A month ago, it was routine for me to wonder how closely the color of my bath would resemble my morning cup of tea, and whether I would emerge feeling more or less dirty. Life has changed since then. Obviously, it was important that I find myself a new location and start making money (which makes me squirm with displeasure, but what can you do? It's a workaday world.) So I decided on my most exciting, most exotic location yet... Pittsburgh.
Don't think I don't see that expression on your face. Before you settle into much-deserved Irene-mockage, hear me out. In my defense, Pittsburgh is a place I've never lived. It has plenty of job opportunities, especially with the student population shooed away for the summer. It's one of the safer, cleaner cities, and has a youth culture. Plus, it's not such a big city that I'd feel swallowed, like New York. But Pittsburgh's most important asset for me just graduated from law school- a roommate.
Everyone runs out of social juice at some point, don't they? For some people, it's like orange juice, and they always seem to have another bottle stashed away in a back room. For others, it might be more gauva or strawberry juice- in short supply, and quick to run out. After four years of living with strangers and making new friends every six months, I hope anyone's juice fridge would be empty. Not that I refuse to make any new friends in Pittsburgh- quite the opposite, in fact- but I need to spend time with at least one person who already knows all my stories and quirks, and who can tell when I'm indulging my flaws- and won't hesitate to swat me for it. I turned to Amy, my roomie from Kenyon, with whom I lived for three glorious semesters- semesters chockful of giant cookie runs, hot chocolate spiked with Bailey's, and impromptu dorm room dance parties.
Plus, she knows how to conjugate the verb "to defame." I trust you can see all the obvious advantages.
We haven't christened our sublet yet, but we're already very attached to it. The shower water is clear and always hot, all the appliances work, and there are no roosters as far as the ear can hear. The actual renters may return to find themselves barricaded out. My job for the summer shall be to mass allies for support in the inevitable Siege of the Shadyside Sublet. Watch the news in three months. I'll be the one in the dented helmet, shaking a machete.
The job search is officially on. Amy disappears routinely, being married to her Bar Exam preparations, and, being a fiesty wench, having a boy toy on the side. I figure it's good for me, because it forces me to look for jobs. Anything will do, possibly two anythings, depending on the hours and wages offered. If I know the patterns of my life at all, I'll be doing something totally new, for which I feel woefully unprepared. But I'm not too worried, because so far those situations seem to agree with me.
The biggest downfall of the Pittsburgh situation is the lack of a fuzzy critter in my life. At Skunk Hollow there was Ivanhoe, and at Bally Vaughan I could always rely on one of the two cats to park its pointedly-purring self on my chest or the keyboard, and rubbing a donkey's ears was an ever-present possibility as a short break from work. Here I depend on indulgent passers-by with dogs. Then there are those "Well that used to be a squirrel" moments...
More on life in Pittsburgh later. I'll do my best to make my existence here as exciting as it was in Africa. Shouldn't be too hard- it's Pittsburgh, after all..?
Friday, May 28, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Home is Where the Duffel Is
This morning, during a caffeine-induced fit of kitchen-cleaning, it started to sink in what being back in the US actually means for me. We're in for some soul-searching. But not right now, you'll be grateful to hear! I owe you Part 2 of my final days in Africa, which has the added advantage of keeping my mind away from the real world.
Among the stories from the last entry, this one should have appeared- probably in the "Biting Back" section. Sheila the yellow baboon was hand-raised at Bally Vaughan, and lives with Babu and Lois, two other females. One day, she reached gray, leathery hands through the fence to me. I'd seen her do this once before, to the man who had brought her to the sanctuary years ago. I went to the fence, and after playing with me hands for short while, she reached a little farther. She snatched the neck of my t-shirt and yanked.
Baboons are fucking strong. I'm still amazed that I braced myself fast enough and hard enough that she didn't get me against the fence. Had to be adrenaline. She kept pulling, while Babu and Lois cavorted and shrieked around her. Still bracing myself and struggling, I was staring into her eyes (brown) which plainly and calmly said "Sucker". It was my shirt that gave way in the end, and Sheila darted around the enclosure, loudly celebating her scrap of red cotton/polyester blend.
Don't ever fall for this. She really could have mauled my face if she had pulled me close enough. Mob mentality, you know.
My two projects as I got ready to leave Zimbabwe were redoing the branches in the parrots' enclosure and removing the chicken wire roof of an old owl aviary. The branches I enjoyed, more or less- I get to play with an axe, I get to play with my leatherman, and as long as I dodge the nippy cockatoo, taking out the rotten, parrot-chewed branches and replacing them with new ones is quite satisfying. The owl aviary roof was a different story- I realized early on that it was NOT a one-person job, but I didn't want to take the staff away from building Getty's and Tarzan's extension, so I decided I'd just sing out if I hit a block I couldn't get around. That moment never came. Frustrating moments, for sure, and angry moments (at one point, I pulled off my bandanna and stamped on it, evidently channeling a cartoon... It's not as satisfying as it looks) but I managed the whole thing on my own. Moments that will stick in my head include clambering from the top of the ladder into a tree to reach the highest wire, chopping branches free while ant larvae rained down on my head, and moving carefully onto branches which overhung the stream, so I could disentangle saplings from the wire. My favorite memory, of course, will be when the left half of the ladder sank deep into the mud, causing the ladder to fall over while I was at the top. In order not to land under the heavy metal frame, I had to abandon ship and wrap myself around one of the poles supporting the wire, a fair distance above the ground. In shimmying down, I discovered a number of nails and splinters sticking out.
But this task eventually got done- the wire scratches stopped bleeding, I washed the larvae out of my hair, dusted off the abused bandanna, and packed my bags to go home.
Over the final few days, I took a small revenge for morning after morning of 2am wake-ups. To whit, I granted myself unlimited rooster-chasing privileges. It was glorious. Highly recommended.
The journey was so beautifully set up, when I originally ordered my plane tickets. No long layovers, not too many stops, and the whole thing would only take about 36 hours. The prices weren't even as bad as I had expected. One small complication was that I'd ordered my overseas tickets from Orbitz, which doesn't acknowledge places like Harare, so my first ticket would have to be ordered separately. No problem- I'd found an inexpensive (comparatively) ticket to Johannesburg, arriving seven hours before my first longer-distance flight.
Wrong. Somehow, in checking ticket prices on surrounding days, I'd managed to order my Harare ticket a day early. Instead of seven hours, which would have given me comfortable time to take my bags through customs, chill out, then check back in, my Jo-burg layover was now 32 hours. Oh no? Oh. Yes. At least I didn't order it a day late. I'm dumb enough.
Somehow I got through it without losing my mind. Parked my big backpack in a baggage lock-up to spare my shoulders, slept in the terminal, and entertained myself with reading, writing, some controlled shopping, and people-watching. I was positively giddy when the flight finally boarded. It was much easier to entertain myself on the plane, what with the personalized movie selection that these new-fangled contraptions now supply. I introduced myself to Sherlock Holmes (how unnerving to hear Rachel McAdams hailed by my own name) and to those computer-animated blue people that everyone is so obsessed with nowadays.
The funny thing about those long flights and layovers is that even though at the time they seemed interminable, afterwards you remember nothing about them. Why? Because you were bored. Or your mind was turned off by the glowing screen. None of those moments were worth recording, not in my head, and not in my blog. The only thing I feel obliged to talk about was my impressions of the USA, when I arrived in Washington Dulles Airport.
Well, first of all, SO many of the faces were white. I blended in. How odd. No cries of "Mzungu!" or "Sistah!" (this was actually a relief) Not only this, but everyone was speaking english. Suddenly, I could understand all the conversations around me. Bloody distracting. I wanted them to go back to Swahili and Shona, because I simply couldn't concentrate with my own language going on around me. Other little things kept giving me double-takes: recycling bins! Climate control in common houses! Electronics and wireless internet everywhere you turn, and no thatched mud houses anywhere. Everything is brightly and neatly packaged, and covered in advertising. People working in stores and restaurants are determinedly friendly, and you can control every detail of your food and drink- there's always a fat-free option. And none of it is maize meal.
I've been in my mom's house for several quiet days now, reuniting myself with ice cream, pizza, and Ivanhoe. I believe the feeling is slowly returning to the numb patch of my donkey-nibbled finger. The pictures from my disposable cameras are sad, stunted things. Like those frogs exposed to radiation, who have extra legs? Half of them didn't come out at all. I'll ask my friends to send others.
Congrats to my Aunt Sharie Geiss, now Sharie Kreilein, who was married while I was in Zimbabwe- the dress was gorgeous, she looked great, and I'm so happy that after all she's been through, she and Phil found each other! They deserve fresh cookies and tall glasses of milk. I'm only sorry that I couldn't be there, but hopefully soon I'll be able to visit! There are a number of visits I'm hoping to make soon.
I don't know where Home is. I have a lot of them, and if you read this rag, it's likely that you're connected to one. Stay tuned for my next step, and I'll watch for yours. Go get a cookie. I like oatmeal chocolate chip, but whatever grates your cheese.
Among the stories from the last entry, this one should have appeared- probably in the "Biting Back" section. Sheila the yellow baboon was hand-raised at Bally Vaughan, and lives with Babu and Lois, two other females. One day, she reached gray, leathery hands through the fence to me. I'd seen her do this once before, to the man who had brought her to the sanctuary years ago. I went to the fence, and after playing with me hands for short while, she reached a little farther. She snatched the neck of my t-shirt and yanked.
Baboons are fucking strong. I'm still amazed that I braced myself fast enough and hard enough that she didn't get me against the fence. Had to be adrenaline. She kept pulling, while Babu and Lois cavorted and shrieked around her. Still bracing myself and struggling, I was staring into her eyes (brown) which plainly and calmly said "Sucker". It was my shirt that gave way in the end, and Sheila darted around the enclosure, loudly celebating her scrap of red cotton/polyester blend.
Don't ever fall for this. She really could have mauled my face if she had pulled me close enough. Mob mentality, you know.
My two projects as I got ready to leave Zimbabwe were redoing the branches in the parrots' enclosure and removing the chicken wire roof of an old owl aviary. The branches I enjoyed, more or less- I get to play with an axe, I get to play with my leatherman, and as long as I dodge the nippy cockatoo, taking out the rotten, parrot-chewed branches and replacing them with new ones is quite satisfying. The owl aviary roof was a different story- I realized early on that it was NOT a one-person job, but I didn't want to take the staff away from building Getty's and Tarzan's extension, so I decided I'd just sing out if I hit a block I couldn't get around. That moment never came. Frustrating moments, for sure, and angry moments (at one point, I pulled off my bandanna and stamped on it, evidently channeling a cartoon... It's not as satisfying as it looks) but I managed the whole thing on my own. Moments that will stick in my head include clambering from the top of the ladder into a tree to reach the highest wire, chopping branches free while ant larvae rained down on my head, and moving carefully onto branches which overhung the stream, so I could disentangle saplings from the wire. My favorite memory, of course, will be when the left half of the ladder sank deep into the mud, causing the ladder to fall over while I was at the top. In order not to land under the heavy metal frame, I had to abandon ship and wrap myself around one of the poles supporting the wire, a fair distance above the ground. In shimmying down, I discovered a number of nails and splinters sticking out.
But this task eventually got done- the wire scratches stopped bleeding, I washed the larvae out of my hair, dusted off the abused bandanna, and packed my bags to go home.
Over the final few days, I took a small revenge for morning after morning of 2am wake-ups. To whit, I granted myself unlimited rooster-chasing privileges. It was glorious. Highly recommended.
The journey was so beautifully set up, when I originally ordered my plane tickets. No long layovers, not too many stops, and the whole thing would only take about 36 hours. The prices weren't even as bad as I had expected. One small complication was that I'd ordered my overseas tickets from Orbitz, which doesn't acknowledge places like Harare, so my first ticket would have to be ordered separately. No problem- I'd found an inexpensive (comparatively) ticket to Johannesburg, arriving seven hours before my first longer-distance flight.
Wrong. Somehow, in checking ticket prices on surrounding days, I'd managed to order my Harare ticket a day early. Instead of seven hours, which would have given me comfortable time to take my bags through customs, chill out, then check back in, my Jo-burg layover was now 32 hours. Oh no? Oh. Yes. At least I didn't order it a day late. I'm dumb enough.
Somehow I got through it without losing my mind. Parked my big backpack in a baggage lock-up to spare my shoulders, slept in the terminal, and entertained myself with reading, writing, some controlled shopping, and people-watching. I was positively giddy when the flight finally boarded. It was much easier to entertain myself on the plane, what with the personalized movie selection that these new-fangled contraptions now supply. I introduced myself to Sherlock Holmes (how unnerving to hear Rachel McAdams hailed by my own name) and to those computer-animated blue people that everyone is so obsessed with nowadays.
The funny thing about those long flights and layovers is that even though at the time they seemed interminable, afterwards you remember nothing about them. Why? Because you were bored. Or your mind was turned off by the glowing screen. None of those moments were worth recording, not in my head, and not in my blog. The only thing I feel obliged to talk about was my impressions of the USA, when I arrived in Washington Dulles Airport.
Well, first of all, SO many of the faces were white. I blended in. How odd. No cries of "Mzungu!" or "Sistah!" (this was actually a relief) Not only this, but everyone was speaking english. Suddenly, I could understand all the conversations around me. Bloody distracting. I wanted them to go back to Swahili and Shona, because I simply couldn't concentrate with my own language going on around me. Other little things kept giving me double-takes: recycling bins! Climate control in common houses! Electronics and wireless internet everywhere you turn, and no thatched mud houses anywhere. Everything is brightly and neatly packaged, and covered in advertising. People working in stores and restaurants are determinedly friendly, and you can control every detail of your food and drink- there's always a fat-free option. And none of it is maize meal.
I've been in my mom's house for several quiet days now, reuniting myself with ice cream, pizza, and Ivanhoe. I believe the feeling is slowly returning to the numb patch of my donkey-nibbled finger. The pictures from my disposable cameras are sad, stunted things. Like those frogs exposed to radiation, who have extra legs? Half of them didn't come out at all. I'll ask my friends to send others.
Congrats to my Aunt Sharie Geiss, now Sharie Kreilein, who was married while I was in Zimbabwe- the dress was gorgeous, she looked great, and I'm so happy that after all she's been through, she and Phil found each other! They deserve fresh cookies and tall glasses of milk. I'm only sorry that I couldn't be there, but hopefully soon I'll be able to visit! There are a number of visits I'm hoping to make soon.
I don't know where Home is. I have a lot of them, and if you read this rag, it's likely that you're connected to one. Stay tuned for my next step, and I'll watch for yours. Go get a cookie. I like oatmeal chocolate chip, but whatever grates your cheese.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)