50 Two Cents

Challenge 50: Learn to Sing, Sing Karaoke

2011-06-07T15:27:00.000-07:00

“So… you’re more of a performer, instead of a singer.” I had just finished my song and my brother Pat was trying to be supportive. My performance at karaoke on Wednesday night left much to be desired and while I can partially blame this on biology, my dedication (or lack thereof) also had a hand in it.

In the spirit of honesty, I must say that I was not a very good student during my week of singing lessons. After my second lesson, there was a three-day break before I saw Celeste again, and the only thing she asked of me was to practice my singing exercises for 20 minutes a day and to sing along to my chosen karaoke song once or twice.

This doesn’t sound like a huge time investment, and it wasn’t, but I still couldn’t bring myself to do it. On Wednesday and Thursday, I was working and visiting a friend in Los Angeles, and on Friday, I was so tired that the only sounds coming from my throat were rodent-like squeaks. My friend would have been more than supportive of my practicing at her apartment, in fact, she probably would have enjoyed it, but I was too embarrassed to sing in front of anyone.

“What song are you singing?”

“’I Take My Chances,’ by Mary Chapin Carpenter.”

“I don’t think I know it, can you sing a little bit of it?”

I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to sing the first stanza, but the nerves took hold of my vocal chords and did not allow a single note to escape.

“How about I just play it for you?”

“Um, ok?” She was confused, and rightfully so—how was I going to sing in front of a crowd at karaoke if I couldn’t sing in front of her?

I didn’t feel very good about my impending “performance,” as Celeste kept calling it, but that didn’t stop me from lying to her through a gritted smile when I walked into my lesson on Saturday.

“Oh yea, everything’s going really well.”

“Good. And did you practice your exercises?” Her voice was so sing-songy, I half-expected Disney characters to start twittering from her closet.

“Uh, yea.” That was convincing.

“Ok, good!”

“Well, actually, my throat hurt on Wednesday, but I practiced the other two days.” Shut up; you’re giving too much detail. She’s going to know that you’re lying and then she’s going think you’re a bad student, and then she’s going to think you’re a bad person who will never sing a note worthy of human ears.

Yes, I am really this neurotic sometimes.

The first vocal exercise on Saturday was designed to get into my “head voice”. These are the softer, prettier, kind of whispering notes that fall like petals in the air. According to Celeste, I have an affinity for the more brassy notes from the chest.

“Follow me, and sing all of this in one breath. Ne ne ne ne ne ne, ni ni ni ni ni ni ni, na na na na na na na na.”

All I could do was stare at her—I didn’t know how to say all of that in one breath, let alone sing it in a moderately pleasant “head voice.”

“Ready?” She tapped the piano key and I tried to follow her lead.

“Stay on top of it.” I tried again, this time an octave higher.

“Good, going up.” Again she played, and again I tried to stay on top of the notes. As we moved up and down the scale, I realized I had a tendency to do the vocal equivalent of slouching. I would kind of slide and sink into the notes, singing slightly below where I should instead of using my diaphragm, opening my throat and projecting clearly. When I stood up a little straighter, engaged my abs, and actually acted like I was singing, I sounded pretty good.

We practiced singing, “I Take My Chances,” a few times with the karaoke version of the song, then she made me practice, “Bubbly,” by Colbie Caillet. For some reason she really wanted me to sing this song and kept mentioning it as a possible back up. I, unfortunately, hate this song, so I kept deflecting.

She wouldn’t let it go so the first time through I did the most passive aggressive thing I could think of and sang glaringly off-key. Her eyes kept squinting and the ear closest to me moved erratically toward her shoulder and by the end of the song; the “Bubbly” discussion was put to rest.

My last lesson was more about “the performance.” I really wanted her to stop calling it that, but she insisted. We went through, “I Take My Chances,” a few times, then “I Feel Lucky,” also by Mary Chapin Carpenter, and by the time she shooed me out of her house she felt I was ready.

“You’re better than the average karaoke person, so I think you’ll do just fine. Also, let me know if you want to continue with singing, I think you could be really good at it.” Yea, I’ll bet. At $55/hour, you better keep blowing that sunshine.

There was another two-day gap between my final lesson and karaoke night, and much to my surprise, I actually practiced. There’s a thing that happens to me when I haven’t tried very hard for something. I’ll slack off for the first 80-90% of preparation, and then it comes down to crunch time and for some reason, I all of a sudden kick into high gear. It’s like I don’t care until I realize there’s a chance I won’t be good at something, and then I’ll throw everything I have at whatever it is I’m trying to do.

I think this will always be a part of my personality. I will always want to do well; I will always want to exceed expectations, I will always want to win. Failure is not an option.

Well, the one thing this challenge taught me is that it is ok not to be good everything. Not that I’m good at everything… but you know what I’m saying.

On Wednesday, the day of the “performance,” I had to drive up to LA again and I must have practiced singing my song for an hour on the way home. I felt like I was starting to sound somewhat acceptable, so I wanted to keep going, I wanted to get even better… but then I went too far. Somewhere around San Onofre my throat started to scratch and my voice was not as clear.

Crap. I immediately stopped making any audible noise, chugged water and prayed.

“Please, please, please don’t let me sound like crap tonight.”

As the drive continued, my throat started to hurt and my expectations began to sink. By the time I walked into Jimmy O’s that night, my nerves were in full force and my prayers became more ardent. It was the bar’s 11th anniversary so there was a long table filled with food, a table with free champagne, and perhaps the most eclectic collection of people ever seen together in Del Mar. Local teenagers inhabited one table, at another were their cousins from East County, their grandfathers were across the room, and their grandfathers’ future wives slithered between them.

I grabbed a glass of shitty champagne, found my friend Julia, and tried to calm the shakes that had taken over my hands. My throat felt scratchy (the champagne wasn’t helping) and I started to feel badly that people were coming to see me. My brother and his fiancé were on their way from PB, our friend Heather was coming from Leucadia, Julia had planned her dinner date around this—what if I really sucked? Would they be disappointed they’d made the effort?

I ordered a beer and tried to take my mind off singing by making fun of the people around us. Luckily, there was a haggard couple at the corner of the bar, flailing to different songs while trying to keep each other upright, so there was much to draw from.

Two beers and an eternity of snarky remarks later, the DJ finally announced the start of karaoke.

“I always start with a ballad. I don’t know why, but I do,” said the first singer as he took the stage. Ok buddy.

His song was a bit depressing and as it progressed, I realized the music and crowd were so loud, I couldn’t hear him unless he was practically screaming into the microphone.

“Crap.”

“What?”

“I think I need to change my song.”

“Why? Are you comfortable doing that?” Kylie, my brother’s fiancé looked very concerned.

“It’s just too loud in here. I sing, ‘I Take My Chances,’ kind of softly; I don’t think you’ll be able to hear me.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

I thought about it for another minute and then by the time a washed-up surfer finished molesting the microphone to “Smoke on the Water,” by Deep Purple, I was out of my seat and beside the DJ booth changing my song to “I Feel Lucky.”

I felt good about my decision. And as Marilyn Manson’s third cousin began to sing a thinly veiled ode to heroine, I felt even better—at least my song would be upbeat. Jesus people, life isn’t that bad.

By the time the DJ finally called my name, everyone at our table was about to slit their wrists. I marched on stage, took hold of the microphone, and struggled through the only country song to ever be sung at Jimmy O’s karaoke. To my surprise, my support from the audience extended beyond my cohorts and I got a few cheers whenever I actually hit a note. I’m not going to say I did well, but I did it, and I walked off the stage a little taller than when I walked on.

After my performance we were entertained by a slight, almost golem-looking singer who had one of the highest voices I’ve ever heard on a male. He sang “Bad Romance,” by Lady Gaga and as the words lurched from his mouth, he folded his body around the microphone like he was auditioning to be one of her monsters. It was disturbing and perfect and definitely the highlight of the night.

I’m glad I saved this challenge for last because it did more than any other to make me comfortable in my skin. In every other endeavor, I was able to stretch my given talent so that I was passable. Even after my five minutes of stand-up comedy, I walked away with the feeling of, “I could do that.” This time, that was not the case. I have included the video below, and my friends will tell you (in front of me) that I did well, but I know that there is no way that a singing career is anywhere in my future.

In closing, I would like to thank everyone who gave me a challenge, who completed a challenge with me, or who supported me through the process. I also want to send love to everyone who reads this blog. I’m in the process of turning this into a book, so stay tuned, and in the meantime, I’m starting a new blog on my new website... http://www.writerlauren.com/. It’s titled “A Funny Thing Happened,” and every day I promise to tell you funny stories, share funny videos, and encourage you to post their own.

Till next time; much love.

Challenge 50: Learn to Sing, Sing at Karaoke

2011-05-23T14:30:00.000-07:00

Making a Silk Purse out of a Sow's Ear

Have you ever heard a dying seal gasping for its last breaths? How about a burlap-wrapped cat being flung against a wall? No? Well, let me introduce to my singing voice.

I am not what most people would call “musical”. I cannot read sheet music, play an instrument, or recognize pitch unless the singer is so far off-key, every dog within a three-mile radius starts howling. I can dance, but unless I’m lip-syncing to Brittany Spears, that’s not going to help me much with this challenge. My saving grace is that I am well-aware of my voice limitations, so I will not be choosing Celine Dion as my karaoke song.

To help with the seemingly insurmountable challenge of learning how to sing, I enlisted the help of San Diego-based voice coach, Celeste. I booked four lessons this week and started my vocal journey this morning.

She recommended that I a) choose a song I would like to sing and b) bring the lyrics. Since I have a difficult time following directions, I brought a CD with nine songs I thought I could sing, and no lyrics.

“Oh, ok,” Celeste was sweet in trying to hide her mild frustration.

I could tell she was a little confused as to why anyone would want to take lessons for karaoke, so I tried to explain my blog, but that seemed to confuse her further. To avoid any further awkwardness, we got right into the lesson.

We did a few warm-up exercises after which she told me I was a soprano (never would have guessed that), and that a singer’s range is determined by the structure of their vocal chords.

Apparently, if your vocal chords are tight, you have a higher voice and have limited range in the lower octaves because your vocal chords can only stretch so far. But if they’re looser, you have a greater capacity for range because you can do voice exercises to tighten them up. As was exhibited when I tried to sing Bon Jovi, my chords are tight.

Celeste was very complimentary during the warm-up (probably because I was paying her), which helped because she kept making me sing higher and higher notes, to the point where I was literally screeching. The sound was appalling and I have no idea how she could stand it.

After a few laughing spells and self-deprecating remarks, she told me, “You actually have a nice little voice in there; we just need to get it out.” Right.

We moved on from the voice warm-ups to singing the songs I brought. Our first try was “I Do,” by Colbie Caillat, but unfortunately I only know the “I do,” part of the song... and I didn’t bring the lyrics, so that was a nonstarter. Then we tried, “(You Want to) Make a Memory,” by Bon Jovi and my voice couldn’t even scratch the surface of his baritone.

This bummed me out a little because I have always envisioned the two of us, side-by-side on stage, sharing a microphone, both wearing leather pants...I guess I can finally put that dream to rest.

Our third attempt at musical greatness was “Right in Time,” by Lucinda Williams, which, to the surprise of both Celeste and me, actually worked out ok.

“I’m just surprised at how low all of these songs go.”

“I know, I think in my head, my voice is lower than it actually is, and I assumed these would be easier for me to sing.”

“Well, we speak at the bottom of our range, so just because you speak at a certain level, doesn’t mean you should sing at that level.”

“Gotcha.”

Our last attempt was, “Conditional,” by Tracy Chapman, which was again, too low for my vocal chords.

“Any suggestions?”

“I think Colbie Caillat is actually a good singer for you, and maybe Lucinda Williams, if the karaoke place has the song. But I would check first, you don’t want to practice a song and then not be able to sing it.”

“What about Sara Bareilles?”

“Yea, she’s actually a really good vocalist.”

“Oh.”

“She’s not Celine Dion, and I’m not saying you couldn’t get there, just not in a week. I think stick with Colbie Caillat, or even try Patsy Cline or Mary Chapin Carpenter.”

“Got it. Any other tips?”

“Practice your voice lessons and sing along to your songs.”

For the last hour, I’ve been searching for songs I could sing and lyrics I liked, and I think I might have a winner. We’ll just have to see if Celeste approves.

Challenge 49: Participate in a Protest

2011-05-10T14:21:00.000-07:00

May Day

Si se puede! Si se puede! Yes it can be done! Yes it can be done!

On May 1, I walked with immigrants, day laborers, anarchists, teachers, women’s rights activists, communists and children. Some were protesting our nation’s immigration and deportation policies, some wanted to send a message to Arizona and Wisconsin, some just wanted a better life for all.

In Los Angeles, the thousands of protestors joined brethren in Indonesia, Germany, South Korea, Colombia, Turkey, Portugal, and many others around the world, in the traditional May Day call for workers’ rights.

These mostly peaceful, but sometimes violent, demonstrations started in 1886 to commemorate those killed in Chicago when police opened fire on a gathering of laborers, artisans, merchants and immigrants. The group was protesting for an eight-hour day, bathroom breaks and a living wage, things most of us take for granted, and instead of a stern reprimand for police brutality, the government handed four anarchists a death sentence.

Although 12 people died as a result of the attack by police, eight members of the demonstration were openly tried for their political beliefs and the resultant public hanging caused outrage around the globe. Since this incident, referred to as the “Haymarket Affair”, May 1 has become an international celebration of the social and economic achievements of the labor movement. But because of its association with Communism (and thus the Soviet Union), Congress designated May 1 as “Loyalty Day,” in 1958 and moved Labor Day to September. It’s funny how fear can dictate policy.

On May 1, I walked over a mile through the center of downtown with a sign that read, “We are not Arizona. We are not Wisconsin. We are California.” I chose to march in the May Day demonstration for two reasons. First, I genuinely believe that our country has a long history of fearing and punishing those who do not reflect our idea of what it means to be “American”. And second, the protest of Orange County Councilwoman, Marilyn Davenport, had already occurred.

I didn’t know what to expect and was a little nervous to show up by myself, but my fellow protestors accepted me with open arms. The march was already well underway by the time I parked my car a few blocks from Broadway and as I approached the chanting river of people, I must have looked lost. I didn’t know what to do.

I’d never been a part of a public protest before, so I just stared at those walking, dancing, and yelling through the street, wondering, “What’s the protocol here?” “Do I pick up one of the signs at my feet and just start walking?” “Do I need to walk with a specific group?” “Do I need to ask permission to join their fight?”

My inner monologue must have displayed freely on my face because a woman with kind eyes touched my arm, handed me a sign and gave me a wordless, “It’s ok,” as she led me into the crowd. I merged into traffic with a group of indigenous dancers in full costume, and after half a block, they stopped to perform.

I watched them snake through the throngs of people until a large area opened up and I stood in solidarity as they stomped, twirled and shook in unison. I was particularly moved by one dancer—an older woman with long, thick, silver hair and a beaklike nose. She seemed to plead with each drumbeat and her entire body moved with passion and grief. I wanted to yell, “I’ll champion your cause! Whatever you need, just tell me!” Instead, I chose silent support.

I stayed with the dancers, marching when they marched, stopping when they stopped, and when we reached the dead-end of a stage, the protestors dispersed. Some walked to their cars, some took a brief respite in the shade of a tree, and the rest waited patiently for further inspiration.

In the largely Hispanic and Asian crowd, there were small pockets of white and African American union workers, teachers and anarchists in black, and my favorite-- the students. In their ripped skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts, they were glowing in their ideals and handing out flyers in support of communism and socialism. They were so passionate in their cause their voices were hoarse.

I felt like saying, “I remember that feeling.” I remember being 22 and so convinced I knew everything. “Big Business” and “Corporate America” were evil; Republicans (or anyone who wore a suit) were the enemy. I remember thinking you could survive on beliefs alone. But then I grew up. Unfortunately, the world has a system and unless you learn to work within it, you are pushed to fringe and marginalized in the worst way.

The speakers ranged from union leaders to local activists, and then the most powerful of voices took the stage. He was a Latino teenager wearing his high school commencement robe and cap, and he spoke on how our country’s immigration policies ripped his family apart.

His parents and sister emigrated from Mexico before he was born, got jobs, rented a house, and two years after they settled in Los Angeles, he was born. His parents worked hard and contributed to their community, but when they repeatedly applied for citizenship, they were denied. He made the point that his parents held jobs citizens wouldn’t take, and they worked for pay so far below minimum wage, their participation could only help the economy, not hurt it. When he was about to enter high school, his parents and sister were deported back to Mexico and he was sent to live with relatives.

His memories were heartbreaking and I couldn’t help the lump in my throat or the tears on my cheeks. It made think, “There has to be a better way.” He will go to community college in the fall and work, so that he can save up to transfer to a four-year university. Then he plans to become a lawyer and fight for the rights of his parents and all immigrants who call America home.

I left the protest sad and inspired. I was sad that our country of immigrants continues to repeat our history of marginalizing the newcomer. We’ve done it to the Irish, the Italians, the Jews, the Africans, the Japanese, the “Communists”, the Latinos, and our most recent target of hate, the Arabs and Muslims. We even punished the Native Americans when we were the newcomers.

Despite my embarrassment at our inherited history, the hope in the graduate’s voice and on the faces around me was inspiring. I believe that we as a country can do better. I believe that we are capable of treating those within and without our borders with the respect and love that all human beings deserve. I believe that we are smart enough to come up with a viable solution to illegal immigration without terrorizing communities and tearing families apart. I believe that our bankrupt states can balance their budgets while ensuring everyone has a voice.

I may have retained some of those ideals from my twenties, and I’m glad that I have. America, we are better than this. So let’s be better. Let’s put down our baggage and the hang-ups from our youth; the dogma of our parent’s generation and the slights experienced at the hand of a lesser human being. Let’s all come to the table empty-handed because there’s enough of the pie for everyone.

Challenge 48: Learn to Sail

2011-04-25T17:50:00.000-07:00

Wind Advisory

“Alright guys, I want you to take a look at the bay—see how fast those ripples are moving?” The entire sailing class was standing on the edge of the dock, huddled against the wind and struggling to see what our instructor was talking about.

“Can you feel the strength of the wind?” Yes, apparently my jacket is more “wind-resistant” than windproof. “We’re right on the border of when we let Sabots go out, so be careful.” Sweet.

We gave each other nervous eyebrow raises, braced ourselves for the impending capsizes and shuffled back to our boats for setup. I’m not going to lie, Jamie’s wind advisory and the icy waters of spring had my aversion to speed at an all-time high, so when she released me onto the bay, I got caught in irons almost immediately.

As a class, our goal was to make our way around a triangle course of flags, tacking upwind and then practicing our jibes coming off a beam reach. It seemed simple enough but the wind proved too powerful for our ragtag group of novices.

After the third near capsizing, I turned upwind and tried to find a beat. I would get a good, steady pace going, and then for no reason at all, I would drift into irons. It was like my tiller was of little use and my boat had a mind of its own. What was worse, in my struggle to find the right speed, I had gotten severely off course and was now drifting out of the safety of our cove and into the busy expanse of Mission Bay.

“How you doing?” Jamie pulled up in her speedboat, and tried to hide the grin on her face.

“I’m stuck. I can’t seem to stay out of irons.”

“I think you might be too aggressive with the tiller. Point it toward the sail, and then when you feel the wind start to catch, move it gently back to straight instead of throwing it there.”

I tried it her way while she watched and at first, I was successful. But two seconds after my boat would get going, it would drift right back into irons.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re doing everything right; it’s got to be the boat.” Jamie circled me, studying my amateur setup and finally idled her engine.

“It’s your leeboard—see how it’s angled forward? It needs to be straight down.”

“Ooooh, when you said to make sure we pushed it all the way, I thought the further the better.”

Jamie just laughed and shook her head while I adjusted the leeboard and then she offered to tow me back upwind. I was embarrassed at being rescued, but that disintegrated the minute we entered the cove and I saw it dotted with the whites of five capsized boats and my classmates waiting for her help. Jamie groaned, rolled her eyes and left me to fend for myself.

I felt a little sheepish at having taken so much of her time, so I did my best to stay out of trouble for the rest of the day. I stuck to the triangle course she had set up, completed an accidental jibe or two and managed to be one of two people in my class who stayed out of the water. But I couldn’t get over the feeling of klutziness every time I tried to turn.

I would either pull the tiller into my hip because I sitting too far back in the hull, I would hit my head with the boom, or I would trip over myself while trying to shift my weight. Sometimes I would do all three at once. I was convinced there was some magic technique I was missing, but when I asked Jamie all she said was, “That’s normal. It’s only your second day. You’ll get it, it just takes practice.”

I felt the need to explain to her that I don’t take kindly to learning curves and prefer instead to be instantly “good” at everything I try, but I swallowed the urge and thanked her for her time.

On day three, I felt more in tune with the boat and the wind, and tacking came like second nature. But now that I was comfortable, I wanted to go faster.

Jamie was confident in our skills so she led us out of the cove and through the channel of Mission Bay, under a bridge and almost out to the ocean. Our class putted along as we watched bigger, faster boats overtake us and zip along the water. Their turns were tight and dramatic and their crews had smiles plastered to their faces.

“How do we go faster?”

“You find the right sail trim and a beat or a beam reach, and try to stay there.”

“But what if we’re doing that already?”

“You get on a bigger boat with a bigger sail.”

Oh. So the real answer is: pass beginning sailing and then go on to the more advanced classes. Which is what I did, I passed. There was a sense of triumph on the last day when we completed a scavenger hunt and I was able to move my boat efficiently in the direction I wanted to go. I knew where to guide the tiller by feeling the breeze on my cheek, and moved in strategic angles from point to point instead of trying to “will” my boat there.

I couldn’t believe that in twelve short hours, I already felt like I had a good foundation from which to build a successful hobby. I also felt more confident knowing I could handle a vessel by myself on the water. In two weeks, I start the advanced classes where they take us out on Holders and we get a taste of sailing with a partner. I can’t wait! Perhaps I’ll talk one of my non-sailing girlfriends into learning with me.

Challenge 48: Learn to Sail

2011-04-19T10:01:00.000-07:00

Day 1, Clapped in Irons

“What do you mean you’re sailing this afternoon? Hargraves don’t sail.” My brother was incredulous when I told him about this week’s challenge.

“Grandpa sailed,” was my retort. And just like that we were 12 years old again.

Truth is, my grandpa didn’t sail, he yachted. Still does. He also fishes. But sailing? Not exactly in my DNA. Upon accepting this challenge, I was a little unsure that someone could even learn to sail in a week—boats are big, powerful vehicles and there are a lot of parts to remember and move at the same time. And who even knows what “port side” means?

“If you can drive a car, you can sail a boat,” was the comment from a friend from high school. He also happened to win the Heisman Trophy of sailing while at Boston College… so I guess that’s like Celine Dion saying, “Just pull from your diaphragm.”

I showed up late for my first day of lessons at the Mission Bay Aquatic Center and when I snuck into the classroom, there was already a list of foreign vocabulary words on the chalkboard.

“The easiest way to remember that the port side is the left side of the boat is that port has four letters and left has four letters.” Well I guess that answers that question.

Our instructor was an enthusiastic young blonde woman named Jamie who had been sailing all her life and really wanted us to like it. The rest of the class looked like a slice of San Diego—two pairs of guys in tank tops, board shorts and trucker hats, a sour-faced couple on a date, a female med student in her scrubs, and a skinny loner kid who challenged everything our poor instructor tried to say.

She ran through the parts of the boat, the most important of which were the sail; the mast; the boom, which is called such because when it hits you in the head it “goes boom”; the rudder; the tiller (your steering wheel); and the mainsheet (your gas pedal and the rope that controls the sail). She also reminded us that, because sailors are weird, there are no “ropes” in sailing, only “lines”.

I was furiously scribbling words and diagrams on the notepad I’d brought because I was convinced this was somehow going to help me keep everything straight. I was definitely the only person in the class taking notes so every so often I caught Jamie giving me a puzzled look.

When she moved on to discerning the direction of the wind and points of sail (the direction in which your boat is moving), she made it sound easy and that made me nervous.

“The best way to figure out which way the wind is blowing is to look at the ripples on the water because they travel in lateral lines in the same direction the wind is blowing. And the fastest way to travel is on a straight line running parallel to the ripples; this is called a ‘beam reach’.” But what if I don’t want to travel as fast as I can while sailing a boat for the first time?

Answer: you turn toward the wind. But as I would later find out, if you’re not careful and turn too far into it, you end up in what is called the “no go zone” or “irons” and your sail falls flat. Irons and I were about to spend two days getting real acquainted.

After what was, in my opinion, a very brief overview on sailing, we took the classroom to the dock. First, there was a swim test where we had to jump in the freezing cold water and swim from one end to the other. While not the most pleasurable experience, it was funny to watch the sour-faced male try to talk the sour-faced female into getting in the water. Apparently, she thought she could learn to sail without getting her hair wet.

Then we had to set up our boats. We were learning on Sabots, which are about as big as a 26-year-old trucker hat-wearing surfer, and are extremely unstable, so getting into and out of them was a precarious task. Unfortunately, the sour-faced male was about twice the size of a 26-year-old and karma was not on his side.

I grimaced as he swung his beefy tree stumps over the side of the dock and lurched forward, sending three quarters of his boat below water and his rudder floating just out of reach. He gasped and flailed while Jamie tried her best to haul him out, but after a few failed attempts, she called over an Adonis from the Aquatic Center to help her. Sorry bud.

After our boats were set up and we were all nestled safely in the hulls, Jamie instructed us to sail between the two lateral flags in the cove and practice tacking (turning upwind). Once we were comfortable, we could try a jibe or two (turning downwind).

As she went to untie our bowlines and set us free, a mild panic fluttered in my chest—“but I’m not ready! I don’t know what I’m doing! Which side is port?!”

“Don’t worry, if you get going too fast, just let go of the mainsheet.”

She turned my boat to face the open water and when the wind filled my sail, pulling the mainsheet taut, my boat eased away from the dock. I was hesitant at first, but I got a little speed going and my white knuckled grip kept the tiller relatively straight, so I was feeling good. Then I decided to get a little crazy and fall off (turn away from) the wind a little bit. All of a sudden, I felt the power of nature pull my sail and tip my boat, and just as I thought I was going over into the arctic water, I practically threw the mainsheet overboard, let go of the tiller, and lunged for the opposite side of the hull. My boat set into a slow spin and finally stopped with the bow pointed dead center into the wind.

Great. My sail was slack and the hull was bobbing in the current, and there was nothing I could do but throw my tiller to one side and wait until I drifted out of irons. I watched with jealousy as the other members of my class sped along from one side of the cove to the other. After about five minutes, jealousy turned to frustration and I decided I was going to will my boat forward gosh darnit!

With my left hand firmly on the tiller and my right holding the mainsheet close, I positioned my weight forward and opposite the sail and concentrated on the direction of the wind with every ounce of energy. I would feel a slight breeze on my cheek, hear the flutter of the sail, and then try to position the boat to take advantage of it. But I would end up drifting back to the same place. After another ten minutes, I started to get pissed.

Then one of the surfers came speeding my way and with sneer and head nod, he completed a tack around my boat. Really, dude? I got more than mild enjoyment watching him beached and helpless on the far side of the cove later in the afternoon.

I was considering jumping overboard and swimming back to the dock when the wind changed directions a few degrees in my favor and the flutter of my sail finally caught. I quelled the urge to give a victory yelp and concentrated on moving my boat forward.

As I approached the first flag of the course, my mind went into overdrive trying to remember everything I was supposed to do: make sure I’ve got enough momentum, throw the tiller toward the sail, pull in the mainsheet, duck the boom as it switches sides, move to the opposite side of the boat. And because I’m a total spaz, I tried to do everything at once and wound up pulling the boom into the side of my head and turning the tiller directly back into irons.

Sweet. At this point there was nothing I could do but laugh and wait for the short time it took for the wind to give me a third chance. I kept my speed to a minimum and as the afternoon wore on, I settled down enough to make a few successful tacks without getting stuck or bruising my body. I stayed away from jibing, as it requires a quicker and more graceful maneuvering of tiller, mainsheet and body weight, but I figured there was always tomorrow.

By quitting time, my hips were sore, my knees were bruised, and my nerves were a little frayed, but I was excited to come back the next day and try again.

Challenge 47: Three Different Forms of Dance

2011-02-10T19:47:00.000-08:00

I’m sorry, you want me to follow?

After a night of flailing and thumping, I was looking forward to a more structured form of dance and to my pleasant surprise, I walked into the studio to find that the Tango instructor also taught Swing.

Cristian arranged us into lines behind him as he broke down the simple four-count and while I stumbled at first and struggled to find the “one”, after a few run-throughs, my feet moved in time with his. Then he paired the four-step with a turn and it became grossly apparent that I was not the only rookie in the class. Fantastic! I hate being the worst person in the room. We practiced on our own for a little while and I felt like I was really getting the hang of it…until we had to pair up.

“Ow!” My effeminate Latin partner was glaring at me with an intent to kill.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to-“

“I know, I know, I’m just not moving fast enough for you.” Actually, you’re just forgetting the steps midway through the set.

“Oh no, it’s not that…it’s just, you’re supposed to step back-“

“No. You’re supposed to step forward when I pull you forward.” Well, yea, but your pull is so weak I can’t tell whether you’re dancing with me or by yourself.

“Right, I know, but you weren’t pulling me forward-“

“I’M supposed to lead.”

“Right. Sorry. Ok, you lead.”

He had a point- I do have trouble following when I know what’s supposed to come next. Actually, that’s not entirely true; if my partner is a strong lead and/or I trust that he knows what he’s doing, I am completely pliable. But when he’s weak or has trouble finding the beat, I can’t help but take over. I’ve heard ballroom dancing is a lot like dating. Hm.

Thankfully, we kept switching partners and there were some guys in the class who were really good, so it started to get fun. But then it came time for the last switch. A 5’3” Greek man wearing very official looking dance shoes walked up to me, did a complete and obvious once-over and rolled his eyes as he offered his hand. Seriously? I reluctantly put my right hand in his and remained mute as the Napoleonic tyrant (who was unfortunately a strong lead and knew way more than I did) insulted my dancing and kept making me stop so he could “test our tension”.

“No. Lean.”

“Like this?”

“No. You need give me something to push against. Lean closer.” But what if I don’t WANT to be closer to you?

“Like this?” I could now inhale the perspiration from his sweaty widow’s peak.

“That’s good.” Good GOD his breath stunk.

Finally, after three turns he decided that we had an acceptable amount of tension and he led me through the basic routine. As much as I hate to admit it, he was a much better dancer than I was and I definitely learned from our time together.

I was a little sad when the Tango dancers started to file in and Cristian let the music fade, because despite the hiccups, sore toes and bruised egos, it had been really fun. I will definitely be back for more.

Unfortunately, my night of Bachata was a different story. This sultry salsa-like dance has two versions- the fast-paced and complicated street style, and the simplified American version. A Time To Dance teaches the American style which consists of four steps you can use to move yourself to the right, left, front, and back. If this is too vanilla, you can jazz it up by stepping your feet in front and back of each other, you can add a kick at the end of each four-count, and you can turn. It sounds pretty simple and it is, if you have a strong lead….but these are hard to find in a beginner class. In most of my pairings I was the only one who knew what was going on, so I’m sure you can guess how my night turned out.

The best partner I had was the female instructor (who was probably the strongest petite 5’2” Italian chick I have ever encountered), and I can only imagine what it’s like for her to dance with a man who is beneath her skill. She probably “directs” with a firm yet subtle hand.

The problem I have with these partner dances is that they depend on the man to initiate everything, which means as a woman, you have to dance to their level. I think that’s bullshit. A man who is a strong lead can always make his partner look good, even if she has no idea what she’s doing. But women? If we have a crappy partner we’re SOL. I had fun this week but I think I need to learn how to relinquish control before going back to partner dancing. So until further notice, I’ll be taking hip-hop.

Challenge 47: Three Different Forms of Dance

2011-02-09T08:12:00.000-08:00

Three Different Forms of Dance : Afro Cuban

I used to think I had rhythm, I did. I used to think I was a pretty good dancer who could hold her own in any type of class even if I had never seen the types of movements they were presenting. This disillusion of grandeur came to a crashing halt the night I took an Afro Cuban dance class.

My challenge for the week was to take three classes in different forms of dance than I had ever taken before, and to my benefit, Groupon had a deal with A Time to Dance, a local studio. I decided to take an Afro Cuban class, East Coast Swing, and Bachata (a form of street dance developed in the Dominican Republic).

The concept of “starting slow” or “easing” into something is not one that I’m familiar with, so it’s fitting that I started my dance odyssey with Afro Cuban. I had no idea what I was supposed to wear so I brought workout clothes, a dress, stretchy cords and three different pairs of shoes, and when I asked the woman at the front desk about the appropriate attire, I was told I could wear whatever I was comfortable in and that we would be dancing barefoot.

“So I can I wear these?” I asked while pointing at the stretchy cords I was wearing.

“Not unless those are special workout cords.” I turned to see the very adorable Tango instructor trying not to smile.

“Well, I can move in them.”

“You’re going to sweat in this class. A lot. I would definitely change if I were you.” The corners of his mouth hinted at a swallowed laugh, but since I had never taken the class, I had no idea why. After about five minutes, I understood.

As I listened to the soul of the African music rise and fill the room, and then watched our instructor Wilfredo begin to undulate his body, flail his arms with birdlike grace, and syncopate his feet, I realized why the Tango instructor had suggested I change- this was going to be hard work. I tried to imitate Wilfredo’s balletic movements but there were so many drumbeats, one for each part of the body, that I was immediately lost. I have rhythm when there is a singular or dominant“beat”, but when three or more drums complicate that thumping, you’ve lost me.

In Afro Cuban dance, your arms, core and legs are all on different beats, so it’s like trying to pat your head, rub your belly, and do an Irish jig while telling a joke and crying, all at the same time. Except that instead of patting your head, you’re flapping your arms, there’s definitely more belly thrusting than rubbing, and the feet have habanera flair. There was a lot going on.

This form of dance also requires that you have an incredibly loose body but most of us were so tight, Wilfredo spent half the class making us hop-shuffle from one side of the room to the other while shaking our arms like orangutans.

When he finally got to the steps, I would pick up on the feet, but then he would add the arms and it screw me up. Then I would finally get the arms and he would add a turn, then he would change the arms halfway through, and it got to the point where I was concentrating so hard on the movements that I forgot about the loosening up part. I avoided my image at all costs, but once when my eyes drifted from Wilfredo’s beautifully articulating body, to my own awkward reflection, I realized I looked like I was skenking (that awful dance for people who can’t dance that became popular in the ’90’s). I used to make fun of skenkers (I have no idea if that’s even what they were called), and in one of life’s great ironies, I now looked like one. Either that or I was having a seizure while standing.

I started giggling uncontrollably. I couldn’t help it, I looked ridiculous. And what made it worse was that there were only four of us in the class, so there was nowhere to hide, and the street-facing wall of the studio was all windows. When I left I was surprised there wasn’t a group of teenagers huddled together outside of the window, high as kites, laughing their asses off. If I was 21 again, that is what I would do on a Tuesday night at 8pm.

Despite the awkward undulations, I finally started to get the hang of it and even had a little fun…until a larger, middle-aged, obviously “single and prowling” woman wearing a practically see-through white t-shirt and black bra tried to start a conversation with me. She was sweating through her caked makeup and kept throwing her arms down and exaggerating her hip movements while saying, “Ugh! This is soooooo tough after a 14 hour flight abroad.” It took me a second to realize that she was addressing me and not just throwing out her statement to decorate the musty air.

And then when I did realize she was talking to me, I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I just nodded my head and gave her a half smile and turned my head to focus on Wilfredo. She tried the same thing a few more times thinking that maybe I hadn’t heard her, and each time I gave her the same head nod, same straight-line smile, same unfocused eyes. She may have thought I was a little slow. Apparently she’s been going to the class for six months, “Don’t worry honey, in 100 more classes, you’ll look like me!” God, I hope not.

My favorite thing about Afro Cuban is that you get to dance it barefoot. And my second favorite thing is that it’s kind of giant hodgepodge of latin dances, mixed with an African rhythm and movements that are more carefree than any other type of dance I’ve experienced. I don’t know if I’ll take another class soon as my Groupon only covers six classes, two will be used by my challenge this week and I’d really like to use the remaining four for hip hop classes, but maybe I’ll drop in again. It was fun, and I could see it being REALLY fun if you knew what you were doing.

Challenge 46: Live on $5 a Day For Food

2011-02-03T15:30:00.000-08:00

Livin on a Budget

“You want some of this don’t you?” My brother was spooning spiced and salted chunks of buttery avocado into his mouth and all I could do was stare and salivate.

“God, that sucks! Should have budgeted for them.” I’m pretty sure the daggers in my eyes took a year off his life.

Have you ever watched someone eat one of your favorite foods when you, for whatever ridiculous reason, can’t partake? It’s not long before you turn into Bitter Betty and curse the person, the world, and the diet, detox or challenge you’ve accepted.

In theory, surviving on $5 a day is not difficult, especially if you only have to do it for a week. I’m currently in San Diego where we have this great natural foods market called Henry’s that is like Whole Foods but a tenth of the price, and it provides for low cost healthy living. But even though I shopped here for my groceries, $5 a day has its limits.

My strategy was to plan meals for the week that used some combination of the same ingredients, and to come in under budget so I could splurge later in the week if I wanted to. The Sunday before I started, I bought five bunches of green kale for $0.79 each, six grapefruits and three oranges for $0.29 each, green and yellow bell peppers, a two pound bag of carrots, two onions, a cucumber, four apples, two kiwis, barley flakes for breakfast, white rice and yellow split peas at $0.79 per pound, and almond milk. I also bought a half pound bag of coffee for $5 but then decided I would rather forgo caffeine for the week and have that money saved for later.

All-in, my grocery bill was $23. Pretty impressive huh? I was feeling very good about my purchases until Monday morning. My normal breakfast entails a bowl of oatmeal brimming with berries, banana and occasionally mango (I’m spoiled), but I couldn’t afford these luxuries, so when I made my barley flakes with almond milk, it looked like bowl of soggy recycled paper and I began to pout. And then when I compared my breakfast to my brother’s bowl heaping with color, the seeds of sibling bitterness took root and I felt immediate resentment. This was going to be harder than I thought.

For lunch, I made a huge Kale salad, cooked half a cup of rice and a half cup of split peas, ate a quarter cup and saved the rest for dinner. I followed this routine for another two days before I felt malnourished. Luckily I got a break on Wednesday night because it was my mom’s birthday and Fidel’s was her restaurant of choice. I had a $6 bean and rice burrito and at least a pound of free tortilla chips and salsa.

I think my voracious appreciation of the free chips and salsa caused my dad to worry about my diet because on Thursday he started offering me food like tomatoes and left over rice that they “weren’t going to eat anyways.” So this is what it feels like when people think you’re starving.

I figured at $29, I could accept a couple of tomatoes and a quarter cup of cooked rice and still have a few dollars left over, so I went back to Henry’s, bought a dozen eggs for $2, and ate like a queen for the remainder of the week.

This challenge was an interesting lesson in “need” vs. “want” and portion control. I had to ration my food so that I didn’t run out, which meant that even if I was still hungry after my planned meal, I had to decide if I really needed more food, or if I would survive without. There were a couple of times I felt really weak so I made more rice (my cheapest food), but most of the time I got by without.

And while $5 a day for food is extravagant by many of the world’s standards, it was a glimpse at what life would be like if I really did have to choose my purchases carefully. Until this week, I don’t think I ever completely grasped what this was like.

Growing up, I would never say we went without. We were not flush with money but we always had plenty of healthy food around, the gourmet sandwiches my dad would pack in our lunches were legendary and we even got pizza on Friday nights. And in college when I was on budget, if I ran out of food, I would just go over to the sorority house and eat in the snack kitchen for free.

So even though the mere sight of yellow split peas made me nauseous by the end of the week, I’m glad I experienced this. Separating need from want is important in all aspects of our lives and in this time when there is turmoil across the globe because people cannot meet their basic needs, I think we could all try a little harder to be conscious of how our actions might affect others.

The other day NPR did a story on quinoa and said that because this health food is so en vogue, consumption has risen, which has caused prices to rise, which has made it impossible for most Peruvians to purchase the grain they grow in their backyard (a standard consequence of globalism). There is a finite amount of resources on this planet, so consumption is very much a zero-sum game. More for you does actually mean less for someone else. I’m not suggesting people stop eating quinoa, or anything for that matter, but if we all took a look at our habits and tried to consume a little less, then maybe the less fortunate could have a little more. It’s just something to think about.

Update on Nude Modeling

2011-02-02T23:12:00.000-08:00

I know I owe you two blog posts (eating for $5 a day and taking lessons for three different forms of dance), but I wanted to give you all an update on my career as a nude model.

Although I thought there was no way I was going to continue sitting for Lynn after my initial 10 week commitment, it has now been 14 weeks and I not only sit for her (and others) twice a week, but I have taken on figure and portrait drawing classes at a local art studio. It’s not something that I will do forever, but for now, I love it. I love to go to Lynn’s studio and get paid to hang out with a group of women that are so talented and warm and funny, and who occasionally spray me with water on accident.

My love affair with the Lynn Forbes School of Sculpture started about a month after I started sitting. A woman named Ann, who is a pint-sized burst of positive energy, started coming to sculpt my portrait and we clicked immediately. She is goofy and funny and has already flattened the back of her sculpture because she sent it tumbling to the ground, so of course I love her.

Then starting the first week in January, we got another addition- June, a snowbird from Salt Lake City. Her wry sense of humor complements Ann’s and every time the three of us are in the room together, I’m either getting sprayed by the water bottle meant for clay (June claims this is an accident), they’re making fun of my ponytail because it’s never centered at the back of my head, or we’re just laughing for no reason at all.

Now the class has grown and on any given Wednesday or Friday, there are between four and eight people sculpting some version of me. Sitting for the large group was a bit horrifying at first because when I took a break, I saw that one woman had formed these giant, fake-looking breasts, a man had given me a huge beak-like nose that covered half my face and another had given me a butt the size of an Escalade. I seriously pretended I had to go to the bathroom so I could study myself in the mirror and make sure they weren’t right. But then as Lynn came around and corrected them, and as they started to form more definite shapes in the clay, I could see my likeness come through and I eventually started to see the sculptures as their art, not representations of me. As I relaxed, the sessions became more fun.

Today, Ann was trying to get the nostrils to look right but Lynn’s explanations weren’t making sense… so they decided to get a closer look.

“Ok so you see the hole here?” Lynn had her pinky finger millimeters from my face while Ann squatted at my feet and looked up my nose. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had any green “friends” hanging around.

“Oh yea, I see what you’re talking about.” She was now right under my chin, peering like a kid at science camp.

“So you see how dark the hole gets, we’re not going to go all the way into the darkness, but-“ and with that, I, and everyone else in the class, burst out laughing. I’m ok with people studying every curve of my body while trying to re-create it in a cube of semi-solid mud, but when they start to dissect unflattering orifices, I draw the line. It’s a good thing Lynn has a sense of humor.

The figure drawing classes are definitely more structured and not as fun as sculpture. I have to sit on a stage under a light that’s too hot and awkwardly placed at the crown of my head like a branding iron, and the artists take themselves very seriously.

The first class I sat for was on a Friday night at 7pm, right in the middle of rush hour traffic, so of course I was running late. I flew into the parking lot at 7:07pm, sprinted into the studio, spit my apologies at the instructor who directed me to the bathroom to change, and barely closed the door before I started ripping off my clothes. I came out in my bathrobe and hurried to the stage, paying very little attention to my surroundings. Once the instructor had positioned me lying on a chase lounge and set the timer, I turned to face the room and realized there were twelve pairs of male eyes staring at me. I almost threw up.

I tried my best to keep a pleasant, blank look on my face, but as a trickle of sweat began to make its way from my armpit down the side of my body, I’m sure my face was pure horror. I couldn’t help it. I have never been more uncomfortable in my life. What made it worse was when the guys tried to talk to me during the break. I was wearing my bathrobe, but I could still feel my naked image through their mundane questions of, “So…you from here?” I mean, really guys? After the third break, I just stayed on stage and pretended to huddle near the space heater.

The classes got progressively better after that, and some of the students and instructors have turned out to be really cool, but it’s not something that I’ll continue after this school term.

Posing nude for art in all mediums has definitely helped me to become savagely comfortable in my skin, and more confident, but it’s not for the faint of heart. My brother’s girlfriend asked if I would recommend it to other people who need a positive jolt in the body image department, and I had to tell her, “Maybe.” It really depends on how insecure you are. It’s not easy to have people study every line, curve and pock mark, and if your self-image is so poor that you can barely look at yourself in the mirror (no matter how beautiful people tell you, you are), posing nude is not for you. At least not yet. But if you’re “fine” with how you look but have never thought of yourself as particularly pretty or attractive, then I would recommend it. The instructors and students will complement you and point out the parts of you they find stunning as they create, and it can only boost, or at least pet, your fragile ego.

Challenge 45: Take a Homeless Man to Lunch

2011-01-03T12:21:00.000-08:00

Giomo Yellowfeather

What if I told you that the blind Native American man begging for change on the corner of Rose and the Venice Boardwalk was a mostly sane, former technology salesperson? What if I also told you he’s a coffee snob with six kids (five living)?

I met the Sioux Native American on the boardwalk in Venice Beach in the midst of torrential rain. My friend Natascha and I had somewhat foolishly set out on our bikes in search of a homeless person with which to dine, and since the weather had sent most people running for cover, our pickings were slim.

We also ran into the slight problem of separating grungy from homeless. The Venice Beach boardwalk draws an eclectic bunch (especially those out in the rain), so we would cruise by groups of men, staring like we were at the zoo, figure they looked too clean, and ride on. I thought of asking, but then considered how I would respond to the question, “Are you homeless?”

We finally came upon a guy who appeared to have every possession he’d ever owned strapped to his bicycle and I thought, this is it! But upon inquiring if we could treat him to a meal, he responded, “Oh no, I’m ok. But you should ask those guys over there, they’re really poor.” Well done, sir. I guess money doesn’t have the monopoly on decency.

So we rode on and came upon a lanky, blind Native American begging for change.

“Hi there sir, can we take you to lunch?”

“Why, uh, sure, I guess so. I haven’t eaten yet today.” It was 3pm, cold and raining.

Natascha and I hopped off our bikes, introduced ourselves, and I offered my shoulder as we led him to the Sidewalk Cafe. Without hesitation he opened his life book and began chatting away, pausing only to wave and give a polite “hello” to the many boardwalk regulars we passed. Giomo was clearly a local institution along this stretch of concrete.

He started by telling us he hadn’t always been blind. Like Ray Charles, the doctors gave him too much oxygen at birth and this caused his degenerative eye disease to take his sight at 30 instead of 40. He grew up in South Dakota, swimming in the Missouri River, causing trouble the best way he knew how, and still has four children in the Midwest. His fifth child died of suffocation the day after she was born because her mother lit up a cigarette while she was in the bed.

“So I don’t care much for women who smoke.”

That’s perfectly understandable Mr. Yellowfeather.

And his sixth child, a four year old little girl, lives with her mother not far from where he stands on the boardwalk every day, begging for change.

“She’s the only reason I’m here. She made me promise to stay in Venice till she turns five. Then she said I can go.”

He calls his daughter every day and sometimes talks to her mother, if she’ll pick up the phone.

“She cleaned me out.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you once we’re inside the restaurant. I don’t want everyone out here knowing my business.”

The casual and enclosed patio was mostly empty except for a few scattered couples, and when we entered, I could feel the waitstaff bristle. Their smiles for Natascha and I were almost garish in their graciousness, but when Giomo passed, their eyes turned cold. A silent standoff ensued, Giomo vs. them. He may have been blind but their contempt was palpable and settled heavy in the air.

We sat, Natascha and I read him the menu, and we tried to answer his questions about the kind of coffee they served.

“It better not be bad coffee- you know that brown watered stuff. Ick! That, that just tastes like sewer water!”

He was impassioned and a little unstable and I was suddenly nervous about what he would do if he didn’t like what he ordered.

Our waiter approached, gave Natascha and I the same tight, toothy smile, and all but ignored Giomo.

“Can I get you started with drinks?”

“Water for me.”

“Me too.”

“What kind of coffee do you have?” Uh oh.

The waiter, barely concealing his revulsion, shot his eyes to the side and said, “Regular or decaf.”

“But what kind of coffee is it?”

“We have regular, or decaf,” this time he said it slow and deliberate, like he was talking to an idiot.

“But what kind-“

“Sir! I’m not sure what you are asking. Do you want to know the brand?” By this time his teeth were clenched so tight, I thought the veins in the side of his skull were going to pop.

“Yea, I guess that would be fine.”

With a huff our waiter stomped into the back to find out what kind of coffee they served. I gave Natascha a raised eyebrow and when the waiter came back, I braced myself for another terse exchange.

“It’s just a basic brand, nothing fancy.”

“But is it dark roast?” I had to stifle a giggle- the poor waiter clearly hated everything about our table, and Giomo had sensed this and was now pushing as many buttons as possible.

“Hey, Giomo, I think it’s just basic black coffee, do you want water?”

“Yes, water’s good for me.” More stomping. Oh well, at least I don’t come to this restaurant often.

Other than the waiter’s continued frustration and distaste for Giomo, the rest of the meal continued without incident.

Between bites of clam chowder and Philly Cheese steak, he told us his story. He was software salesman who had moved from South Dakota to California to Colorado to Texas. He had been pretty successful doing his “day job” and by the time he got to Texas, he was able to do freelance work on the side. Unfortunately, he didn’t claim all of his income, so he was arrested for tax fraud and sent to jail for 16 months.

While in jail, his wife had control of the bank accounts and set aside money in a separate account for Giomo to purchase essentials in prison (which apparently amounts to about $100/month). She used the rest for herself.

Four months before he was released, Giomo’s wife sent him a letter telling him that the marriage was over. She then took all of his money (approximately $25k), his daughter, and went to live with her wealthy mother in Venice Beach. And that’s how he came to stand on that particular spot of concrete. He sleeps where he can and sees his daughter when her mother will let him, and the day after her fifth birthday, he will take off in search of other opportunities in other cities.

He was incredibly grateful, for the company as much as the food, and when we were finished eating he invited us to come back and visit him.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, and you won’t even have to buy me lunch!”

Sounds good, Giomo. Hopefully my next trip to Venice will come before your daughter turns five.

Challenge 44: Write a Poem and Read it at an Open Mic Night

2010-12-08T13:45:00.000-08:00

Poet: A Definition

I am not a poet. I do not have formal training in structure and abstract metaphors; I do not see the world through the lens of a kaleidoscope. I prefer prose of the lightest humor, the darkest sadness, or text that inspires action. I do not want to tell you how branches of the tree relate to the dark journeys of others.

But last week I had to get over that. I had to figure out my personal definition of poetry and identify what it means to be a person who writes it. And then I needed to find inspiration so pure it compelled me to write whatever that definition turned out to be.

I asked myself, “must poetry rhyme?” “Should it use metaphors so abstract the audience must read stanzas three times before they ‘get it’?” “Must it be organized into stanzas?” “And who is a poet? Is it the serious literary architect who constructs an elaborate fabric of words? Or, is it the casual passerby who is overcome by the beauty of a single moment?”

These were all questions I needed to answer and on Monday, I failed. Every line I wrote seemed forced and shallow, like a cliché that has been so overused it earns a place in Webster’s Dictionary. I ended my two-hour writing session in a disgruntled huff.

But on Tuesday, I found inspiration. I took an Anusara yoga class, which is meant to open the heart and bring the body into alignment, and to start the class the instructor read a poem by Mary Oliver. The poem in its entirety was about living your life free from judgment (of yourself and others), and I found one line particularly striking: “Are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?”

I’ll pause for a moment while you contemplate that sentence. And then I’ll ask, are you?

The theme of living life to the point that its seams are bursting is one I hold close because it provides me inspiration on a daily basis. It’s what gets me up the slippery hills and through the rocky valleys of life. When my instructor read that line, I realized I had found my poem.

I spent a few days writing a few drafts, I played with structure, and on Sunday, when I felt that it was ready to be heard by an audience, I woke up without a voice.

In a twist of “Murphy’s Law,” I could barely squeak out a prepubescent syllable without hacking or sounding like a dying cat being thrown against a wall (this, ironically enough, is how I sound when I sing karaoke). There was no way I was going to recite my name, let alone a 300+-word poem so I was going to have to wait.

On Monday I woke up feeling much better, and although I still sounded like an 80-year old, two-pack-a-day smoker, I decided to attempt an open-mic night.

I chose Lestat’s, a coffee shop in Normal Heights, where I was expecting four or five lit majors to be sitting around, reading their latest homework assignment. I wrote a last-minute email to a few friends and family members and then left the house late to arrive after just about every aspiring musician in the City of San Diego.

The venue reminded me of something you would find on the lower eastside in Manhattan- it had an old, lighted marquee out front that read, “Open Mic” and a ramshackle doorway that lead to a shabby, narrow, brick-lined room. The stage looked like it was rescued from a mother’s basement and the ill-placed spotlights promised to simultaneously blind you and the audience while highlighting every minor flaw. It was the place romanticized by successful musicians and loathed by those who have not yet made it.

The way their open mic night works is this: they give guaranteed spots to musicians who are promoting shows that same week, and then everyone else must write their name on a piece of paper that is then pulled out of a plastic jar. As the names are pulled, time slots are chosen, and a warning goes out to everyone that if they are not in the room when the MC calls their name, they miss their shot.

The MC was a bald, wry and aging rocker who knew his way around the stage and a joke, and he called me out when I handed him my piece of paper.

“What’s your name?”

“Lauren,” I squeaked.

“Whoa, been singing a lot Lauren?”

“Yea, all night.”

“Is this your first time?”

“Uh huh.”

“Welcome, Lauren. I hope we get you up here singing soprano.”

Sweet. At least he likes me.

My name was pulled late and instead of taking a 10pm timeslot I chose to be an alternate, which meant they would call me on stage if they were running fast (which they always do).

So my friend Caroline and I sat through a sad comic act that had the potential to be funny, but the guy kept asking the audience if he was doing ok, or if he looked nervous, and it made me want to shake him and say, “Don’t do that!” I felt bad for him- getting up on a stage and performing is hard enough, but having to beg people to laugh at your jokes is excruciating.

There were a couple of musicians, one of which was incredible, the other…“different,” and then with a stroke of luck, the MC called my name.

The audience and MC alike wondered what to make of me as I climbed the stage with nothing but my blue notebook, and I tried to ignore the look of surprise when I announced I would read a poem. I don’t think they get many poets.

My voice was hoarse as I started, but it held and I read my 300 words to a room that was utterly silent and still. Other than my night of stand-up comedy, I don’t think I’ve ever had so much collective and undivided attention on me at one time. The MC gave me a, “That was beautiful!” and a huge hug as I stepped off the stage, making me promise to come back. It felt good. And it felt different than performing comedy.

My night of jokes was something that I did for fun and to complete a challenge, and I had the support of half the people I had ever met in San Francisco. But at the end of the night, my performance and material didn’t mean that much to me since I don’t think of myself as a comedian. This was different. I am a writer, so to get up in front of a room full of strangers and to be appreciated for my craft felt empowering.

Could my poem use a little work? Of course- I wrote it in a week. But I was happy with it and on my drive home I decided on my definition. A poet is someone who sees life through their own lens, and then articulates that lens using beautifully placed words. A poet is an observer, a recorder, an abstractor, and a poem is the physical manifestation of that abstraction.

I am a poet, and this is my poem.

When a Child Asks

If a child asks how to spell “Life”, what do you say?

Do you tell them, “Start with an ‘L’ that’s expansive and loud, one that stretches for the radiance of day”? Or do you say, “Take as little space as possible”?

If child asks how to say “Life”, what do you say?

Do you tell them, “Sing the word with such joy and rapture that one ‘I’ becomes many and the whole world can feel its embrace”? Or do you say, “Whisper,” so their voice is but a feather on the ear?

If a child asks how to shape the letters of “Life”, what do you say?

Do you tell them, “Keep the edges soft and forgiving even if, at times, they cut against the fabric of your soul”? Or do you say, “Protect yourself with sharp angles”?

If a child asks how to color the letters of “Life”, what do you say?

Do you tell them, “Saturate your letters so they vibrate and breathe and give them freedom to blur and bleed in chorus”? Or do you hand them black and say, “Color within the lines”?

If a child asks, “Pen or pencil?”

Do you yell, “Pen!” and encourage them to celebrate Life’s fickle permanence. Or do you say “pencil” and advise they press lightly lest they make a mistake?

When a child asks these questions, will you encourage fluidity of script?

Will you tell them, “Revel in the graceful dance and collision of letters and emotion”? Or will you say, “Letters should stand as islands, alone and apart”?

When a child asks you to say “Life,” will your breath be full?

Will your person gulp, expand and grow with the richness that is you? Or will you cower, your breath shallow and guarded?

When a child looks to you for guidance, will you have the pen in your hand?

Will your letters take up the whole of the page and dance with the neon brilliance of the human experience? Or will they fall flat and fade, indiscernible from any other word?

Will your song be loud and your edges soft? Or will your voice and skin show the cuts of your journey?

When a child asks how to spell “Life,” what will you say?

Challenge 43: Attend an African American Baptist Church

2010-11-30T09:13:00.000-08:00

HALLELUJA!!!!!!!!!!

Praise his name! Praise Jesus! And please, praise all the men and women who worship him at Bayview Baptist Church in southeast San Diego. I have never felt more love and genuine bliss than I did in the two and half hours I spent within their sphere. They are serious about Jesus, they are serious about their community, and they are really serious about converting the lost (and visitors) into the committed.

For many of you the thought of listening to a bible-thumping racket for two and half hours on a Sunday is right up there with corporal punishment as a way you’d like to spend your time. And I’m not judging, I’m a football fan too. But if you could take just one Sunday off- maybe it’s the week your team has a “bye”- and spend it in a Baptist church, you would know how it feels to be lit up from the inside. Even if you don’t believe in Jesus, God, or any other “higher power”, the simple gratuitous energy these people exude is infectious and you leave wanting to do nothing but eternal good for all members of society. Granted, if you’re not from their community, it may take you a halfway through the service to get to this point.

The palm sweats and stomach knots started the minute I parked my 21 year-old Nissan in a space marked “visitor”. The demographic of the congregation was mostly African American and I, being a fair-skinned blonde woman was going to stand out. I was worried- what if they stared at me? What if they thought I was making fun of them? What if someone asked me how I found the church- could I really say “Google”? I wanted to blend, to melt into the background, enjoy the service and then to leave when it was over. But the second I walked through the doors I realized that was not going to happen.

“Oh hello dear, you must be a visitor.” What was your first clue?

“Uh, yes, I am.”

“Well bless you. Come over here, I need to give you a welcome packet and red ribbon.” Really, I’m pretty sure the ribbon is overkill.

“Oh no, that’s ok, I’ll just go in and sit down if you don’t mind.”

“Oh no dear, we like to know who our visitors are.” Sure, that doesn’t sound creepy at all. “Now all you have to do is stand up when they ask who the visitors are.”

“And then what?” Why is my voice shaking?

“And then we sing you a song and invite you back to meet the head pastor.” Hmm, sounds like entrapment.

“Oh, great, that sounds very nice.”

“Enjoy the service. We love Jesus here.” It’s like she knows.

I walked into the large worship hall like a new kid walking into the high school cafeteria- I had a huge red ribbon pinned to my black sweater and I felt like the light from the stained glass windows practically set my bright blonde hair on fire. I spent one bewildered second looking around and then took the first seat in a deserted row to my left. I wasn’t alone for long.

It was like I had a neon-blinking sign that beckoned patron after patron to my side, each offering a firm handshake, a warm smile, and a few welcoming words. One woman was so excited to see me she enveloped me in a hearty bear hug and practically lifted me off the ground while shaking me from side to side. I had a cheek-ache from smiling and the men’s choir was the only thing that could supplant my surprise at their genuine spirit.

From the first chord to the final vibrato I felt like I was watching a performance of Boys 2 Men, only with a deeper level of passion and commitment to the lyrics. There were Sinatra-like solos and group harmonies, and they even had a white guy in the chorus. I spent their entire 45-minute performance swaying and was compelled to my feet once or twice by the impassioned women around me.

At this point, I could have gone home a happy and fulfilled woman. But there was more. As the boy band left the stage, a small man in a big suit hopped to the pulpit, took a sip of water and a deep breath, and launched into one of the most moving displays of human emotion I have ever witnessed live. It’s safe to say he put his back into it.

He started slow and even, speaking of Jesus’ love and his daily blessings, then as he worked himself into a moderate fervor, there was a “Praise Jesus!” from the audience, and then another. By the time he was at the part where we should be thankful for our bounty he was spitting and sweating, his person expanding and convulsing like an epileptic on acid and his voice barely audible through the audience participation. It was fantastic. When he finished he fell to a chair, a crumpled, miniature version of his previous self.

Again, at this point I could have gone home convinced of the power of religion, but again, there was more. The head pastor, a grandfatherly type with a sweater vest and neatly trimmed white beard, took the microphone and asked all of the visitors to stand. I hesitated- I had to pee and thought that I could make a quiet exit- but then three people I had met earlier turned and motioned for me to get up, so there was no way out of it. The pastor greeted and thanked us for joining the worship that morning, the entire congregation sang us a beautiful welcome, and then came the uncomfortable part. We had to walk down the aisle in front of everyone and I tried my best to ignore the quizzical surprise that rippled through the pews as I walked past.

They ushered us into a small back room with rows of chairs where church elders warmed us up with innocuous questions about our families and Thanksgiving. The conversation was congenial and harmless, but as the head pastor entered with the authority of a stern patriarch, I caught on to the whole “good cop, bad cop” routine. He addressed each one of us personally, taking our hand and piercing our souls with his truth-seeking gaze. He wanted to know where we were from, if we were new to Jesus, where we had worshipped and finally, how we had found them.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I lived 45 minutes away in a more affluent area and that I had previously worshipped at a church whose annual budget dwarfed anything they could hope to raise. So I did the un-Christian thing and I lied. I told him that I still lived in San Francisco and that I had found the church because my grandmother lived a few blocks away. I saw his mind working over who could possibly be the elderly white lady to whom I belonged, as I’m sure he knows the inner-workings of his neighborhood like a spy knows his marks, and I began to get to a little nervous. But luckily he let it go, gave me a kind smile and invited me back anytime I was in the neighborhood.

By the time I walked out of the interrogation room I was not only filled with gratitude and love for this community, I had an awe and respect for the head pastor and his command over his flock. It is not easy to raise children in this area of San Diego, and it is even more difficult to keep them on the straight and narrow as they become men and women. The Bayview Baptist Church does everything in their power to hold individuals accountable. They support and aid the surrounding community with a level of intelligence and humor that dwarfs the efforts of many wealthier congregations.

I feel blessed and honored for the generosity they showed and I will definitely pay them a visit in the coming weeks. In a time when there is so much darkness and hurt in the world, it is healing to stand for a moment in the sun and bask in the goodness of humanity.

Challenge 42: Pose Nude for a Figure Drawing or Sculpture Class

2010-10-27T13:52:00.000-07:00

The Naked Truth

I might be an exhibitionist. I’m sure for most of you this is not a shocking revelation- I have a blog and proclivity towards massive displays of public affection. But I think my reaction to this challenge will surprise even you.

My friend Jaclyn, who is a bit of a free spirit herself, challenged me to pose nude for a drawing or sculpture class and when I received her email stating such, I almost threw up. Until recently, I was not someone who felt consistently good about her body. I was self-conscious and constantly critiquing, comparing and ridiculing (myself, not others), so the thought of standing exposed to a room full of people whose job was to critique and compare was enough to make me ill.

But I got over it. Since moving to San Diego I’ve led a healthier lifestyle- less wine, more yoga- so I’ve started to feel better about myself and recently came to the conclusion I was ready to tackle this challenge.

I searched the internet for art schools in San Diego, contacted four different places and was called in to interview at one: the Lynn Forbes School of Sculpture in Carlsbad. Her husband led the interview, stressed the importance of a natural body (read: no implants), and last week I sat for my first of ten sessions. It was supposed to be a class of two, plus Lynn (the sculptor) but the two students flaked out so Lynn decided to start a new project just for herself.

She positioned me standing and leaning on stool and proceeded to slap several large, heavy squares of clay on top of each other, molding them into the general form she wanted. She used a heavy wire to cut the clay and used her hand to shape it into dynamic lines from which a figure would eventually emerge.

I was completely enthralled watching her work and as we chatted about her creative path to sculpture, a lost love and her approach to the artistic world as a whole, I began to feel completely comfortable. And when it came time to de-robe I dropped my cover like I was hanging out in a dressing room with one of my best friends. It helped that she was very complimentary (apparently I have the perfect “Greek form” and profile) and she kept telling me how much fun she was having, so I was able to completely relax and have fun as well.

I went in for my second session today and had to spend the entire time nude, but she and I had built such a strong rapport that I had no qualms with it. In fact, it felt completely natural.

When I first tell people about this challenge and that I signed on for ten weeks of modeling they look at me like I’m crazy or a delinquent or worse. But I must say it is the best cure for insecurities of the body that was ever invented. It forces you to get into a, “well, here I am!” mental state and it is incredibly liberating. If someone is going to be studying every minor curve of your body and then using interpretation to make them their own, you have to be comfortable in your skin. There are other ways to get there, but sitting for sculpture helps you get there faster.

And I can’t say enough about Lynn. She is one of the warmest, most authentic and truly creative people I have ever met. She is a concert flautist, has a background in costume design, took a brief run at being a singer-songwriter, and is now a master sculptor. She is supportive of each student, even the difficult ones, and is so passionate about her craft that it makes me want to take lessons.

I have loved every minute of this challenge, even though I thought it would be something I would suffer through, and I would recommend it to anyone looking to challenge his or her self-view. The only caveat is I would recommend you meet the artist beforehand to make sure they are someone you are comfortable with, because it will make all the difference.

Challenge 41: Celebrate the Muslim Holiday of Ramadan

2010-10-26T18:58:00.000-07:00

Fasting's For the Birds

My challenge two weeks ago was to observe the Islamic tradition of Ramadan. I had to fast while the sun was out, refraining from eating, drinking, and everyday evils such as sexual relations, and ask for forgiveness for past sins. Now anyone who has known me for about an hour knows that this would be an excruciatingly difficult challenge. I am constantly eating something, drinking something (generally water), chewing gum, sucking on breath mints and I very rarely go an extended period of time without putting something in my mouth. I know how that sounds; you know what I mean.

There is no other way to say it- I hated everything about this challenge. It’s not that I hate learning about another culture as researching Ramadan and what it means to Muslims was actually incredibly interesting. The name Ramadan comes from the Arabic word rmḍ, as in words like "ramiḍa" or "ar-ramaḍ" denoting intense heat, scorched ground and shortness of rations. It is intended to teach Muslims patience, humility, and spirituality and during this time the offer more prayer than usual, asking for guidance and forgiveness. They fast for the sake of God and I appreciate all of the lessons their studies teach.

But I hate fasting. I was so dehydrated I would get dizzy and tired and I had a very hard time working out. And then at night, I couldn’t even eat that much because I would get full (and almost sick) while trying to rehydrate.

One afternoon I was sitting in the Pannikin in Solana Beach trying to work on a project and a woman sat down next to me with the most delicious smelling chili- it was overflowing with cheese and beans and tofu, and she was drinking a huge mocha with whip cream running down the sides. These two flavors may not go together in the mind of anyone who is not pregnant or starving, but since I was the latter, I was staring at her food so intently I almost fell over in my chair.

“Hi.”

“Hi, sorry, I’m starving and your food just looks really good.”

“Oh, well, would you like some?” Really? Who just offers a stranger some of their food?

“Oh, thank you, but I’m ok.”

“Seriously, it’s no problem at all. Here, I’ll put some on a plate for you.” I must look really hungry.

“No really, please don’t. I appreciate it, but I actually can’t eat until the sun goes down.”

Sweet. I love that awkward look.

“It’s a long story,” why do I sound like a domestic abuse victim, “I’m trying to complete a challenge, I promise I’ll be ok.” Now she thinks I’m crazy, or weird, or anorexic. Great.

And that was how it went the whole week- I would be sitting in a coffee shop (since it was too tempting to be at home) and someone would sit near me eating or drinking something that smelled absolutely delicious, and I would have to move because I would catch myself coveting every morsel they put in their mouth. Maybe this holiday is easier in a country where everyone is participating.

I actually started to feel badly about my lack of discipline but then I realized, having recovered from a severe eating disorder in semi-recent history, I just don’t like feeling weak. I don’t like being dehydrated or severely hungry and I don’t appreciate reduced mental function. Fasting is just not for me (at least not the kind of fasting that doesn’t allow water), I will just have to find another way to purify myself.

Challenge 38: No Cussing For a Week

2010-10-26T14:06:00.001-07:00

Cleaning it Up

It is not that difficult for most people to refrain from cussing. Outside of the occasional stubbed toe or foul up by their favorite sports idol, the majority of the adult population keeps their every day speech at PG levels. Prior to going to Costa Rica, I was not part of this majority.

I don’t know why I resorted to such low-brow verbiage- it could be because my mother talks like a drunken sailor, or because I worked with a bunch of overgrown frat boys for seven years, but whatever the reason, I needed to clean it up. And this is probably why my friend and ex-coworker Holly Rose gave me the challenge.

Then a funny thing happened- I spent two and half months in an environment where I understood few people and even fewer people understood me. When you struggle to communicate on a daily basis, you learn to choose words based on their efficacy and economy and as it turns out, f*ck isn’t really that necessary. In fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t utter one curse word the entire time I was down there, unless I was with my American friends Claire, Anna or Mike.

Luckily, this trend followed me back to the states. The way I speak will always be somewhat influenced by the people around me- I seem to pick up stray accents or figures of speech with the slightest interactions- but I’ve managed to be more careful with the words I use.

So maybe it wasn’t fair to complete this challenge at this point in the game. Maybe I should have done it earlier. Or maybe not. Maybe the point of doing the challenge now was to show me how unnecessary those ugly words are and how easy it is to extricate them from my vocabulary.

Challenge 37: Watch the Sunrise Each Morning

2010-10-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

The Finicky Mistress of Morning

The week I spent watching the sunrise was one of travel and sleepless nights, dengue chills and exhaustion so intense my eyes felt like they were bleeding. Monday and Tuesday I watched the sun break the horizon from the rooftop of my friend Alan’s apartment complex in San Jose, Costa Rica. I was ill with dengue and wrapped in a blanket despite the warm and humid air, and the dawn was a blurry mess of watercolor and sound.

Costa Ricans are early risers and the city was alive before I even climbed out of bed, which made me feel like a lazy bum who had overslept. People were running, walking their dog, or making their way to work, and from the sounds of traffic below, it might as well have been midday. I tried hard to find some spiritual significance in the morning, but I was weak and tired, and after the body of the sun had breached the horizon completely, I went back to bed. Well, on Monday I went back to bed, on Tuesday I went to the airport.

Wednesday morning I was on an airplane from Dallas to Denver after having spent four uncomfortable hours shivering on an airport cot, trying not to sweat through my clothes. I had been traveling for almost 24 hours and I am pretty sure I smelled and looked like a drug addict. My body has never known such complete exhaustion and while I tried everything to keep my eyes open, I faded in and out of consciousness and watched the sunrise in a series of beautiful still frames.

The sky started the color of cold steel but as we climbed above the cloud line, a faint ribbon of pink and yellow stretched across the horizon, separating the infinite ceiling and its cloud-carpeted floor. That morning the sight of the sun brought a lump to my throat, and if I had not been so dehydrated tears would have started running down my cheeks. After 24 hours of the most stressful and uncomfortable travel I have yet to experience, I was almost home.

The remaining sunrises were seen from a park near my parent’s house and I didn’t have to struggle to feel their significance. Every writer should take a week to experience dawn. Take a week to record how it looks, how it feels and how it sounds. And if you didn’t brush your teeth too well the night before, how it tastes.

I kept a journal each day and here is an excerpt from September 10th:

The air is cold but the light is not. The horizon of purple hills and mountains seems to draw the soft orange, yellow and red from their bowels, becoming day like water from a well.

My favorite game is to try and guess from exactly which point in the sky the sun will peak her head. I usually look to the place that is the most red; I am usually wrong. For a red sun, an angry sun, is that of evening when the trials and annoyances of the day have set into our bones and our teeth are clenched.

The sun of morning is a yellow sun, a sun of promise and hope. It is my favorite sun.

Morning is like a symphony with the sky as its conductor. The moment before the sky begins to light is quiet and still, and then as the dark begins to fade to blue along the horizon, the first bird chirps, then another. Then there is the gentle hushing of sprinklers and the first car.

As the blue fades to yellow and then to orange, the maestro brings in the pattering of joggers’ feet, a crow, another car, and then the rush of traffic from the nearby freeway begins to rise- the perfect drama to herald in the morning’s climax.

Watching the world awake is a magnificent thing to behold. It is also an exercise in patience for after you’ve recorded the air and the sounds and the airbrushed quality of the sky, she makes you wait. And only when you are quiet and serene does she release you from your perch.

Challenge 40: Ask a Different Guy Out Each Day

2010-10-09T17:45:00.000-07:00

Update-

This is for all those people who gave me crap about just walking up and handing a guy my number- the dude in the striped sweater called me. Well, he actually texted, but we're going out when I get back from San Francisco. So there.

PS- Celebrating Ramadan sucks. This is not a statement against Islam, it is a statement against fasting. I'm tired of being thirsty. Boo.

Challenge 40: Ask a Different Guy Out Each Day

2010-10-05T14:45:00.001-07:00

Romeo, Romeo, Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?

“You had to do what?”

“I had to ask out a guy, it’s my challenge for the week, so I asked out a server at a wine bar in Cardiff.”

“Oh my god, I love it. What did you say?”

“Well, when I first walked in I went to order a glass of wine and they had two Malbec’s on special so I asked him which one he liked better. He gave his recommendation but let me taste both, and I ended up choosing the one he didn’t recommend. In fact, I’m pretty sure he made a “gross” face when he described it.”

“Ha! Okay, that’s kind of funny.”

“Yea, it was and I think I made a little joke about his being offended or something. Anyways, at the end of the night I walked up to him and in true dork fashion asked if I could ask him a question.”

“Are you serious?”

“Wait, it gets worse. So he says ‘sure!’ being all cute and unassuming, so I say, ‘well, even though I don’t like your taste in wine, would you like to go out and get a glass sometime?’”

“Uh, would you like a little cheese with that wine?”

I know. I’m horrible at this. But in my defense, it’s not like I’ve had a ton of practice. AND, the wine guy even said yes. He also called me five times in a row around midnight, so we won’t actually be going out, but at least he accepted and didn’t make me feel like a total loser.

This was a difficult challenge for me- I have no problem putting myself out there in social situations and making new friends, and I don’t have a problem being the one to call these new friends to make plans, but when the interactions cross over to the “romantic” realm I get a little klutzy. I’ve never been a “wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve” kind of person and having to ask the other person out feels a little like that.

On Monday it was 5pm and I was in the grocery store picking up some ingredients for dinner. I hadn’t asked anyone out yet and while I searched for fennel I debated how creepy it would be to ask out one of the kids bagging groceries (don’t judge, they looked legal).

“You look lost.”

And I was. I was standing in the middle of the vegetable section, spinning in bewildered circles, trying to remember what the heck fennel looked like.

“Yea, I’m trying find fennel,” it barely registered that someone was talking to me, let alone that it was a MAN that was talking to me.

“Well, maybe I can help you.” I looked over to see a very handsome gentleman, probably in his early 40’s, with salt and pepper hair, olive skin, and one of the best smiles I’ve seen in a while. Yes, you can help me find just about anything you want.

So we went on a hunt throughout the vegetables and herbs (it soon became clear that he had no idea what fennel looked like either), flirting, making derisive comments about what kind of a recipe calls for such an elusive ingredient, and finally arrived at a bin marked “Anise”.

“What’s Anise?” I asked as I picked up what looked like the bulbous bottom to a celery root.

“What you looking for?” One of the employees had apparently noticed our disruptive search.

“Fennel.”

“It’s in your hand.”

“Oh.” Way to make me feel like an idiot.

We made awkward small talk, trying to drag out our conversation now that our principal reason for interacting was gone, and I thought for sure I should ask him out. Then I saw it: the shiny hallow of promise around a very important finger, guaranteed to halt all flirtation. I went for it anyways. Thankfully he politely declined and I went about finding the remaining ingredients I’d come for.

Now, before you get judgmental, I didn’t ask him out because I wanted him to say yes. I asked him out because it was the end of the day and he was a better option than the pimply sack of hormones who might have sent me to jail. And it’s always good to practice on someone you know can’t say yes because there’s nothing to lose.

On Tuesday, I asked out the aforementioned wine server, and on Wednesday, I headed to the Ocean Beach farmer’s market. Yes, that’s right, OB. For those who don’t know, OB is a typically “alternative” enclave of San Diego that is home to many a surfer, skater and hippie, and can be considered a little grungy.

Despite my yuppie San Francisco background, I actually have a soft place in my heart for these types of guys and I thought it would be a great place to ask someone on a date. As you will see, I was wrong.

I was there to help a friend of mine’s father at his jewelry booth and after he released me, I spent some time wandering around. I would see guys I thought were cute or looked like they were funny (their friends were laughing), but I couldn’t think of a way to approach them.

I didn’t want to be the equivalent of “that guy” that every woman hates in a bar- the one that spends all night thinking of the lamest line ever, and then delivers it poorly. I just wanted to have a conversation. So, I went to one of the booths.

I had to choose a booth that a) sold something I could talk about and/or b) had something I wanted to eat, and since I could talk about the philosophical goodness of guacamole for hours, that’s where I headed.

The “Guac Guy” was alone behind his table wearing a dirty black hoodie, a beard, and some of the reddest eyes I’ve seen since college. Seriously, dude, eye drops. Use them. He was also eating the guacamole he was supposed to be selling.

“So what’s special about your guacamole?”

“Why don’t you just try some?” He said while holding out the container he had just been triple dipping into.

I resisted the urge to recoil and dove in with a chip, a lead he followed. So there we were, eating out of the same container like buddies, chatting about the fact that this was not his company (his brother’s) and that he was not supposed to be eating the merchandise, and I began to think that I could enjoy having a beer with this guy.

“You’re a funny guy; we should have a beer some time.”

“He he, yea, I don’t think so.”

And that was that. A guy with guacamole on his sweatshirt had rejected me.

On Thursday, I fared better and had my date served up on silver platter. A friend of mine had texted me saying she had “the perfect guy” for me to meet, so when she sent an introductory email I jumped on the chance to ask him for a drink. Due to conflicting travel schedules, we’re going out in two weeks.

Friday and Saturday were probably the most challenging of the week. I had planned to work on an assignment all day and night on Friday so it didn’t give me a lot of “interaction” time with other people. I was on my computer at Java Depot, completely buried in the Harry Potter-like world of Mineta (long story), and I kept noticing these two military guys staring at me.

First they walked by and stared through the window, then they walked by going the other direction and stared again, and then they finally came in and ordered a drink, sitting one table away even though the place was mostly empty.

Normally this kind of behavior would make me feel a little like I was being stalked, but I needed to ask someone out and I didn’t feel like wasting time trying to be social. As they got up to leave, I called over the more attractive of the two, said that I’d noticed him, and handed him my phone number. He seemed like a nice guy…but I won’t be too brokenhearted if my number is accidentally shredded in the wash.

Saturday is where I really screwed up- I had two legitimate opportunities and woosed out both times. I picked up my friend Julia and her roommate Heather and we went to meet one of her other friends, Greg. Greg was funny and charming, cute and completely comfortable hanging with three girls, and it’s safe to say I was a little smitten by the end of the night. But here’s where my awkwardness comes in. Julia kept motioning for me to ask him out but I could not do it- it didn’t seem like he was that into me and the fact they were friends threw me off. I just kept talking to him like I would anyone and when he dropped us off at the next bar all I could do was say, “nice to meet you!” as I slammed the door. Right.

Kicking myself for my inadequacy, I entered the next bar on a mission. It was full of hipster Cardiff/Leucadia people (I didn’t know there were such things), and as we pulled up to the bar I saw my mark. He was wearing skinny jeans and a hoodie and was sporting a nose ring. I know, I know, “a nose ring??” But he was cute and edgy and wore it well.

He started popping and locking to a Beyonce song (which did NOT fit with the surroundings) and again, I was smitten. I don’t remember exactly how we started talking but we developed a good banter about white guys dancing and cowboy boots and anyone with any cajones whatsoever would have asked him out. Unfortunately I’d left mine at home. So I let him leave and after a 20 minute conversation with a former pro-snowboarder that lasted 19.5 minutes too long, I walked up to some random guy in a striped sweater and handed him my phone number. It was lame. I know.

Sunday I had to spend the entire day on lock down so I could finish my project, so I sent a Facebook friend request to Greg and asked him out that way. Again, lame.

I learned a couple things this week:

1) I have so much respect for what guys go through and I will always give the benefit of the doubt to the aforementioned “that guy”.

2) Never lament “missed opportunities”, just don’t miss them.

3) I probably shouldn’t make asking guys out a habit.

Challenge 39: Sleep on the Ground for a Week

2010-09-29T22:10:00.001-07:00

Worst Challenge Ever

I know I owe you posts on my two previous challenges: watching the sunrise and not cussing, and I promise I will write them. I promise to share all of the beautiful, gory details of watching the sunrise over the gulf, from an airplane window, while shaking and sweating dengue; and I promise to describe how my head almost exploded while I watched my NFL team blow it on Monday Night Football. But now I’m going to tell you how the person who made me sleep on the floor for a week is no longer my friend.

I’m not joking. I would walk nine blocks out of the way in four-inch stilettos just to avoid him on the street. I should probably clarify: we stopped being friends long before the challenge because I left real estate and after that, we just didn’t have a lot in common. But if we had still been friends last Sunday, we would not be friends now, for anyone who makes another human being sleep on the ground for seven days straight deserves a punishment similar to waterboarding.

Yes, it was that bad. So bad I can’t even think of long, well-written, flowing sentences because all I want to do is find his phone number, or his new address, and give him a piece of the torture I endured last week.

The first night I slept a total of five hours, maybe four and half, because I kept waking up with an aching back. I would roll to my side but then my hip would hurt, so I’d roll to the other side until that one hurt as well, and kept the yoyo going until I wound up with matching bruises on both of my hips.

I spent Tuesday in a groggy fog and feeling hung-over even though I had not consumed a drop of alcohol. Tuesday night my brother came in to ask me a question after I had already gone to bed and just stood there staring at me in disbelief.

“You’re so weird.”

Yea. I know.

On Wednesday night, my back started hurting the minute I walked into my room. Call it a Pavlovian response or muscle memory, either way my body was not happy and somewhere around 3:47 am I started plotting my revenge. In fact it was dreams of pouring a sticky pink cocktail over his head (coupled with a pillow under my knees) that finally allowed me to fall asleep for a decent amount of time that night.

On Thursday, I figured out the magic cure-all: wine. Lots of it. I had dinner with my parents and since they always go through a bottle or so at dinner, I just joined in and kept drinking as my dad kept refilling. By the time I fell into my bed (literally), I didn’t even need the pillow under my knees.

Friday night was spent at my brother’s apartment with his girlfriend and their lab, and so much wine was consumed that I fell asleep on their couch until 3:30am, at which point I dutifully moved to the floor to sleep amongst the dog hair. It is safe to say that the groggy, hung-over feeling I had all day Saturday had nothing to do with the carpet.

After this I think my body gave up its protest because Saturday and Sunday nights’ sleep went uninterrupted and was almost blissful. In fact, I was almost considering moving myself permanently to the floor until I lay down on my bed and remembered why I paid extra for the pillow top.

Challenge 36: The Solo Trip Part III of III

2010-09-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

Samasati

The climb up the mountain was steep and the path was fraught with gravel and mud and rocks and I was convinced there was no way the little two-seater truck was going to make it.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get there.”

My driver had recognized the fear on my face so I gave him a weak smile and a head nod and went back to envisioning what a backwards slide looks like from inside the car. I imagined the surreal quality of the earth falling away, the roller coaster dip in my stomach, and the calm that comes before the end, but as we crested the final rise the anxiety evaporated and I might have heard an angel or two singing.

The main lodge for the Samasati Yoga Retreat (www.samasati.com) was almost demure shrouded in the tropical foliage and its expansive open-air dining room and deck offered unobstructed views of the entire coastline. There was even a hawk in the distance, dipping and diving with the wind.

“Welcome to Samasati.” Sicilia’s smile was warm and bright as she explained the adventures that waited, “Yoga is twice a day, in the morning and evening, and there is a shuttle at 10am should you choose to go into Puerto Viejo. There is also a meditation hall that is always open and a couple of hiking trails onsite, one of which leads to a small waterfall. And if you want to book a massage just let me know and I’ll tell Danielle, the yoga instructor.” Could a girl ask for anything more? Apparently, yes.

My bungalow was ecological luxury and outfitted with sustainable wood and natural fabrics, and included a balcony with a hammock and an ocean view. I was in heaven. I used the few hours before the evening yoga class to explore the grounds and reflect on how fortunate I was to have stumbled across this gem hidden in the hills above Puerto Viejo.

The four founders had a vision of a spiritual community where people could come to feel inspired, to grow and to find themselves, whatever their personal journey, and in my walk through the gentle jungle vibrating with life, I could feel their success on my skin.

The 270 acres consisted of small mountains and valleys, five rivers, bungalows, simple guest houses, and lots which are available for purchase should you decide you want to stay. Grass and gravel paths snake their way through the compound and the structures are spread from each other, often half-hidden by trees and flowers, or are set into the hillside, so getting from one place to the next can feel like an exhibition. There are multiple signs to guide you but carrying a hotel-provided map is recommended.

I was one of two people staying at the retreat and that evening the talented Danielle led us through an hour and half of restorative yoga to the soundtrack of gentle rain. And since she was able to give us both such personal attention I felt like I had a private instructor catering to my strength, endurance and alignment needs, which was an experience I want to have again.

After class we climbed out of the yoga alcove to join Silvia, a serene and witty woman who is one of the owners, and Julia, a bubbly and brash Italian intern, for the most gourmet vegetarian dinner I have ever eaten. Roasted tomatoes stuffed with basil, feta and bread crumbs, couscous, ratatouille, vegetarian enchiladas and freshly baked bread overflowed our plates as we sat down to listen to Silvia recount the building of Samasati with humor and self-deprecation.

“We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. We knew how to teach yoga and meditation and we had some marketing expertise, but none of us knew what it would take to build something in a place that didn’t even have electricity.”

The four purchased the land from a farmer in 1994 and built the retreat entirely from fallen wood using a generator as the sole source of power until electricity became available in 1997. All of the water for the property is still harvested from the five rivers and fresh water springs onsite.

“We also take on investors, so people who love it here can purchase a lot and build a house for vacation or to live.” I had been there five hours and I was already thinking about staying. I thought the idea was brilliant because how many times have you found an oasis of serenity and wished there was a way you could stay or reserve a spot to go back to again and again? Well at Samasati that’s not a problem, providing they find you a positive addition to the compound.

The next morning the yoga class was a faster moving Ashtanga improvisation and after breakfast Ann and I took the shuttle to Puerto Viejo. This bustling beach community set along an expanse of black sand has experienced rapid growth in the past ten years.

Electricity arrived in 1989 and eight years after that there was still only one pay phone in the entire town, restricting tourism to the most adventurous of surfers and backpackers. But recent improvements in infrastructure, including paved roads through town center, have made this a desirable place for foreign investment.

Ann and I meandered past street vendors selling handmade jewelry and pipes, knitted wares and whittled wood, and walked along the busy coastal street lined with hotels, hostels and yoga studios until we got to Playa Cocles. This is the beginner surfer’s haven on the Atlantic Coast and the beach was packed.

Two different surf lesson and board rental operations competed for clients on opposite sides of the entrance to the parking lot. One had a neat row of battered long boards and an older, dreaded instructor in front raking and cleaning the sand around them, and the other had a collection of shiny short boards and a bunch of young local kids hanging out. I chose the more weathered option and all I can say is that Danny was awesome.

He was patient and teased me for being a control-freak (a theme amongst the surf instructors I had encountered thus far), and seemed to be invested in helping me understand exactly what I was doing wrong.

“You’re too tense in your pop-up, if you just allow the board to take you, it’ll get easier. When you’re paddling and you can feel the board start to move on its own, take a second to pause and breathe and look to where you want to go.” Breathe; what an interesting concept. Surfing is an exercise in patience (with yourself and with the ocean) and I was starting to wonder if I would ever attain the illusive nirvana of “chill” to which all of my instructors kept alluding.

The first half hour was rough but eventually my body memory took over and much to Danny’s excitement I started standing up. He was the perfect cheerleader and even offered me a deal if I wanted to come back the next day for a lesson, but since my back and neck muscles were already starting to ache I told him the probability was highly unlikely.

The next activity on the agenda was a spa treatment at the Pure Jungle Spa (www.purejunglespa.com). After a little misdirection which led Anne and I all the way back into town only to take a taxi back to where we had just come from, we followed a stone path shrouded in palms and dense flowers to a three room, open-air hut. The lighting was low and warm and the natural wood and scent from the garden gave it an ethereal energy.

My extravagance for the afternoon was the Ultimate Total Body Chocolate Indulgence and despite the probable disappointment such an over-selling title could render, it delivered. I was first brushed with a natural sponge to slough off the roughest patches of skin and then melted into the table as my therapist worked her firm and magical fingers into my knots. When she had finished relaxing every part of my body, she painted it with a mixture of cacao and coffee grounds and began to polish with dexterous efficiency. The rich smell of mocha filled the room and dissolved into the twittering of birds and fading afternoon sun to elevate my consciousness to another world.

I was then tucked into a warm blanket and left to snooze while the enzymes from these natural exfoliants restored softness and balance to my sun-worshipper skin. I felt a pang of disappointment when I heard the door open and the gentle suggestion that it was time for me to rinse, but once I had cleaned myself by candlelight in the open-air rock shower, my skin was so soft and body so relaxed that the bliss I felt should have been bottled.

Ann and I decided it would be travesty if we ended our afternoon there so we decided to skip the evening yoga class and to have a cocktail on the patio of a bar at Playa Negra.

“What would you like?”

“Something with rum and fruit,” it wasn’t a lot of direction but to our surprise the bartender looked around, picked up a pineapple, cut it, and threw the pieces in a blender with some dark rum and made the freshest “adult” smoothie I’ve ever had.

Content, Ann and I settled into the heat and haze of the early evening, getting to know each other in slow vignettes. She was fascinating- a producer of documentaries, she had worked on countless titles for PBS and other networks, one of the most well known being “G-string Divas”. She was also working on a side project featuring the benefits of yoga to those incarcerated and how it aids in the rehabilitation process. I loved listening to her describe how she decides which stories she’s going to tell and how she’s going to tell them, and I couldn’t help hoping that maybe someday I’d be able to write a script worthy of her expertise.

The next morning Danielle was off so Ann and I practiced to a Philip Urso podcast. Three days in a row of yoga does wonders for my body and by the end of the hour and a half session I felt more open than I had since coming to Costa Rica. I felt lighter and more grounded and made a vow to incorporate a daily practice into my routine once I left.

Since the previous day’s excursion had given Ann and me a serious inkling for chocolate, Sicilia had booked a tour for us at the cacao farm down the road. Our guide was Andre, a wiry and excitable German with “Jesus” hair and missing teeth who had a palpable passion for the land, the neighboring BriBri tribe and the medicinal miracles they’ve developed using natural ingredients.

We were led through an eclectic garden featuring a wide range of native and exotic plants, many of which possessed healing properties, and the Noni fruit caught my attention. It looked like a green potato with lots of eyes and when opened smelled like rotting blue cheese. It also tastes a little like smelly feet, but the juice is popular among locals because it’s a natural detoxifier and liver cleanser and the BriBri shamans have been using it for centuries to cure all kinds of illnesses. I bought two bottles.

Once we had been sufficiently educated on the local flora and fauna we were introduced to the cacao plant and the chocolate making process. Cacao beans are similar to coffee in that they’re dried in the sun and then roasted till their shells crack open like peanuts, revealing a deliciously bitter fruit. The beans are then ground into a fine powder in a mortar and pestle, and then poured into a bowl to which milk, vanilla, raw brown sugar and cinnamon is added.

We snacked on the roasted cacao beans as we watched one of the chocolatiers work the ingredients into dark paste and listened to Andre as he made outlandish claims (that we desperately wanted to believe) that we could eat as much as we wanted and not get fat. After a lot of muscle work the chocolatier spread the soft paste onto a wood platter to harden and when we were finally able to taste this delicious treat, the only sounds were those of enjoyment.

I consider myself a chocolate connoisseur and it was hands down the best I have ever had- it was rich and smooth and had a delicate balance of tastes that melted on your tongue in the afternoon heat. I think we ate an entire candy bar’s worth before we were ushered to the front of the farm to meet our ride.

Ann and I were buzzing from our chocolate and the Imperial’s Andre had surprised us with so we decided to head back into Puerto Viejo. Unfortunately our “shuttle” driver (or one of the maintenance guys in his personal car) wasn’t willing to take us there as it was “against policy”. Right. You work at a chilled out yoga retreat and we are your only guests…you can’t take ten minutes to drive us into town?

He wouldn’t budge but once we were back at the base of the retreat, he offered to call one of his buddies who drove a taxi to come take us. Fine. So Ann and I settled into a couple of chairs outside of the office and waited patiently, and then not so patiently, for our ride to appear. Unfortunately the taxi driver had decided after receiving the call to come get us, that it was a good time to get his car washed (I mean, why wouldn’t he?), so we were left there for 45 minutes in the blazing sun to melt into the afternoon.

When he finally peeled around the corner, kicking up dust and gravel in every direction, Ann and I were not happy.

“Where have you been?”

“What you mean?”

“We’ve been waiting for 45 minutes.”

“Oh, sorry, I get my car washed.”

“Seriously? Couldn’t you have told that to the guy who called you?”

“I want business. Why you angry?”

“Because we’ve been waiting for 45 minutes.”

“Yes?”

OK, I get it, we’re in Puerto Viejo and no one’s in a hurry, and therefore, we shouldn’t be in a hurry. But I was still annoyed and as I looked around the car for evidence of that sparkling freshly washed look, I realized the guy was either lying or you have to pay extra for soap.

Once in town I headed straight to the Pure Jungle Spa for a deep tissue massage in an attempt to relieve the soreness multiple yoga classes and a surf session had imbedded in my neck and shoulders. Again, my treatment was pure bliss and I was disappointed when it was over as I was starting to wish I lived at the spa. Seriously. The women that worked there were all holistic healers from all over the world and were the nicest, most peaceful beings I have ever come across.

Dinner that night was another delicious vegetarian buffet and I sat with Julia until almost midnight learning about her life in Switzerland as a graduate student, her Russian boyfriend and the craziness of Italian politics. I liked Julia. She was a giant ball of life- she loved food and wine and laughing, she was well-traveled and accepting, and had goofy Italian mannerisms that were immediately endearing.

The next morning I took for myself and spent a half hour meditating in the Meditation Hall and then plugged in my iPod and set about creating my own yoga class. The Meditation Hall was much larger than the yoga bungalow and was set on a hillside from where the tumbling mountains, valleys and tempered jungle of the property could be seen.

Much of the natural wildness of the land was left to its own devices and being alone in a place of such harmony, and being able to create in this space, made me feel alive. That morning I understood why some people visit a place and don’t go home.

After yoga I hiked to the waterfall, dodging spider webs and fallen branches and made my peace with the fact that I had to leave that morning. At breakfast I exchanged information with Ann and checked out and then she and I stuffed into the two-seater truck that had carried me up the mountain, and made our way to Puerto Viejo for the last time. We parted ways at the tourist center in town and I walked to the bus station to wait for my air conditioned mechanical stead to carry me back to the grit and noise of San Jose.

As the coastline bumped and blurred past my window I almost felt cheated, like my time had been cut short, and I flirted with the thought of getting off the bus in Cahuita and just not going home.

“Next time,” I muttered to myself. And there will be a next time. I loved traveling by myself and being in complete control of my schedule and my activities. I loved being silent when I wanted to be silent and speaking when I chose to do that. I loved having space to think and write and reflect, and not feeling like I had to be entertaining for someone else.

I am a little bit wanderer, a little bit loner, and a little bit social and traveling alone allowed me to be all three.

Challenge 36: The Solo Trip part II of III

2010-09-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

Relax Into It

“Goodbyyyyyyyye!” A multinational chorus sang to me in Siquirris as I dragged my duffel bag from the back of the overstuffed bus to the door, practically kicking it down the steps. I turned and waved and gave them the most confident smile I could.

The torrent of nerves that had been slowly building at the base of my stomach since breakfast had moved into my nervous system and was causing my hands to shake and my step to become unsteady. Michael swiftly picked my bag from the base of the steps and carried it to the back of the bus while I took my time; I wasn’t ready to be thrown to the wolves just yet.

“There’s the bus station.”

I just stood there and stared across the street at the concrete building infected to its seams with people.

“Remember, don’t talk to strangers and don’t accept an open drink.”

With the face of a frightened child I turned my eyes and took his hand, gave him a kiss on the cheek and muttered a barely audible “thank you” before he hurried back to the bus. As I watched it drive away I realized that now, I was really alone. And if I got lost or distracted or confused, there would be no one looking for me, holding the boat to make sure I wasn’t stranded; no one who had my interests under any consideration whatsoever. And I was scared.

I would have felt differently if I spoke better Spanish as the ability to communicate solves many problems and prevents many disasters, but as the situation stood, I had to convince myself of my survival abilities and force my feet forward.

I found the ticketing booth for Limon and purchased my ticket with limited issues and attempted to ignore the questioning stares from the other passengers. As I have previously written, the bus ride to Limon was air conditioned and uneventful, and after a guy across the aisle pulled out his iPod, I relaxed enough to listen to mine.

But once in Limon I was lost and frustrated and scared and I kicked myself for not having a better understanding of how I was to get from one place to the other. The guide book and people I spoke with had all made it sound as though the buses to Limon and down the Atlantic coast left from the same terminal and it didn’t occur to me to ask otherwise. But next time I will. It was a minor detail which would have been easily construed had I understood the many directions I received once arriving in town, but since I didn’t understand, it turned into a much larger issue.

Limon is a large port town that has all of the dirt and grime that comes with this transient dynamic. It also has just enough wealth for its residents to want more and they are on the constant lookout for opportunities to enhance their economic standing. I was hounded several times as I walked the streets, sweaty and tired, looking for the regional bus station and each time I could feel the eyes on my sandals, my duffel bag and my purse, weighing their options.

It is not a town in which I would recommend spending more than a few hours if you can help it, but the street vendors actually had some interesting jewelry, pipes, and knitted wares. As long as you look poor and can speak conversational Spanish, you might be able to wile away an afternoon lunching and shopping before heading on to a more picturesque destination. Unfortunately, since jungle animals do not adhere to our circadian rhythms, I was running on a few short hours of sleep and was laser-focused on getting myself to Cahuita.

By the time I had purchased my ticket and boarded the bus I was feeling less sure about my plan to “figure it out as I go”. Being alone and cognoscente of my limitations made me feel more vulnerable than I probably was, which made me scared, and it all circled back to communication and the only piece of advice I’m going to dispense: if you are a female traveling alone to a foreign country, you absolutely must have working knowledge of the local language even if the only purpose is to put your mind at ease.

The bus station in Cahuita looked like a sad, decrepit strip mall as I stepped off the bus onto the sunbaked earth and my head felt as wavy as the air rising up from it. I hobbled past the barber and a video game store, and ignored the proprietor at the carniceria who kept yelling he had fresh meat for sale. I expected there to be cabs once I got to the street but the only sound in either direction was the dry scratching of a street dog’s claws against the cracked pavement as it trotted past me. Its ribs looked as hungry as I felt.

I debated which way to walk since I had a couple of places in mind which I’d read about, and a vague idea of where they were in relation to the “center” of town. I didn’t remember seeing anything that looked remotely like a commercial district on the way in so I decided to follow the dog, figuring he or she was probably headed towards food, and where there was food there was usually lodging.

So I started walking. And walking. And walking some more. The sweat was dripping from every pore and soaking every inch and I’m sure my face bore the look of misery.

“Hey! Hey you! Chica! You wanna a place to stay tonight?” The guy’s smile was as greasy as his pomade-slicked hair and the late afternoon sun gave his gold incisor a sinister sparkle. Call me judgmental but I didn’t want to sleep in any room to which this man might have a key. So I kept walking.

I passed a four way stop and two large open-air restaurants blasting reggae and ignored the whistles coming from their eclectic patrons, and then walked by an old man in a rocking chair, who probably really did want to help, by pretending he wasn’t there.

“Hey laaaady, you need some place to stay? You stay at my house!” In my nervous state and attempt to look like I knew where I was going I had walked straight into the park at the center of town where there was a large gathering of 20-something men with dreads and brightly colored clothing and beanies, just hanging out, watching the world go by.

“Oh shit man! She just gave you the look!”

I was pissed and tired and in no mood to deal with Romeo. I turned around saw a sign for lodging and the Cahuita National Park and followed the street till I came upon a collection of bungalows, one of which I rented for $22 a night.

“This lock is brand new,” Miguel said as he inserted a key into what looked like a prison gate attached to the front door, “make sure you lock both whenever you leave and at night.”

“Ok, got it.” I tried not to sound nervous or think about the fact that the lock’s newness was the first thing he’d said about the room.

“If you’re hungry, Clara can fix you a plate in the blue restaurant on the corner.”

“Is that your restaurant?”

“Yes ma’am, good food too. Awright now, I’ll leave you to it.”

The room was basic, equipped with two mosquito-netted beds, a fan, and a faded maroon easy chair that looked like it had been upholstered with industrial carpet. But it was cool and safe and had a shower (but no hot water).

I threw my bags on one of beds, showered and set out to use the remaining few hours of the day to get a handle on the town. Miguel’s restaurant, which as far as I was able to tell had no official name, was right at the entrance to the Cahuita National Park and from the patio, while enjoying a Bavaria Light, I watched the light fade from gold to orange to pink over the protected beach. My mind and gaze was soft and exhaustion started to set in.

“Here you go dear.” Clara’s voice was gentle and matched her smile as she set down the largest plate I’d ever seen of chicken, gallo pinto, fried plantains and what passes for a salad in these parts. It was beautiful. The next hour was a hazy blur of colors, textures and tastes and by the time I drained my second Bavaria Light I was feeling restored and ready to conquer the streets of Cahuita.

I walked out into inky pink light and strolled towards the four-way stop which was apparently “town center”. The two large patios were packed with a mixture of locals and tourists all enjoying beers and large platters of food and trying to talk over the American music spilling into the streets. The little park had been emptied of its loafers and as I continued past I found a grocery store, the tourism center run by a leathered and portly ex-pat, several low key restaurants and an internet café.

Aside from the four-way stop the town was quiet and charming. Most of the buildings were one story and donned bright colors and covered porches with hammocks and rocking chairs, and the patchy weeds and wild grass grew in a lumpy carpet at their base. I walked the dirt grid of this small town till dark, listening to the symphony of the waves, cicadas and the faint rustling of life before retiring early under the cover of my mosquito net.

I awoke the next morning at 5am so I could sit on the beach as the world woke up around me. The quality of light was periwinkle with strands of yellow and peach showing through wisps of gray and the ocean was calm and patient. My only companion was a man whose face had seen the wear of many worries and in his hand he held a book he had no intention of reading. He just sat on a large piece of hallowed drift wood, staring, listening, as if the answers he’d been searching for would reveal themselves if he was still enough.

We sat in silence, respectfully ignoring each other as if the morning had meaning. As if by the simple act of peaking its golden brilliance through the fog of sleep and the noise of dreams, the sun could quiet all questions and calm all consciences.

In light of our bizarre companionship I pondered what it meant to be alone and how it differed from lonely. In those moments on the beach, save for the worrier, I was alone and at peace, content to watch the gradual illumination of the heavens and feel I had never wanted anything else. But while I was on the tour constantly occupied and surrounded by others, there were moments when I had never felt lonelier.

I think the reason is that when we’re surrounded by others who are connecting, it brings a stark contrast to our aloneness and makes us long to be with the ones we love as well. And when we’re precluded from the simple art of eaves dropping because those around us don’t speak our language, this longing is compounded. It’s an entire human network into which we can’t plug and are forced to stand outside.

I decided I preferred alone to lonely. I closed my journal as the park ranger was opening the gate and the fruit vendors were setting up shop for the day and purchased the most decadent breakfast of freshly cut pineapple and mango, pieces so sweet they were practically candy.

“Hey, you surf?”

I turned to see a goofy looking local on his bike staring at me with almost comical concentration.

“Uh yea, why?”

“I just wondering. Where you from?”

“Estados Unidos.” I don’t know why I felt the need to say this in Spanish since we were clearly speaking English, but he seemed to get a kick out of it. We also established that he has an aunt in San Diego and is not only a ranger with the National Park; he also teaches surf lessons at Playa Negra and leads snorkeling tours. Not a bad stranger to “talk” to.

“So you want me to give you lessons?”

“Nah, I’d rather just practice, but if you have a board I could borrow, that would be awesome.”

“Sure, I’m teaching lessons starting at 2pm at the far end of the beach. I’ll bring you an extra board and if you decide you want to go snorkeling tomorrow I’ll get the boat from my dad.”

“Thanks! You’re awesome, what’s your name?”

“Kenry.”

And with that, the best possible person I could have met on my first morning pedaled off and I was left to decide what to do until 2pm. I settled on a hike so I changed, paid my entrance donation and headed into the Cahuita National Park.

The park consists of a long expanse of jungle and sand intended to protect the offshore reef from environmental degradation. There is one trail that winds itself along the coast, playing peek-a-boo with the beach and local wildlife, and it leads from the town of Cahuita to Puerto Vargas offering multiple opportunities for swimming, snorkeling, and bird watching along the way.

I didn’t feel like the foliage was going to swallow me whole like I did while in Tortuguero, as this park was much more “tourist friendly”, but there were still poisonous spiders to dodge and monkeys to avoid.

I’m sure you’re asking why I would avoid monkeys, “because they’re just so darn cute!” Yea they’re adorable, until one steals your phone.

I had made it three quarters of the way back to town when I stopped at Point Cahuita to take a picture. I sat my purse on the one lone picnic table, pulled out my journal and my phone and set both aside, found my camera and walked a few yards away to capture the stunning coastline. Upon turning around I spied a large fury brown mass on the table staring at me.

“Oh how cool!” I thought and as I raised my camera to take a picture I recognized the bright metallic blue device in his hand.

“Oh please don’t, don’t do that, you don’t want that. Here, take my camera.”

Have you ever tried to negotiate with a monkey? It doesn’t go very well. We engaged in a staring contest for what felt like an hour, neither of us moving and both waiting to see what the other would do. Finally I took a step towards him and without warning he was up in the tree and gone before I could process what happened. Damn! Seriously? Who does this happen to?

I tried in vain to follow him and to enlist the help of a passing ranger but as he so cruelly put it, “Oh I’m sorry ma’am, but there’s usually no getting anything back from them. If it was one of the locals that took it, then sure, no problem, we’d get it back for ya. But monkeys? You’re better off just heading into San Jose and replacing it.”

Great. Depressed, I took off my shoes and decided to walk the rest of the way back to town on the sand.

“Why you so lonely?”

“Huh?” I’d been so focused on how fabulous the sand felt between my toes I hadn’t even noticed the most beautiful black man I’d ever seen approaching. He had what looked like a 3 year old in his arms, a body chiseled from ebony and a smile that conveyed so much pure joy it was infectious.

“Why you lonely?”

“I’m not lonely.”

“You’re not?”

“No, a monkey just stole my phone so I’m a little bummed, but I’m not lonely.”

“Ha ha, a monkey stole your phone? Serious?”

“Seriously.”

“Well he must have needed it more than you. Ah, see, there’s that smile. You should do that more; that color look good on you.”

As he walked away it took every ounce of strength to pick my chin up from the sand, wipe off the drool and resist running after him.

With a perma-smile on my face I ran into my “landlord” back in town who commented on how much better I looked, advising I just “relax into it.” Oh I planned on relaxing into it. Right into those abs and that smile.

I showered and put on a cute sundress for my walk to the meet Kenry at the beach (just in case) and as I turned the corner at the northwest end of town that beautiful baritone drifted over my shoulder.

“Why you so lonely?”

“I’m not lonely,” I called to him as he rode past on his bicycle, the three year old in his arms, “especially if you keep showing up.”

Kenry had brought me two boards, one was 6’2” and way too advanced for me, but the other was 9’ and a perfect aircraft carrier. I played in the waves for a couple of hours, trying to pick up any tips I could catch from the nearby lessons, and upon leaving, established that I’d meet Kenry at the entrance to the park the following morning.

“What time you leaving?”

“I’m not sure, but I have to be in Puerto Viejo in the early afternoon. Do you know what time the buses leave?”

“No, but you should go check at the bus station- I think they change daily.” Of course they do.

“Alright, well let’s meet at 8am at the entrance to the park.”

“Ok, I don’t know if we’ll be able to get out and back before you have to leave but maybe we eat breakfast or something.”

“Sounds good. See you tomorrow.”

And with that I headed straight to the bus station to see about my ticket.

“Why you so lonely?” Seriously?

I had just passed the three-walled barber shop and reversed my step to see Mr. Beautiful himself watching his son get his haircut.

“Are you following me?”

“Haha! No, really, why you lonely?

“I’m not lonely, I’m alone- there’s a difference.” And with a smile I walked away as he worked out the English vocabulary in his head. God, he was attractive. Almost I’ll-miss-my-free-yoga-retreat attractive.

I purchased my 11am ticket to Puerto Viejo and exited the station the back way so I didn’t have to walk by the barber shop and lessen the effectiveness of my previous comment.

Apparently I had traveled to the Atlantic side at the time of year when Costa Rica honors the inclusion of this culture into their heritage. Since the descendants from Africa and the Caribbean had been brought to the country as slaves for agriculture and the building of infrastructure, they had historically been treated very similarly to the blacks in America.

Until very recent history descendants from the Caribbean weren’t even allowed to travel to San Jose and government funding largely ignored this part of the country. But now in the month of September they celebrate equal rights with festivals and lots of dancing and Miguel had invited me to a party at his restaurant that night.

I could hear the Latin percussion as I locked my door and by the time I arrived the small, brightly lit dining room was packed with people. Tables and chairs had been removed to make way for a dj and a dance floor and there were already couples performing the Latin swing dance I’d seen in San Jose. I made my way past the people eating and chatting outside and found a seat with a good view of the room and the dance floor.

“I get what you said- but why are you alone?”

He had taken the seat behind me wearing the most arresting smile and for a moment I was completely disarmed.

“Because I’m traveling by myself.”

“Your boyfriend didn’t want to come with you?” Smooth.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, but if I did, he wouldn’t have been invited.”

“Why? You like being alone?”

“I do. I mean, not all the time, but every once in a while- it’s good for the soul.” He appraised me with a discerning look and then held out his hand as if meaning to lead me to the dance floor.

“Oh, I don’t know how to-“

“I’ll teach you. Just relax into it.”

And so I did. We danced and we laughed, he teased me and I him, and by the end of the night I was smitten. He worked as a tour guide in the area, saving up money to go to college in San Jose, and the little boy I had seen him with was actually his nephew who he looks after on his days off.

“She’s staying with me so you be good to her.” Miguel’s paternal hand was heavy on my shoulder but his eyes shone with the secrets of age.

“Yes, sir.”

“He awright,” and with a wink he was gone to the back to refill one the platters of chicken.

We wandered out into the warm night and in finding a bench, we sat with limbs intertwined and talked till sunrise.

“You’re really leaving today?”

“Yea, my bus is at 11 but I’m supposed to meet Kenry at the park entrance at 8 to go snorkeling beforehand.”

“You won’t make your bus if you go snorkeling….which may not be bad?”

The suggestive curl of his lips made me want to miss my bus. It made me want to miss my bus, my plane, my everything, just so I could sit there in his gaze, on that bench, for the rest of time. He walked me to my door and with a little convincing he agreed to meet me at the entrance to the park at 8.

I lay down as dawn broke through the lace curtains of my windows and tried to sleep but I couldn’t stop thinking. What if I did stay another day or two? That wouldn’t be such a bad thing- I could write about the yoga retreat after only being there two days…right? I checked my iPod- it was 6am and I was wide awake and charged with the fuel of pure adrenaline, so I threw on some spandex and walked the Cahuita trail.

It’s amazing how the dewy giddiness of night can affect the morning. How it makes the sun a little brighter, a little warmer on your face; how the twittering of the birds seems lighter, happier. How you can survive on no sleep at all, thankful just to be walking. It was a really good morning.

I arrived back at the entrance to see Kenry dutifully waiting for me on his bike and my heart sank as I searched the faces nearby and his was the only one I recognized.

“So we going snorkeling?”

“I don’t think so Kenry, I’m probably going to be leaving on an 11am bus to Puerto Viejo. But thank you so much for the offer.”

“No problem. You want to go get breakfast?”

“You know, I’m supposed to meet someone here and I don’t want to leave just yet,” my heart ached as I saw the smile fall away from his face, “but seriously, thank you so much for letting me borrow your board yesterday and for offering to take me snorkeling, that was so nice of you.” Now I was trying too hard and it was getting awkward.

“Is ok, when you coming back to Cahuita?” He didn’t seem to want to understand.

“I’m not; at least I’m not planning on it.”

“Let me give you my phone number and if you come back, you call me and we go snorkel or hike or something else. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

Kenry gave me his number and pedaled off, leaving me to wait and wonder as to the whereabouts of my new friend. I watched the fruit vendors cut ripe pineapple and papaya with small machetes, sunburned tourists pick their way along the beach, convinced that today their sunscreen would actually work, and listened to the measured percussion of life in this all-but-forgotten corner of the country.

I was still alone when I checked my iPod at 8:30 so I left my perch and admitting defeat, walked back to my room to shower, pack and make the long walk to the bus station. I’ll never know what happened and maybe it’s better that way for now I have a perfect night about which to write. It was a night unspoiled by the realities of human nature, the impossibilities of geography and the oceans between cultures. It was a night that to this moment makes me smile, and for that I am grateful.

Challenge 36: The Solo Trip, Part I of III

2010-09-12T17:06:00.000-07:00

National Geographic has Nothing on This

When I first received this challenge from my friend Leslie I envisioned the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, my left foot perched next to the steering wheel, and a feeling of complete and utter freedom. I know, I know, “how ‘Thelma and Louise’”. But then I decided to complete it while in Costa Rica, so I exchanged wind for air conditioning and the steering wheel for a bus seat and settled into what most people considered a bad decision.

My plan was to head to the Atlantic Coast of Costa Rica by myself, using the public bus system as my primary transportation. I was to be picked up at Alan’s by a van in the early morning to spend three days and two nights at the Turtle Beach Lodge, taking a guided tour of the jungle of Tortuguero and the nesting sea turtles. I would then be dropped off in Siquirris on the tour’s way back to San Jose to find a bus to Limon and another to Cahuita, a sleepy beach town on the edge of a National Park, where I would stay for one or two nights depending on how I felt. From Cahuita I planned to take another bus to Puerto Viejo and then a cab to the Samasati yoga retreat where I would stay for four days, returning on a direct bus to San Jose in time to do laundry and head to Nicaragua. I had no idea where the bus stations were, what time they ran or where I would stay once I got to Cahuita, but I had a book and a smile and I knew I could figure it out.

Before I started telling people about my plans I felt pretty good about the trip. Normally I hate guided tours (I’m not big on being told where to go when and what to think about it), but I thought it would be a good way to ease into traveling solo in Costa Rica, and everything I’d read about Cahuita and Puerto Viejo had promised beauty and activity. But then the peanut gallery chimed in.

“The Caribbean? Oh you can’t go there by yourself- you know there’re drugs there? It’s much too dangerous for a female,” Alan’s dad.

“Are you sure you want to take a bus? Why can’t you just fly, it’s so much safer,” Alan.

“Puerto Viejo can be sketchy so be careful,” my brother Conner.

After three days research and logistics I was stuck somewhere between the urge to roll my eyes and cancel my trip. Most who know me, know that the easiest way to get me to do anything is to tell me I can’t: tell me it’s too dangerous, tell me it’s not for women, tell me I’m not ready and I’ll show you you’re wrong. And this headstrong part of me had my bags packed and the 6:10am shuttle arranged and was comfortable with my loosely tied plan. But there was something about my inability to communicate effectively that pulled at a remote, dark corner of my brain and opened a chink in my armor just wide enough to let the doubts seep through.

What if it really was dangerous? The tour would be fine, but what about after that? What if the bus system wasn’t as easy as everyone said it was and I end up at the Panama border instead of Cahuita? What if I got myself into a dangerous situation and couldn’t talk my way out of it? At 2am, after the fourth iteration of disastrous scenarios and the possibly harmful outcomes, I shut down my brain with a shrug and a, “Well, at least it’ll make good writing material,” and put myself to bed for three hours of much needed sleep.

The next morning I was packed into a van with four families (one Israeli, one Dutch and two Spanish) and Michael, a 31-year old Tico biologist, who spent the ride explaining the passing towns, parks and plantations in both English and Spanish in an effort to endear us to the local culture.

There were many stops to view flora and fauna along the way including a three-toed sloth seen from his telescope on the side of the road, lunch and a “tour” of a banana plantation. Lunch presented my first challenge as a solo traveler. As we walked into the restaurant and my fellow tour-takers scattered to the restroom and buffet, Michael pointed to a collection of six-seater tables and said we had 45 minutes for breakfast. But who would I eat with? Was I supposed to eat by myself and let the families be?

Unsure of protocol I picked a random table, set my purse on one of the chairs, and went to fill my plate. To my good fortune the two Israeli boys, one of which spoke English, picked the same table and I spent the following five awkward minutes trying and failing to engage them in the most age-appropriate conversation I could think of. When their parents finally approached the table there was silence and I couldn’t help feeling like that creepy uncle who prefers the company of children to adults.

But to my surprise they were wonderful. A dentist and a business man from Tel Aviv, they were at the tail-end of a one month vacation in which they had circumnavigated the country. And their two young boys, one eight and the other ten, were adorable and funny the way kids are when they start to build autonomy from their parents.

So lunch was great. We laughed and bonded, but a funny thing happens on tours when one activity ends and it comes time to move on- the transition is always awkward. The meal’s over and it’s “free time” or you have to get on the boat or bus, and one party always wants to slowly back away while the other wants to keep the good times goin’. But everyone’s stuck in more or less the same place so a clumsy social dance ensues: the jetting party makes guilty excuses because they don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but they really just want to go to bed or the bathroom or to stop having to make conversation with strangers, and the others sense this but think if they’re inviting and encouraging but not clingy that everyone will remain best friends. It’s one of my most favorite situations to watch and least favorite to experience.

So, in an effort to keep the Israeli family from feeling like they needed to slowly back away, and even though I was so dehydrated from the humidity my bladder was bone dry, I excused myself to the bathroom and boarded the bus after everyone had already taken their seats.

Our next stop was the “tour” of the Del Monte banana plantation.

As the bus bumped along a ragged dirt road we passed through a town with brightly painted, squat one-story buildings whose roofs and residents were rusted and hard and Michael explained the dynamic on Costa Rican farms: the proprietor of the farm provides housing for his employees, the quality of which reflect the workers’ status within the company.

“You see those cement buildings? Well that’s where the field hands live. There are probably two rooms, one bathroom and four families living in there. The kids go to school on the plantation as well and there is a store supplying basic needs, so in a sense, their entire life is lived within the confines of the company.”

It sounded like entrapment. And I couldn’t help my overwhelming disgust when we pulled up next to three large tour buses and unloaded outside the covered open-air warehouse where the workers were washing bananas prior to packaging. The workers’ annoyance was palpable as the many tourists pulled out their cameras and began to take pictures as though they were zoo animals and although many were successful in ignoring the humiliation, one young man looked up defiant, and stared hard at the pale crowd. In catching his eyes, “Lo siento,” was the only thing I could say.

After the plantation we bumped along to the “port”, where the last road in that area dead-ended into a wide channel lined with tall grass. We loaded onto a long, flat boat and were sped through the waterways to the town of Tortuguero, passing many like-kind travelers headed to biological research stations or hotels, some to private residences.

The fascinating thing about this area of the country is the absence of roads. The residents are so dedicated to the preservation of the land that everyone travels by boat (there are even public “boat stops” for those who don’t have their own), and they seem to live in easy harmony with the jungle that threatens to swallow them whole.

We had 45 minutes of free time in the town of Tortuguero before heading to the Turtle Beach Lodge and for the first time I was actually alone. I had no idea what I was going to do with my time- I couldn’t follow the Israeli family around and I didn’t want to sit on the boat with Michael and the driver, but I also didn’t know how fun it would be to wander the streets of this impromptu town all by my lonesome.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” was our warning as the group was dispersing and it struck me as odd, since the median age of the group was definitely in the 40’s, but then I considered the brightly painted concrete blocks screaming advertisements for cheap trinkets and the way the locals seemed to narrow their eyes and practically lick their lips with predatory gusto. The town of Tortuguero, once an ecological outpost for research, had arisen quickly out of the locals’ desire to make a buck (or a colone) on growing tourism and I, a female with light hair and skin traveling alone, might appear to be a walking money bag with boobs.

So, clutching the purse slung across my body, I meandered down the dirt paths that served as roads on the islet bordered to the east and west by the ocean and canals, and absorbed as much of the simple rawness as I could. There was something familiar about the children playing a game of futbol in the square at the center of town and the old man in his rocking chair and unbuttoned shirt, and after a little while it got easier to ignore the curious and appraising looks of the passersby.

I found my way to the ocean and then to the Nature Conservancy and rapped a little bit with Ralph, a recent transplant to San Diego by way of Virginia, about the research they were conducting in the area.

“There are a lot of volunteer opportunities if you ever want to come back.”

“Ha, thanks, but I don’t know a whole lot about animals; I’m better with people.”

“Even if you can’t understand what they’re saying?”

“Yea, well, let’s just say that if there’s ever a game of charades, you want me on your team.”

“Laouren! Laouren!”

Crap. Michael’s worried voice shot over the palm trees and I knew I was in trouble.

“Gotta go! See you in San Diego!” And with that I turned and ran towards the town center and an irritated biologist pacing through the streets.

“Sorry! I wandered into the Nature Conservancy and I thought I had more time.”

“Did you talk to anyone?”

“Well, yea, there was this guy named Ralph who-“

“I said not to talk to anyone, you have to be careful. The boat is waiting.” Why did I feel like I was getting scolded by my father? I half expected him to grab me by my elbow and lead me like it was 1954.

We all piled into the boat and were hurtled toward our lodge, the water narrowing and grass giving way to dense and aggressive jungle. The trees crawled from some unseen origin into the water and the sky overhead, vibrating with life and threatening to choke and consume us. It was frightening and exhilarating and all I wanted to do was get out of the boat and explore but instead I sat in awe.

Upon our arrival was meal number two- a buffet and a long banquet table- so I sat down somewhere in the middle hoping to ingratiate myself to some of the other guests. Unfortunately I had chosen a seat next to one of the Spanish families and since only two of them spoke English, one almost as well as I spoke Spanish, the conversation didn’t last long. But I was ok with that. As much as I would have enjoyed getting to know them, it was kind of nice to zone out to the white noise of words I didn’t understand and to be alone with my thoughts and my food, and to not pretend to be interested in anything in particular.

After lunch we were afforded a few hours of free time and as the kids ran screeching towards the swimming pool I took the opportunity to slip to my room unnoticed in the chaos. I was exhausted from the early morning and from trying to be charming and speak Spanish and the last thing I felt like doing was making more halting small talk while pretending I didn’t have a headache and that the squeals of childish delight weren’t making it worse.

The room was great- all teak wood and tile with a comfortable bed that had been decorated with local flowers and rose petals. The only drawback was the lack of air conditioning and the windows which were merely screened holes in the wall which left no way to keep out the noise. And when you are in the jungle, which is home to monkeys, which make horrendous howling noises in the waning hours of the day, being able to keep out the noise is pretty important. I tried earplugs, I tried pillows, I tried earplugs and pillows, but sadly, there was no sleep to be had. So I went running.

Our hotel was on the water and the only establishment actually inside the Tortuguero National Park so the beach was deserted as I started to make my way north. The shore break and the dark sand littered with drift wood and shells gave me plenty to dodge while the stunning landscape kept me transfixed. There were palms and dense brush broken only by the occasional estuary or home, each with a painted log in the sand declaring its address.

I saw a woman playing peek-a-boo through the foliage, making her way with groceries, a group of local dogs yipping at nothing and no one in particular, and a local man running barefoot. We smiled, gave each other a head nod and then continued through the sea spray and the pinky blue of an east coast dusk. I was so lost in the surreal surroundings I didn’t see them until I could almost smell their breath.

They were just three figures off in the distance that could have been logs or dogs or illusions of a tired mind, but as my eyes adjusted to the fading light I realized they were pigs. Giant pigs. Potentially dangerous giant pigs of which I had been warned about in one of the “you can’t go there” conversations.

I froze, I didn’t know what to do- I didn’t know if it was better to stay still or to run, and if I ran I didn’t know if they would be able to catch me. In hindsight it seems ridiculous that three fat, giant pigs with stubby legs would be able to overtake me, but you never know, nature has a freaky way of adapting. So I just stood there and watched as the mist-shrouded family sauntered to the water, the two adults approving as the baby squealed at the gentle waves. There was nudging with noses and bodies and after a little while I felt like an intrusive voyeur so I turned and headed back to the Lodge, smiling at the gift I’d been given.

At dinner that night, and at all meals thereafter, I sat with the Israeli family and had the pleasure of feeling like we were all on the trip together. They were entertaining and kind and welcoming and impressive in a way I aspire to be. The husband is the Vice President of R&D for Better Place, a venture backed company dedicated to making electric cars the most accessible and cost effective transportation option worldwide. He is passionate about his work and proud to be part of a solution to one of the many ills that plague our globe. And the wife is a pediatric oral surgeon who received her specialization while working and raising her two young boys. I had to pick my jaw off the floor after she describing what she went through to pursue her dream.

The kids were also charming- the older of which was reserved and conscientious and every bit the responsible big brother, while the youngest was the salesman. He didn’t speak much English so I didn’t get to know him that well, but in observing the constant negotiations with his parents about sunscreen, pool time, and bedtime, I knew I was watching a rainmaker at work. The family was one of my favorite parts of this leg of the trip.

My other favorite part? The turtles. The nesting sea turtle tour itself was comical and somewhat disappointing as it is run much like the town was developed- impromptu and disorganized, designed to make a buck on the visiting tourists. But to see a 600 pound turtle lay over a hundred soft, wet ping pong balls from less than a foot away was better than anything National Geographic has ever had to offer.

We were picked up from our hotel by boat our second night and sped to the town of Tortugeuro whose dark, dirt streets were punctuated with dim orange spotlights and the neon blubs of a few near-empty discos spilling forth whiny Latin mash-ups. We were met by our tour guide Juan, a local with long, tangled black hair and a three day beard who smelled faintly sweet like rum. He also claimed to speak both English and Spanish but as he explained the rules on the way from our boat to the waiting station, it was clear English was not on the agenda.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch all of what you were saying, would you mind repeating it in English?”

“All I said was we walk to waiting station and when waiting station get radio that we can have spot, we walk to beach. Beach is where turtles are.” A paragraph of Spanish condensed into two sentences, hmm.

“Thank you for that, but it sounded like you said a lot more than that, like something about the turtles and eating?”

“Yes, yes, I was explaining why the turtles come here at night and why we have to be quiet. The beach is dark and we wait for the watcher flashes his red light then we go running. It’s all on the paper you were given.” Right. The paper it was too dark to read.

“Ok, but go running where?”

“Ugh! To the turtle!” Homeboy was clearly not having any of my questions.

“We need to be quiet so that we don’t scare the turtles- I guess they get scared by light and noise and if we disturb them on their way in from the water before they have a chance to dig their nest and start laying the eggs, they’ll just turn around and come back tomorrow. Apparently the red lights don’t bother them and when they’re laying their eggs they’re in a trance so they don’t know we’re there.”

Thankfully I’d been standing next to the patriarch of one of the Spanish families who spoke English and took pity on me.

“Thank you, I really appreciate that. I feel bad but-“

“Don’t. The tour is supposed to be in English and Spanish, he’s just being lazy. Although I wouldn’t feel too bad, not a lot he’s saying makes sense so Carla and I have come to the conclusion that he’s either ill-informed or drunk.” At that point I resigned myself to just following the group and keeping my questions for Google.

Juan led us down a tree-shrouded path infected with potholes, rocks and crabs scurrying to and from the ocean, the only light anemic and dripping from the duct tape and plastic in his hand and I couldn’t help but think of how ripe an opportunity we were for any would-be robbers.

The waiting “station”, which was nothing more than a concrete platform set behind a large water tank, was packed like a cattle ranch with small groups all speaking different languages, all waiting their turn to see the turtles. To our benefit, Juan wasn’t really interested in waiting.

We were instructed (in Spanish) to wait towards the entrance at the outskirts of the mass, and when the next squawk came over the radio we were herded towards the beach before any of the other guides could protest. A minute later we found ourselves on a beautiful stretch of sand gazing at a full moon reflected on choppy water, and sharing the moment with almost a hundred other people.

Real estate was limited, as there were so many small groups of turtle-viewing hopefuls, and it was hard to believe we’d have a chance to see even one laying her eggs before the sun peaked its head over the horizon. But again, Juan was impatient and kept moving us down the beach. The first fifteen minutes we were out there three different watchers flashed their red lights and we went running, spilling over the drift wood and ditches, but each time another group beat us to the site and we had to turn around in defeat. I was starting to feel like “the young kids” at summer camp.

Finally Juan came through and convinced one of the watchers to just raise his hand to signal he had a turtle, at which point we went running to see one of the most spectacular things I have yet to witness. In a large oblong and shallow hole, a female turtle, which our guide estimated was about 60 years of age, was perched, dropping her eggs into a deeper hole below her hind legs. It was incredible.

We then watched in the crimson light as she used her front flippers to cover the hole with sand and her back ones to pat it down, and after she was satisfied with her work she scooted herself out of the nest and lurched towards the water for rest before making the same journey the next evening.

We were all still in awe and secretly hoping we would get to observe another turtle when Juan broke the spell with a, “Vamanos!” and led us back down the sketchy dark path, past the sad neon-lit discos to our boat and the end of our evening. And despite my disappointment at the disorganized delivery and the guide’s unwillingness to accommodate, the tour was not an experience I will soon forget.

The rest of our stay at the Turtle Beach Lodge consisted of tours led by Michael through the neighboring jungle and canals where he pointed out all forms of wildlife including toucans and turtles, snakes and spiders, caimans and monkeys, bats and more birds than names I can remember. It was a veritable gold mine of wildlife.

On the morning we left I was a little sad to say goodbye to the jungle and my new friends but as I stepped out of the van to a joyous farewell, I knew more adventures waited in Cahuita, I just had to figure out how to get there.

Challenge 36: Take a Trip By Myself

2010-08-21T15:14:00.000-07:00

Be Aware, Know Where You Are Going

My trip started Wednesday at 6:10am when I was picked up by a tour van, stuffed in with four other families (two Spanish, one Israeli and one Dutch), and transported to Tortuguero. After two nights, three tours (one of which was spectacular, one intense and the other disappointing), I was dropped off at the Siquirris bus station to fend for myself.

Being that it was the first time I had ever bought a bus ticket in Latin America I was little more than panicked as Michael, our tour guide, dropped my bags in back of the bus and pointed across the street saying, "There's the bus station." And as the bus pulled away I was paralyzed. I had planned it all out in my head, on paper, and I knew all I had to do was cross the street and purchase a ticket for Limon, but for some reason the weight of my bags and the loosely organized chaos teeming with people was more than I was prepared to handle.

After two car honks and a mini pep talk, I finally put one foot in front of the other and crossed the street. I found the ticket booth and paid my fare to Limon, bought a smoothie, and then sat down to try to collect myself. From the way everyone was looking at me, I was clearly not doing a very good job of it. I don´t know why I was so fried, but I was.

The bus ride to Limon was uneventful and I figured once I got to the station it would be easy to find the bus to Cahuita...but I was wrong. I had foolishly assumed that it would leave out of the same station as I arrived, but as I dragged my bag from one ticket counter to the next, I realized I had no idea what I was doing.

Finally I asked for directions. I thought the guy said it was just around the corner...and he probably did, but since my Spanish is mediocre at best, I misunderstood him. I thought he meant the corner of the building, so when I turned the corner out of the bus station I ended up on a very busy street with lots of cars, sketchy looking men and taxis yelling at me, I started to panic again. Remembering that in Tortuguero Michael had advised me not to talk to strangers no matter what, I ignored everyone and just kept walking thinking I could figure it out on my own....which is a really good way to get lost.

After about five minutes I realized I again had no idea where I was and that the best thing to do was to stop, look for someone who appeared trust-worthy, and ask for directions. I approached a taxi driver and asked for the Cahuita bus station in the best Spanish my frazzled mind could muster. He was very sweet and I was again given directions that I only half understood. It was hot and my bags were heavy and I considered standing there for another minute or two to make sure I completely comprehended where I was headed, but then thought I could "figure it out". The definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting to get different results.

I walked four blocks sweating under the weight of my luggage, the strap rubbing the skin around my neck raw, without seeing anything that remotely looked like a bus station. But I did see a hotel. Near tears, I climbed the steps to the reception desk and asked, in quivering Spanish, where I could find the friggin bus station. When he pointed the direction from which I had come I almost lost it. I dropped my bags and feeling the tears well up behind my eyes, I sat down, smoothed my ponytail, took two deep breaths, and then asked him again: Where exactly is the bus station? He directed back to the same station in which I had arrived. Fabulous.

Feeling more angry with myself than I had in a while I stormed into the terminal, marched up to the first guard I saw and said I would pay him $10,000 colones ($20) to take me where I needed to go. Since just about anything can be bought in this country (I´m told a life is worth $50), he obliged and upon seeing my face flood with relief when it was literally one block away and around the corner (having a better understanding of Spanish would have helped), he refused to take the money I had offered him. He was a very sweet man and left me with a "Tan cuidado."

Upon arriving in Cahuita I was exhausted and in no mood for bullshit. I lugged my bag from the bus and searched the desolate street for a taxi. Nothing. So with only a vague idea of where I was going (I had read a brief description of the town´s layout in the guidebook), I set off again on foot.

I was a blonde female walking alone with a heavy bag and vulnerability written all over my face. I was hissed at, catcalled, followed, and by the time I arrived at the Riverside Cabinas where I am currently staying, I looked like a ragged and huddled kitten who´d been beaten by every human she´d come across. It was bad.

The proprietor showed me to my room, gave me my keys and when I saw him this morning after my three and a half hour walk in the Cahuita National Park, said: "You look much better today. Yesterday you looked scared and nervous, like an animal. I figured many people had already bothered you so that is why I left you alone."

"Yea, yesterday was a hard day, I got lost a couple times. But I´m learning."

"Ah yes, we always learn, sometimes the lesson is easy, sometimes it is hard. Today, you look much more relaxed. I like you this way. Stay. Stay."

I think I might love him.

So after about six hours of self-induced hell, I am finally enjoying the whole traveling alone thing. I like eating by myself, walking by myself, and having the complete freedom to do whatever it is I want to do, whenever it is I want to do it. At a later time I will write more about the wonderful things I´ve seen and the people I´ve met, as that is a much longer post. Tomorrow I head to a yoga retreat just outside of Puerto Viejo, where I will be for four days, three nights, and will then take a bus back to San Jose.

In the meantime check out: http://www.defenestrationmag.net/2010/08/%E2%80%9Ccookies%E2%80%9D-by-lauren-hargrave/

It´s my first published fiction piece!

Talk to you all soon....

Challenge 35: Write a Children's Book

2010-08-16T16:06:00.000-07:00

Cadejos

How does one write a children’s story? Seriously. Must it have a moral? Talking bunnies? Simple language? On Monday when I sat down at my computer to start all I could do was stare at the blank white Word Doc on my screen.

Despite dressing up as some kind of fairy for most Halloweens, I’ve never been that enamored with the fantastic and I couldn’t think of any knowledge I possessed that was imperative for the younger generation. What did I know? I didn’t even have kids.

After a few failed attempts at talking animals and inanimate objects, I decided to Google “how to write a children’s book” and came across a children’s book writers’ forum that was a gold mine in terms of tips and information on trends in publishing. I was advised that cute talking bunnies were considered cliché, I was to talk to the kids as adults, and that multi-cultural stories are all-the-rage. Ok, so an evil, ragged-looking rabbit from Spain with an MBA from Harvard, got it.

But as I started writing the rabbit became a womanizer and a vampire (too much “True Blood” in recent days), and after the second bloody sex scene I feared for a court-ordered sterilization and pressed “Control A” and then “delete”. I needed a new direction and inspiration of a purer sort, I needed kids.

Luckily Monday night we had Alan’s nephew’s birthday party and true to form, being the novelty act, the kids were all over me. I spent the evening playing patty-cake, learning animal vocabulary with Spanish/English flashcards, having my hair “done” and engaging in some arm wrestling (which I clearly lost). I was struck most by their open acceptance of the foreigner and their continued interest in another culture- maybe there was something to the recent multi-cultural publishing trend?

Then Tuesday I got an idea- I would write an adaptation of a traditional Costa Rican children’s story. So I again employed Google (really, what would we do without the internet), and came up with a long list of different legends and folklore. But upon reading them I grew puzzled. All of the stories were tales of drinking and womanizing (I guess the vampire rabbit wasn’t that far off), urging little girls to remain chaste, and one funny description of the pitfalls of beer goggles. I found it hard to believe that these were tales meant for children, but then again, this is a Catholic country and I guess it makes sense to “get them while they’re young.”

I finally settled on an adaption of “Cadejos”, the most innocuous of the stories, that is a tale of troubled young man who spends his nights out at the bars, causing his parents to worry. One night he doesn’t come home because he’s out partying and when he finally shows up in the morning his father is so angry he curses and yells so fiercely the boy turns into a black dog. His father banishes him from the house and the boy is then forced to wander the streets with a silver chain and follow trouble makers around for all eternity.

I figured I could adapt this to an eight year old boy who gets into a fight on his first day at a new school. Sammy, my main character is a Tico whose mother has moved him and his grandparents to California from San Jose. He hates it. He hates that he has to go to school during his summer time, he misses his friends, he has no one with whom to play basketball (his favorite sport), and has trouble with English. During his first day at school the kids make fun of his accent and at lunchtime a mean little boy named Donny knocks his lunch out of his hand and steals the basketball he carries around like a security blanket. Sammy’s lunch spills onto the blacktop and Donny stands in front of him while taunting with childish remarks and stepping on his sandwich.

Sammy loses it and clocks Donny in the face. He is sent to the principal’s office and then home, his mother having to leave her new job early to pick him up. His mother is very angry and sends Sammy to his room for the remainder of the afternoon and evening, and as he watches out the window as the neighborhood kids come home from school and start playing a game of basketball in the street, Sammy gets lonely and starts to cry.

But then notices a black dog with a silver chain sitting at the end of his driveway, looking up at his window. Sammy has always wanted a dog and he wonders if this one might be lost, and if it is, if he’ll come back so Sammy can keep him.

After school the next day Sammy is waiting for his grandfather to pick him up by the basketball courts when he is approached by a small group of older guys being trailed by the same black dog with a silver chain that Sammy had seen the day before. Brian, the leader of the boys (because there always has to be a “leader”) tells Sammy they were all really impressed that Sammy stood up for himself and asks if he’d like to play a game of basketball with them. Sammy, ecstatic at the promise of new friends, jumps up and takes the ball from Brian, dribbling into position.

The black dog sits patiently as the boys start a game of four on four, and Sammy feels as though he’s watching him, but before he can ask who the dog belongs to his grandfather is there, honking the horn. Sammy has to go but they all agree to meet up the next day to play after school.

When he pulls up, his grandfather is suspicious of the black dog and asks Sammy about the group of boys. Sammy announces they are his new friends and begins to chatter away at how great they are, how they were impressed that he stood up for himself and best of all, that they play basketball!

His grandfather just nods thoughtfully and then asks to whom the dog belongs. Sammy can only shrug but notes that he thinks he saw it the day before sitting at the edge of their driveway. His grandfather just nods silently.

For the next couple of weeks Sammy eats lunch with Brian and his friends and plays basketball with them after school. They make fun of the younger, smaller boys, and pull the girls' hair, and Sammy has never been happier. Sometimes he feels bad for teasing kids his own age, but he finally has friends and gets to play basketball every day like he did in San Jose!

The black dog has also taken a liking to Sammy, waiting with him every day till his grandfather picks him up. Sammy asks who the dog belongs to but no one knows; Brian says it just kind of shows up whenever they’re playing after school. Sammy asks his grandfather if he can adopt it.

Pausing for a thoughtful moment (because this is what grandfathers do, right?), his grandfather launches into the story of Cadejos, explaining what happens to boys who misbehave and shame their parents, and then asks if Sammy ever sees or hears of Brian or the other boys doing things that would disappoint their parents.

Sammy denies it, defending his friends and himself, and brushes off the story of Cadejos as a stupid story of make-believe.

Sammy’s grandfather just nods silently.

The next day at lunch Brian asks Sammy if he wants to get his basketball back from Donny and Sammy says of course! So they devise a plan and decide that instead of playing basketball after school, they’ll follow Donny home instead.

That afternoon the black dog is waiting for them and they begin to trail Donny home, picking up rocks and twigs along the way, throwing them in Donny’s direction. Most of them miss and make loud noises as they hit the ground, making Donny jump and look around startled. Sammy enjoys this immensely and starts to pick up larger and larger rocks.

Finally one of them hits Donny in the back and makes him fall to the ground. The boys start to cheer but then as Donny lays there, unmoving, they start to get worried so they approach him and nudge his body with their shoes. Nothing.

A grumpy neighbor yells out his window, frightening the boys, and they all run in different directions. The black dog runs alongside Sammy, following him all the way home, and waits at the end of his driveway as he runs into the house and up to his room.

About an hour later his grandfather opens the door, worried since he had waited for Sammy at school but couldn’t find him, and asks Sammy what happened. Sammy lies and says that they all decided not to play basketball that day so he had walked home from school. His grandfather stood in the doorway, eying him, not quite believing he was telling the truth, but eventually just nodded his head and shut the door.

Later that night while they were eating dinner there was a phone call, his mother answered and became very upset, so angry she was almost crying. When she put the phone down she asked Sammy what had happened after school, but again Sammy lied, saying that he had just walked home. His mother kept pushing and probing, not allowing anyone to eat until Sammy finally admitted to throwing the rock at Donny.

Sammy’s mother became so enraged that he had shamed her, and then lied about it, she yelled and cursed him, her words so dark they turned him into a black dog with a silver chain. Sammy was scared and didn’t know what to do so he looked at his grandfather for help, but all his grandfather could do was to stare at him with sad eyes- Sammy had been warned.

His mother still loved him even though he had misbehaved, so she and Sammy’s grandfather built him a doghouse in the backyard and bought him a new basketball, which he nudges around the yard all day, frustrated he can’t pick it up in his mouth.

And that’s the best I could do in a week. The actual story complete with descriptions and dialogue is not ready for public consumption, but I figured this would give you the gist of it.

Challenge 34: Invest in a Penny Stock and Sell After a Week

2010-08-05T16:34:00.000-07:00

In It for the Long Haul

This is an interesting environment in which to learn about the US stock market. My challenge was to buy a penny stock and then sell it after a week, which meant I had to set up a brokerage account (something I had never done), fund said account, research possible “penny stocks”, figure out what the market jargon was actually saying, and then buy the friggin stock. It was a two week process.

For those who are like me and have left the majority of their “investing” to the managers of their 401k, setting up a brokerage account on ETrade is incredibly easy, funding the account is even easier (of course), but that’s where the paved “do it yourself” road ends and a four wheel drive vehicle is recommended.

Trying to navigate the ETrade website for research and basic information was like being handed a survey map and compass and then being asked to rescue myself from the Amazon Bear Grylls-style. I could enter a ticker symbol and pull up the general stock information and a graph of recent activity, but I had no idea what all the data meant- market cap? Bid, Ask, Spread?

Through logical reasoning I gathered the last three indicated there was a bid and an ask price for the stock and that someone somewhere was making money on the spread, but I was confused because this went against my previous understanding on how the stock market functioned. I knew that prices fluctuated throughout the day as units were traded due to popularity, but I hadn’t completely grasped the concept that the market was just one huge negotiation. I don’t know why this hadn’t occurred to me as it makes much more sense than the existence of some big brother somewhere raising and lowering prices based on demand; but it hadn’t.

As I mined deeper into the ETrade website for basic information I was left even more bewildered. The site is incredibly helpful if you already have a fundamental understanding of financial jargon and the stock market itself, but since I was lacking even the most fragile of foundations on the subjects, I solicited the help of Ask.com and its article on “Investing for Beginners” to answer my more rudimentary questions.

I found out that “penny stocks” are stocks which trade for less than $5 per share (I had thought they were all, well, a penny), they have low trading volume, and can be referred to as “bulletin board stocks” or “pink sheets”. I also found out that they are risky for new investors. Since they are thinly traded they can be manipulated, price fluctuations can be extreme, and sometimes they are impossible to sell. Ask.com treated them as the lowest rung of the free market ladder (I pictured a British butler holding his nose) and recommended that new investors not purchase penny stocks or pink sheets under any condition. Right.

I figured that since I wasn’t going to be investing a ton of money, and only owning the stock for a week, my risk level was relatively low.

I also found out about a couple of purchase and sell options that make things easy on new investors: the first is a “limit order” which allows you to set a maximum purchase or minimum sale price when buying or selling stock, and when the invisible broker at ETrade can make the trade, your request gets converted into a market order and the stock is actually bought or sold. The second option is a “trailing stop order” which helps you protect profits: as a stock price goes up you can tell your broker to keep tracking (trailing) it and only sell it if it falls. Seems like a good insurance policy to me.

The Ask.com article as well as various others I read offered great nuggets of investing information and jargon defined, and even though they had different philosophies on “sectors [and companies] to watch”, the prevailing wisdom was that you should only invest in sectors and companies you understand. This makes perfect sense because only then can you get away from the tides of market hysteria (both good and bad) and fully grasp why a company is a good investment.

So now that I had a thin concrete layer upon which to build my investment platform I was ready to research possible opportunities. But here I hit another road block. I had no idea which companies to research because I had no idea which ones were trading below $5- it’s not like ETrade provides a wealth of information on these red-headed step children of the Dow, and the information they provide, they don’t guarantee (another vote of confidence for penny stocks).

So I went directly to the website for the index on which they are traded: the OTC Bulletin Board (OTCBB; www.otcbb.com). From here I was able to gather very basic information on different companies- one of which was titled the Electric Car Company. I first checked it out thinking it was a new “green” start-up but came to find out the company was formed in Springfield, Missouri to produce and market its unique line of historical costumes and reenactment clothing lines through WorldRelics.com. So basically, Renaissance Fair wears sold by a guy who is the CEO, CFO, President and Treasurer; shocking its stock was priced at $0.003 per share. And as I continued to dig the prospects grew even grimmer.

But then I found Fannie Mae (FNMA). Even though FNMA is not really a company but more a government entity, I was drawn to it because a) I knew the entity’s business (real estate finance) and b) I felt a lot more comfortable putting money into an organization backed by the United States (despite the current financial disaster) than one operated out of some guy’s mother’s garage. So I placed my limit order for 50 shares of Fannie Mae at $0.38/share, good for the following 60 days, agreed to the $9.99 flat trading fee, and called it a day.

I’ve been told that a stock portfolio is something that is best checked once a week, if that, and that’s exactly what I did. I checked my stock yesterday and it was up to $0.40/share- a profit- I was excited! A meager profit, but a profit none-the-less. But then my portfolio metrics still showed a loss and I couldn’t figure out why… until I did the math and realized that the 2 cent gain wasn’t even close to being enough to cover the two $9.99 trading fees associated with buying and selling the stock. Seriously? I was bummed.

I did a break-even calculation and realized not only that I had to sell FNMA at $0.78/share in order to net zero, but also if you’re only planning to hold onto a stock for a week, you’re pretty much guaranteed to lose money.

Great. So today, when FNMA had fallen to $0.38/share, my starting price, I decided to sell one share (as I was challenged to buy and then sell), and keep the 49 remaining units. I also put in a limit order for the next 60 days to sell my FNMA stock once the price hits $1.25, which would give me a 25% return on my total investment.

The stock market is still as mysterious and finicky as a 1920’s pinup model, and I will absolutely continue to proceed with caution, but I am at this point completely fascinated. Somewhere between the financial news updates and Quarterly 10k’s I was bit by the investment bug and have already started looking into options in India, China and Brazil.