. But this morning, I got to see a side to Rome that few get to experience. I think travelling to a city by oneself really changes the way one sees the city. Particularly true in Rome's case, especially when I arrived before Rome was awake.

Wandering around Rome at 10am is like being handed a key to someone else's dream. Except you get to stay awake during the experience. Narrow winding streets, the only sound is my shoes on the cobblestones, the sun still babyish and soft, just lightly touching the city as if she were saying "Ok, sleep for just 10 more minutes." Getting lost in the labyrinth like streets in those early morning hours was an experience in itself. Rome is just familiar enough that as soon as I feel lost, I turn a corner and a memory is brought back to life. I had gelato there once. I bought a pair of shoes at that store. We drank a bottle of wine and danced in the middle of the alleyway, right there. And then, poof! again, I am back here- an outsider, alone and slightly lost.

I sat down at a cafe at the pantheon, something I never would have done had it been mid-day. But the tables were set and the waiters looked bored and I was famished. So I had breakfast in Rome. I sipped my cappuccino, and watched Rome stir awake. Gradually, the Piazza grew more and more crowded, the streets became louder, singing italian and churchbells. The sound of vespas whizzing past and cars honking angrily with a beautiful frantic mess of languages strewn in.

It's funny, I thought, as I picked and poked my way through those streets, in an obvious memory-induced/jet lagged haze, how can I feel so at home in a city where I've never lived, particularly when I don't speak the language?

But it's true. Coming to Europe was like coming back home. But not Pennsylvania home. Southern Europe home.

And so I plan to use this week to regroup, to adjust to the completely mind-boggling time change (it's 3pm right now, and i'm exhausted... i couldn't even tell you WHAT time it is in my brain.) and of course, to finally record those tracks I've been talking about recording for the past two months. I really would like to write up a CD to sell at poetry readings. It would be good for extra pocket cash, not to mention publicity.

As I wandered back to the hotel (well ok, i got really REALLY lost and eventually called a cab... but hey, I tried...) I came across an entire museum dedicated to Byron and Shelly. You know, the poets. And it makes sense really, that I would choose a country like Italy as my entry into Europe, especially on a trip like this one. Because how can you walk through the incredibly diverse towns of this land, and not be inspired? The story of land, this one in particular, haunts the streets and the people. It seeps into the window panes, gets tangled in telephone wires, mixes with the wine. And you can't help but take it in.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

sometimes i obsess over things i don't say

Maybe I didn’t listen hard enough when they warned me about free time. There’s so much free time on this trip. No matter how many contacts you make, emails you write, poems you revise, tapes you review, there are still these moments when you find yourself all alone, in dead silence. I am sitting in an empty room at a friend’s house in Glebe, a suburb of Sydney. My bags are packed, my phone is charged, all my flight information is written in my notepad. And I am sad to leave sydney (we’ll get to that in a bit) but I can’t help but think about a conversation I had a few nights ago at a bar.

I hate goodbyes, particularly dramatic ones. I prefer to escape a country in the early hours of the morning, when I don’t have time to wallow and say goodbye. Like it’s all part of dream and when I wake I’ll be somewhere new, maybe where the cars will drive on the other side of the road and the people talk quickly and emphatically in a language I don’t speak.

But not this time, and I knew that. My flight leaves in the afternoon. Giving me all morning to reflect. But as I said before, I hate dramatic goodbyes, and so I decided to throw a party in honor of Jack Kerouac’s birthday (March 11) and sllightly mention my own departure (March 13). I invited some of the people I’ve met while I’ve been here, and like I always seem to do, I got myself involved in a deep, somewhat inebriated (I wasn’t, they were) discussion about feminism.

I bit my tongue that night. And now, looking back on it, it angers me a little that I was afraid to stand up for my beliefs. And in the solitude of this morning, questions seem to come back to haunt me, challenging my “friendly neighborhood feminist” position that I so often take in the presence of men, so as to not scare or offend them.

But why is it that I tiptoe around an issue that affects the majority of people on this planet? Yes, that’s right, the majority of people on this planet are women. Why must we act like a minority? Why is it, then, that talk of issues that affect the majority are kept to a minimum, and I must explain myself, “No, I’m not that kind of feminist. I don’t hate men”

Don’t hate men? Well, that’s a generalization. I do hate certain men. So do most women. I hate the kind of men that sit at a bar table, next to their girlfriends, checking out the waitress and saying “She’s pretty hot, isn’t she? Could use to lose a few pounds though” etc etc. I hate the kind of men that say “I hate it how women always ‘cry rape’ because it gives them too much power.” Yes, those kinds of men, I do certainly hate.

And what do I mean exactly when I say I’m “not that kind of feminist”. What kind of feminist am I? It’s true, I hate using the term because it has been bastardized over the years by popular culture. Feminists have always been considered fat, ugly, militant women that become lesbians soley because they “can’t land a guy” and other ridiculous stereotypes that are so far from the truth it’s inconcievable how they even were created. But that’s not why I hesitate to use the label. I hesitate because to me, it’s redundant to being a woman.

It’s logical, really. Why wouldn’t I be concerned for the health and safety of women when so many female university students are assaulted and/or raped? Why wouldn’t I be at least a little angered by the way we are expected to prance around and act stupid so we don’t “intimidate” men by being too smart? Why wouldn’t I be upset when I see dolls made for little girls that have unrealistic proportions, or when I see teenagers idolizing film stars and pop stars who are obviously coked out, anorexic and depressed.

Even from the “might equals right” standpoint (which I loathe) the feminist argument holds up. Why is it that the majority is obeying laws not only created by the minority, but also laws that actively hurt and danger the rigths of the majority? And why is it that when the majority tries to speak out against such blatant injustice, the minority brushes it off with a “oh don’t be such a man-hating feminazi”. Why is it that we judge the majority based off of the standards set by the minority (ie women are too sensitve… well why isn’t it that men have emotional issues? Women have boundary issues… why isn’t it that men have commitment issues? Women are irrational… why isn’t it that men can’t think outside the box? Each are equally as offensive, but we always act as if the women are the abnormality. But even from a scientific perspective, an abnormality is something that strays from the norm… and the norm is set by the average behavior, usually influenced by the majority. Therefore, if women (the majority) are acting a certain way, it should be men (the minority) who are criticized and analyzed for being different)

But most of all, why is it that I, a university educated woman with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, who can speak two languages fluently, and is brave enough to travel the world alone is too afraid to be intellegent and logical around a few guys who are being offensive to her sex over a few beers?

To be honest, I’m tired of hiding behind this “friendly feminist” exterior. Something I’ve noticed while traveling is that you have to give cultural differences some space, even if they are offensive. I may be completely off here, but I think feminism is a bit behind here in australia. I’ve mentioned it before, and previously wrote it off as a “well, sucks for them but who am I to say they’re wrong”. Kind of like the same way I just accepted the fact that australians don’t like to think about the “american” perspective when listening to poetry ( I was pushing it enough by even getting up there with ny yankee accent, so it’s best to avoid topics about the US altogether). But I think a place like australia, particularly sydney could use a wake up call when it comes to issues that make them uncomfortable. It’s such a culture based off of being comfortable, of not extending oneself or pushing oneself. Its about knocking eachother down to size, not because they are competative, but simply because they are afraid of competition. In that way it is so incredibly different than the states. Complacency is something I’ve never been good at. If there’s a button to be pressed I press it. And so I wonder if I have done myself an injustice by altering my personality to suit the comforts of others. Where do you draw the line? Should I have defended more ferverently a woman’s right to say no? Should I have stuck up for that waitress, told that guy to shut the hell up and that he could use to lose a few pounds too? Should I have quoted the feminist philosoophers of the past ( a term which tends to make boys giggle- feminist philosophy? How ridiculous, we all know women aren’t rational creatures… etc etc) Should I have cited Susan B Anthony “Men want equality and nothing more. Women want equality and nothing less.” Should I have told them to put that in their pipe and smoke it? It was the fear of sounding not only too feminist, but too american, that stopped me from interjecting. A fear that is ridiculous, at its core, of course because those are two things about myself which I did not choose. I did not choose to be a woman (and therefore a feminist) and I certainly did not choose to be american.

But strangely, after being away from home for so long, I’ve realized that I’m glad I am both those things. There is so much anti-americanism in this world. The criticisms are always the same- apparently we’re all dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, fat, lazy, competative, pro-war, pro-guns, pro-violence, nationalistic, money obsessed, self absorbed, assholes. But the irony, of course, is that these statements are usualy coming from people who exhibit at least half of those aforementioned qualities. Because to say “all people from country X are this way”, especially when country X is as massive and diverse as the US, is a dumb, ignorant, prejudiced, nationalistic, self absorbed thing to say.

These are also usually the people who say they hate all feminists, and check out other women in front of their girlfriends.

And for as frustrated as it makes me, I feel like maybe it is my obligation as an educated, non-violent American woman with broad horizons, and few explicit prejudices, it could be my responsibility to disprove such notions about my country. Certainly, bad people exist, but it’s not restricted to americans. I’ve met more prejudiced, racist, sexist, homophobic australians in Sydney alone than in New York City. But I’ve also met some wonderful people here, and I’ve met wonderful people in the states. So maybe it’s not restricted to nationality- maybe there are some ignorant people in every country (duh). I don’t want to be, by any means, a spokesperson or an embassador or some sort for all americans. Because I don’t represent all americans. America is a contradictory nation. And that’s what I love about it. The fact that a place so diverse with so many contradicting laws, views and people can still somehow magically stay together is amazing ( I say it’s superglue). But I could never represent all that. I can only represent myself and when someone says in that ridiculously patronizing tone “Oh we’ve met a smart american” I can only say “You should actually go to the states sometime. You might be surprised how many smart americans you’d find..”