Slice of humble pie

Maybe it's just selective memory, but somehow being on crutches way back when didn't seem like such a big deal. Well, except for that one mortifying Bambi incident along the wretched green tile floors of the PJH hallway ... (i.e. rain-wet rubber crutch tips meet rain-wet tile floor and all appendages spread in opposite directions, obligating mortified, crippled girl to crawl across to retrieve said flung crutch in front of jeering adolescent onlookers). Other than that slightly traumatic incident, though, I pretty much remember it being a cinch.

Seeing as "cinch" would not quite be the word of choice this time 'round, I have come to the conclusion that there are four possible options for this difference in experience:

1. I've lost my youthful spryness
2. People in Geneva are far more sympathetic than those in Kitsap
   
3. Mother's helping hand was taken utterly for granted
4. Selective memory

To provide but a few (consecutive) examples of these latest reminders of humility:

The home-apartment shuffle (Get it? Like the supermarket shuffle??)
The apartment building requires a code to unlock the front door. Said code must be entered in the call box to the left of the double doors; friendly automated voice says 'You may now enter'; and door on the far right is unlocked. For 5 seconds. For the record, five seconds does NOT allow enough time for the slow, elderly, klutzy or otherwise physically challenged to get back over to open the door. Repeat shenanigan shuffle + lock out scenario 3 times over before mastering the art of standing at call box while using right crutch to push open the door... from four feet away.

Para-Olympics
What do you get when you take two fine women, two bad feet and two pairs of crutches ... and put them in the same office? Lots of squeeky crutch noises, many doting colleagues, one antsy insurance administrator, unlimited desktop tea deliveries, gracious lunch-time grocery orders... and well-attended hallway races. It's now been duly verified: I am the certified Crutch Klutz, and the slowest one at that. At least mine have padded handles.

Old men laughing
Sweat-drenched crutch girl pauses on street corner across from neighborhood bar for a much needed breather. Look up to find three elderly men--one of whom is apparently a crutch friend--looking over and laughing. Yes, indeed, the 70 year old smoker masters these sticks better than I can, no breaks needed.

Picture of pity
I was in the home stretch, 50 feet to go. It was a heavy sigh of releif/big gasp for air. I didn't really even realize it came out... but apparently the passing neighbor guy did.

"Just watching makes me pity you! Have courage, and good luck!"

This was immediately followed by second passerby trying to avoid eye contact as he unsuccessfully stifled a smirk ... followed by the mailman courteously stepping out of my way and saying:

"It's not easy! Have courage, and good luck!"

Ok, so I get it. I DO look as pathetically weak as I feel. I'm glad I can bring a smile to your day--you've certainly put a good self-appreciating laugh in mine.

Courtesy calls/humble pie down your throat
TGIH: Thank God I'm home. It's Crutch Girl's lucky day--the neighbors are standing by the code box. They kindly enter code, I dutifully begin the fight with my battle sticks and the door. Suddenly, kind older-like man appears out of nowhere to hold said door open. My kind reply? "Thank you, kind sir, I really appreciate it". His response? A full three minute raised-voice lecture on how:

"You're just like everyone else in your generation ... you're too proud and independent to ask for help ... you have to grow up and get over yourself before you do even more damage ... (now turns to neighbor couple at door) what happened to common courtesy and helping people out ... are you blind? ... use your head!"

Yes, yes, thank you kind sir, forgive thy neighbors and I will take my (double?) slice of humble pie.

Competitive edge

You know how it goes. You hit the gym at the same time every day, and you are always amid the same familiar (though nameless) gym buddies. Though a word is rarely ever spoken between you, you know their gym routine, the colors of each of their five workout outfits, what TV channel they watch ... and whether or not they 'remember' to disinfect the machine behind them.

Take, for example, Miss Elliptical. She's ridiculously pretty, seemingly super friendly, dedicated to her gym routines and always perfectly put together. (Yes, I'm slightly jealous). Miss Elliptical does the elliptical, stair stepper and weight machines. Miss Elliptical does not use the treadmill.

So imagine my surprise today when I walk in and find her sprinting away on the one next to mine. Miss Elliptical on the treadmill? You have got to be kidding.

I've learned to keep my competitive edge in check these days, mostly because I can generally laugh in the face of the speedsters who race all out and are spent after the first 10 minutes. But Miss Elliptical didn't quit after 10 minutes, she kept sprinting away.

I tried to pretend that I didn't care. Never mind that I painfully forgot my ipod and had nothing better to do for 5 endlessly boring miles than try to sneak inconspicuous peeks at her odometer. I was cool, I was carefree, I was minding my own. Or not. All I could think about was how cute Miss Elliptical was kicking my butt.

Fast forward an hour, and I suddenly look up from my locker to hear Miss Elliptical asking if I speak English. Great, I'm thinking, she's not only just kicked my butt, now she's surely going to give me pointers on how to sweat less and smell like roses.

Miss Elliptical: "I was just wondering, do you run marathons or something? I was hoping you might be able to give me some pointers. I'm not a runner at all, but I have a bet with my family to finish my first half marathon, and I don't have a clue what I'm doing ..."

I almost burst out laughing. Me give the woman pointers? And all this time I thought she was the pro. (Come to find out, the front desk had helpfully suggested that "the best way to train is to run as fast as you can for as long as you can".) Talk about competitive edge.

Following a big slice of humble pie, Miss Elliptical and I are now on a whole new level of gym buddies now--we exchanged names.

Dear runner

Dear runner in the red shirt, black hat and yellow Asics:

You don't know me, but you made my day today. I've been, well, let's say slacking "slightly" in the running department as of late, but my new-found flab and the infamous Geneva winds finally got me out the door today. Notice I say "out the door" and not "out on a stellar run".

Fifteen minutes on the go and four ridiculously overplayed songs later, I was ready to call it quits. Half hour later, I was sweating buckets, turning purple as a prune and heaving like ... well, I don't even know a metaphor that compares.

But then I found you.

Calm, cool, collected and clearly no amateur, you reminded me of the lessons running once taught me - before I seem to have gone into running hibernation and forgotten them all.

You reminded me that life (and runs) are journeys to be savoured - not sped through. You reminded me that your own rythym is the only one that ever really matters. As I counted the beat of your steps and mine, you reminded me that all we really have to do is put one foot in front of the other. As we hit the one hour mark, you reminded me that running - like life - is 95% psychological, 5% physical. You reminded me of the power of running.

Maybe you knew I was behind you, and knew the favour you were doing me by serving as my pacer as I silently marked my pace in perfect synchronization with yours just 15 feet behind. Maybe,you were lost in your own runner's world where all of the day's problems are solved and never even noticed I was there.

Either way, dear runner, thanks. I'll be thinking of you ... most likely when I discover muscles I never knew I had and am repeating to myself "one foot in front of the other" as I attempt to climb the stairs tomorrow...

The one that got away

So I've been told about ten times in the last two days that I'm slacking in the blog department these days. I got it. I can take a hint. Problem is, we're now going on what, two weeks? where the "next" blog might fall into the category of "the one that got away"...

A few woulda been, coulda been blogs that have run through (and out) of my head over the last couple of weeks ...

• the total decimation of my prized, grown-from-seed basil plants by some very hungry, very naughty natural predator
• the joys of unexpectedly receiving a $500 check in the mail for energy you inadvertently saved through the winter months (joys made all that much sweeter when such a check arrives the same day you realise you quite literally have $9 - that's right N-I-N-E measly buckaroos to your name until payday ... still 12 days away)
  
• effective and little known strategies for dealing with surprisingly persistent peeping tom voyeurs
  
• philosophical ponderings of a book review on the deeply depressing, clearly highly symbolic and entirely over my head Ensayo sobre la ceguera. If anyone can give me a Cliff's Notes explaination of this one I'm ready and waiting.
• continued strange but true tales of "All in a day's walk". Today's winner? (As I walk by) highly intelligent gawker guy: "Hey woman. You looking for a husband? Oh, wait, you walk with too much confidence to be a real woman, you must be looking for a girlfriend". Um, right. Heaven forbid we ladies should ever "walk with confidence" - we just might deprive our inner feminity.
  
• ten reasons why I am now blogging away in complete and utter darkness-save for the glow of my screen-and having conniption fits about the bugs in my bed

But alas, with the recent job change and many a long day now spent designing websites, integrating blogging, Twitter, FB and all the other social networking sites, and writing everything under the sun from official statements and speeches, to press releases, funding appeals, project proposals ..... I think it's safe to say that my creative (and especially writing) needs are now quite satisfied for the moment in ways never before seen. Totally and utterly zapped to be quite honest. But what with vacation just around the corner ... perhaps the next blog will actually stay on the line.

"Trying" to be a professional singer

How can the day go wrong when you start it off with this?

With over 5 million You Tube views, I guess it's pretty much old news by now, but if you haven't already seen Simon and crew given the biggest dose of humble pie to date, this will be the best seven minutes of your day (unfortunately they won't allow you to embed the video here, so you'll have to follow the LINK TO HER FULL PERFORMANCE HERE.)

She's unemployed, "never married, never been kissed", and lives with her cat Pebbles, but this woman's a heck of a lot cooler than I'll ever be!

"I wanted to fulfill a wish to my mother that I wanted to do something with my life. Not only that, but I felt like I had a bit more to offer,'" she told Scottish TV's "Five-thirty" show. ... And on Easter Sunday, churchgoers showed their own appreciation by giving her a standing ovation when she got to Mass. "We let out a wee bit of a cheer for her," Boyle's parish priest, Ryszard Holuka, told The Washington Post. "We are quite proud of her."

P.S. Please note the contestant number-sticker cleverly stuck to her chest. Practical woman, I love it!

All in a day's walk

Considering that walking to work involves 3 miles of idyllic "European old town", tree-lined parks, a riverside and infamous Lake Geneva, complete with spouting fountain, my own two feet are generally the preferred mode of transportation. Next time I'm contemplating whether I'd really not rather sleep an extra half hour and take the tram, however, I'll have to remind myself of all the exciting things that I'd be missing - as per this evening's wander home:

100-odd aspiring runners

dozens of dads out playing with their kids

2 burka-clad bicyclists

4 Lamborghinis

1 tremendously well-dressed man-woman

3 joints worth of second-hand weed

90-odd super cool rollerbladers

4 jugglers

1 remote control airplane crash

3 teams of sparring jousters

And last, but not certainly not least,

1 well-groomed 50-year old man, squatting slightly, holding his pants up in one hand (though still well below the bum), a mini boom box in the other and ... clucking like a chicken.

Sir Daniels and the anonymous favourite neighbour

Never mind that it's only Tuesday, it's been a looonnnnggg week. In fact, I'm about THIS close to dubbing it the (a?) week from hell, while simultaneously chanting "And this, too, shall pass", "I love my job" "And this, too, shall pass", "I love my job", "And this, too, shall pass". In other words (reading between the lines) -- deadlines and politics (or politics and deadlines??). Gotta love 'em.... Especially when they leave you so brain dead that, in the absence of a warm body to cuddle up against at home while watching some odd stand-up comedy TV show to take your mind off it all, you desperately crave a stiff drink ... or two.

And so it was that, in an endeavour to find a mixing parter for my dear friend Jack D., I ended up making a visit to my favourite little "after-hours" convenience store around the corner. As much as I love the place (or more accurately the owner of the place), prices are decidedly steeper than "normal" stores and so, I do not generally go there often. Even so, the slick bun-bearing , charismatic Salvadoran owner always recognises me and is full of cheery conversation. While the first clue tonight may have been my walking straight past the obtrusive Coke machine and then asking if she had any Coke, she took one look at me and asked if it had been a long day - "You look tired, guapa", she said.

I've often thought of dropping off a batch or two of cookies for her during the holidays, just to say how much she brightens my days, but I haven't - yet. Funny thing is after two years and bunches of casual, friendly chats of differing depths and topics, I do not know her name. Quite frankly, I'm not any too convinced I want to know it. Somehow, in a weird sort of way, I enjoy things the way that they are ... a warm and friendly neighbour who, with a grandmother's wisdom, doesn't have to ask for the whole story, but rather can take one soul-searching look at a bottle of Coke, another look at me, and say with a reassuring smile and chuckle, "Don't worry guapa, the weekend's almost here!"

Buffalos, thunder and suicide bombs

You may need to brace yourself for this one, I know .... I have no photos from Sri Lanka. Zero, zilch, not a single one. Instead, they are all permanently ingrained in the singular confines of my memory, which is fine, except that while I usually let the pictures do the talking, you now have to put up with me doing it myself. So here goes:

One week in Sri Lanka according to my phone (received minute-by-minute via SMS thanks to the US govs travel registry, generally used for dangerous travel zones ...):

• "Ship taking food supplies to Mullaitivu, civilians come under LTTE artillery attack in Puthumatalan, no damages to ship"
• "Bomb blast in Akuressa near Matara"
• "More than four persons killed and several injured in bomb blast at a public function in Ajuressa"
• "Seven persons killed and several injured, including Minister M.W., says Minister F., adding that Minister A.A. was not injured in blast"
• "Army captures Puthukuddirippu hospital, restricting LTTE to 35 square kilometre area. Air craft tyres, engine, spare parts found buried"
• "Girl reported abuducted last week found dead in overtaken LTTE bunker"
• "Minister M.S. says strongly rejects comment by UN High Commissioner for Human Rights that 2,800 civilians killed since January 20"

One week in Sri Lanka according to my peepers, my schnoz and my belly:

• Arrive expecting something similiar to India. Not that I've ever been to India either, but I've heard enough from people who have to be stuck with the stereotype of crowded, chaotic, dirty, smelly ... The little that I saw of Sri Lanka hardly resembles anything of the sort ... and the locals will be just as quick as you to stereotype India using the abovementioned adjectives.

• Humidity. Stifling humidity. At one point I walked out of my (A/C equipped) room and honestly thought that someone had just finished taking a hot shower in the adjacent bathroom. Took me about 3 minutes to figure out that was just the air.

• Thunder, lightening, tropical rain. The kind that is warm and fun to run down the street in. Except that you see the lightening at the exact same time as the thunder practically blows the windows out and you realise that might not be such a good idea. They call this rain season. Every single day.

• Yasumiri. My latest adoptive grandmother, tasked by the big boss with cooking meals for me. All day, every day. Picture Christmas/Thanksgiving feast every meal of every day for a week. Now recall that at Sri Lankan breakfast time, it is approximately 3AM according to my body clock, meaning that I have absolutely NO appetite whatsoever. No matter. My Sinhalese vocabulary includes about 2 words, and her English vocabulary included all of "EAT, Alanna Miss, EAT!!", immediately followed by ginormous second and third servings plopped before your fooded-out eyes.

• The sweat of spice. Yasumiri was not just my cook, she was my secret culinary bodyguard. Little did I know she was protecting me from all spices harmful until we had a "real" Sri Lankan meal. Take a minute and conjure up an image of a pro-basketball player post-game - that was just about precisely the state of my face.

• Buffalo. They're big, they're slow and when they want to cross the road, you just wait for them and their curly horns to get a move on ... or, if you're feeling particularly brave, you drive through them.

• Oh, yeah, we're in a war zone. Despite the trip's objective being work related, I'm sent (conscientiously) on a tourist visa. Day before leaving, get panicked call from Sri Lankan colleague saying the another very prominent NGO person was kicked out for having been working there on a tourist visa only - fan-freaking-tastic. So what do they decide to do? Tell me to "dress like a tourist", i.e. ditch the suitcase for a backpack, wear flip-flops and carry a guidebook. Not matter that my bag is bursting at the seams with a laptop and every kind of paper you can imagine with European Commission and UN letterhead and research on Sri Lanka ...and no matter that every mandatory stop-and-search at military check-point conveniently placed every 10 kilometres had me quickly trained as pro in the fine art of frantically stashing everything under the seat and then casually batting those long lashes. Even if their sandbag and lop-sided corrogated aluminum roof bunkers did look like something off of Gulligan's island, I didn't particularly care to test them ...

• Feet of iron. Or so I tried to tell myself. I understand that shoes may not be allowed in Buddhist temples, but no shoes anywhere in the vicinity?? Imagine parking half a mile away from the temple in a GRAVEL parking lot in 90 degree sun and being told that you have to leave your shoes in the car. Smile and nod, my dear! You're really feeling like the weakling white Westerner as you notice no one else seems the least bit bothered by this act of self-inflicting torture and thus suck it up best you can, concluding that walking on burning coals can't be that bad after all.

And that, my dears, was the little I saw of Sri Lanka amidst piles and piles of work ...

Master of the eyebrow raise

If I may be forgiven for saying so, the vast majority of Rwandans we met along the way were not your most outwardly cheery, openly friendly bunch. Curious, yes. Initially very serious, yes. Smiley, no.

It should be said that this heinously overgeneralized statement of observation does not, for the most part, include kids, who showed no fear, chasing us down the street screaming "MUSUNGU!! MUSUNGU!!" (White people, white people!), or "Bon joour!" or "Teacher!!" I have to give them credit for entirely cornering me between the brick walls of the church as well, until I finally figured out that I might be able to make my escape if I were sure to shake every single child's hand, greeting them individually (such are the importance of greetings in Rwanda ...)

But the adults, now that's another story. When I commented as much to our host, he responded only that many of them had "seen far too much suffering in their lives; it's all they can do now to put one foot in front of the other, let alone be especially friendly to every person they pass".

Not having been instructed in the propers of Rwandan greetings, however, I struggled painfully to observe those around us. Far more intricate than a simple, firm American right-handed handshake, Spanish two cheek kisses or even Swiss three cheek kisses, I thought I finally figured out that you have several options in Rwanda.

First, you have what I will somewhat insensitively call the "head banger". This involves: first knocking heads (not cheeks!) together on the right side, then left, then right again, followed by a good solid right hand slap-shake (imagine high-five captured mid-swing into handshake).

Or you could go with the "triple pat": Extend arms towards person to be greeted, pat three times just above elbows, then proceed into right hand slap-shake, as described above.

Or you could go quite simply with the right hand slap-shake, omitting all of the above described.

Problem was, there seemed to be some unwritten protocol to knowing when to use each method - and I never quite deciphered the code. But then, I had a moment of enlightenment.

Observing those around me, I discovered the eyebrow raise. No, it wasn't just a fleeting vision, I suddenly realized that the secret to getting the somber faces I met along the road to smile in greeting was all in the eyebrows. There is a technique to be had, for sure, requiring a quick eyebrow raise (including whole forehead, if possible), together with a slight head tip-back. I stood in the bathroom practising this technique for a bit, then took it to the streets.

As if by magic, people's eyebrows were greeting me back! A twinkle would appear in their eyes and, nine times out of ten, a friendly smile and hand wave (think the "how" sign/hand raise). If ever there were a break through in cultural barriers, this was it.

I, am Master of the Eyebrow Raise.

Only problem now is to get myself out of the habit of doing it around Geneva. Got an eyebrow raise back in return along the road to work this morning, but somehow it just wasn't quite the "right" kind of eyebrow raise I was looking for ...

At a loss for words

Actually, that's a complete and utter lie. I'm not at a loss for words at all regarding our trip to Rwanda; I'm buried under a mountain of them and don't know quite where to start.

I could start with the news articles that were coming out just days before our departure, with titles ranging from "Rwanda stirs deadly brew of trouble in Congo", to "At least 1,500 Rwandan troops enter Eastern Congo" or "Militias in Congo tied to Rwanda and government". Or with our encounter with a "brother" of a friend not but 12 hours after our arrival who happened to be a General in the Rwandan army who, when asked about the joint Congolese-Rwandan mission to oust the rebel militia in Congo, replied with great enthusiasm "Oh, yes! I just got back from supervising the troops all last night! It's only half hour from here by helicopter; the mission is going well". The next day, as we bounced along Rwandan back roads, we heard over a crackling radio that one of the Congolese rebel leaders "who once seemed untouchable" was arrested by the joint Congolese-Rwandan mission.

But such stories - for as true as they may be - seem to represent only what the outside world wants to see of Rwanda. As one Rwandan newspaper journalist wrote when one famous celebrity decided to give birth in Namibia: "Like me, you must be wondering why Namibia and not Rwanda, for instance? Let us consider the facts. Namibia is a hopeless banana republic famous mainly for its empty spaces and large Kalahari Desert and backward bushmen, right? On the other hand, Rwanda is a beautiful, lush, evergreen country with flowing hills and valleys, which is known for, mmm ... er, so sorry to break this to you, but Rwanda is famous for just one thing, genocide".

That the country and its people have been deeply scarred by the horrific events of the past is undisputable (over dinner just hours after our arrival, our generous host - a priest - confides: "I know this sounds a little pagan, but sometimes I pray that God would just kill everyone over the age of 15 so we could start all over again without embedded ideologies"), but Rwanda - and the Rwandans - deserve a reputation much greater than that of a violent past - they deserve media attention that more accurately depicts both the country and the people as a phoenix bird, rising from the ashes of the past in a most awe-inspiring way.

I could start with my sheer amazement of seeing a country so alive - nothing of sitting around, lacking of things to do. Nothing of street side beggars asking for a coin or two (you'll see more of those in uber-riche Geneva than Rwanda). The country is alive with people working, building, walking, transporting, studying ... Rwanda's not waiting around for anyone to pick her up and carry her forward; she's doing that for herself.

I could start with the national highways, which are perfectly paved, perfectly painted and with perfect, wide shoulders - as good or better than any you'll see in the States.

I could start with the stunningly lush green hills that look too surreal to be real; the fields of banana and corn plantations; the hills that are so alive with people walking, biking, running from one destination to the next that it looks like a nest of busy human ants.

I could start with the "szzwweeerrrpping" sound of the generator shutting off for the day: only 2 percent of the country has any electricity at all.

I could start with the sweeping changes taking place: policies banning plastic bags, encouraging families to limit themselves to three children, setting the minimum age to marry at 21, making English the official language by 2010.

I could start with the "surreal-ity" of stepping off the plane with only one hour time difference and being in a whole 'nother world. When going to/from Asia or the Americas, somehow it feels a tad more "acceptable" for their to be such striking differences - after all, you're half a world away. But Africa to Europe? It's like walking through the threshold of a doorway ... but not quite understanding how a single step could have possibly brought you to such a different place.

But this does not describe the people, the drive, the resolution for the future, which, unspoken as it may be, is as powerful, and as unique as that found anywhere in the world.

And so, at a loss for words, I leave you for the moment with PHOTOS and a request to disregard - if but for a moment - the international news stories "representing" Rwanda, trusting that, before long, the words finally will come.

Dear voyeur...

To the gardener who watches me from the rooftop garden at the hospital every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday morning:

YOU ARE A SLEAZY LITTLE PIECE OF SLIME!

Perhaps you are attracted to my abundant terrace gardens (the only ones in my building) and thus think we perhaps have something in common, but let me assure you, we do not.

While you seem to find great pleasure in watching me in the mornings, I detest you and, correspondingly, I now detest Monday, Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I remember our "first encounter", when the weather finally turned summer-like and I blissfully settled in to have breakfast on the balcony in my pajamas, only to find you blatantly staring at me.

I thought perhaps I was imagining things; you surely wouldn't be so lame as to watch people's every morning move, are you? Apparently you are.

Yes, I see you duck behind the bushes when I look over my shoulder. And yes, I am slamming the curtain shut because of you. Yes, I notice how you make sure to be "pruning" the bushes directly in front of my apartment at the same time every day. Can the same bush possibly need pruning every day?? I think not.

Because of you, dear voyeur, I cannot enjoy breakfast on my sunny, flowery balcony. Because of you, I cannot enjoy getting ready in the morning with the windows and curtains open, letting in fresh air and the first morning rays of sunshine; not because I am in an "indecent" state, but because it gives me the creeps knowing that you are watching my every move.

When Marcel is here, he makes a point to linger around the windows and eat breakfast on the balcony ... anything to suggest to you that I am not available to you as your suckling prey. Oddly enough, I don't see you on these days. Is it because he scares you off, or have our offensive tactics merely been poorly timed on days when you are not around?

Whatever the case, BUG the *%"?! OFF. The dozens of other people who use the rooftop gardens daily seem to be able to enjoy their beauty without depriving me of my ability to enjoy my peace and quiet ... it's about damn time that you learn to do the same.