Recap of the Semester

So...it's been a crazy semester. All sorts of inanity and insanity, which heavily contributed to my lack of postings. So what have I been up to?

1. I now work at the Career Development Office. I am a student employee, with regular hours and a paycheck that covers my gas and groceries and Miscellaneous Account bill. I make appointments, score personality tests, post jobs, and whatever other tasks they see fit to give me.

Greatest personal achievement? Making double-sided copies. Seriously, it's a life skill.

2. I had an internship with Zondervan, a Christian publishing company. I worked with one of the production editors, learning the business and editing manuscripts. I edited three (yes, three) manuscripts, and will receive credit on the copyright page. I also figured out what I want to be when I grow up, which is kind of a big deal.

Greatest personal achievement? I may/probably will receive an acknowledgement from the author of one of the books I edited. That's right, my name, in print. It's not on a cover (yet), but hey, for a 21-year-old aspiring writer/editor, I'll take it. I'm very, very excited.

3. I've been working out. Not as much as I'd like because of everything else I've been up to, but still going at it. Even started jogging a bit, though the cold weather has ended that for the moment. I may even have to get a new pair of shoes because I've worn my old ones out. That's right. I didn't outgrow them, I wore them out.

Greatest personal achievement? I lost another 4 pounds (bringing it to a grand total of 27 since the end of January), and managed to run 3 miles. Not regularly, but it's a start.

4. I had my first relationship. Now, because this is a semi-public forum, I won't go into details, but I was un-singleized for a while. It was fun. I got dumped in the middle of exam week. That wasn't/isn't fun.

Greatest personal achievement? Contrary to popular belief, having a relationship isn't an achievement. But I'm glad it happened.

5. I increased my church attendance. Because of my difficult experience with church in high school, going to church isn't easy for me. But over the past year or so, I've been trying to make it a regular habit, because I do feel like a church home is important. It's slow going, but I've managed to go more often than not this semester.

Greatest personal achievement? Sadly, it's merely getting out of bed on a Sunday morning, but the spiritual rewards have been amazing.

That's just a sampling of what I've been up to. It's been quite a busy, stressful semester, but it's been a wonderful experience. It also makes me look forward to next semester, which will (hopefully) be a little slower-paced. So what's in store for me?

1. JUST 14 credits (two Japanese classes, my senior seminar, and then 18th Century British Lit and Women's Self-Defense for fun)
2. Work at Career Development
3. The Festival of Faith and Writing (I'm hosting two authors now, and I'm very, very excited)
4. Preparing for post-grad life (AHHH!!!)

I'm sure there is much inanity and insanity to be had.

Frustration: Road Rage and Me

I hate driving. People who know me know that I hate driving, because I am (excessively) vocal about my hatred of driving. It's a stressful, dangerous task to me. Especially parking.

However, I have done rather significant drives on my own. Yesterday, I drove 9 hours from family in Ohio down to North Carolina, accompanied by a carefully constructed playlist, snacks, coffee, and a dramatized, audible rendition of The Two Towers. This was part two of my journey; Wednesday, after my last exam, I packed the car and drove 5 hours from Michigan to Ohio. Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway), my bum was not too excited to be in the driver's seat again. But I had the best light at the end of the tunnel: home.

* * *

I pulled off the last highway, Peabody, my trusted-yet-despised GPS chirping at me to turn right, and then left. I, the ever faith Igor to her Frankenstein, obeyed. I turned right, scooting into the left turn lane.

But I was too slow. The light turned yellow, and not being one to tempt fate (or traffic cameras), I reluctantly stopped at the thick white line. It was frustrating: so close, yet so far away. Why couldn't the 70 mph speed limit and lack of traffic signals extend all the way to my driveway? I watched as Peabody's ETA crept up a whole minute. Another minute dividing me from home.

Behind me, a woman honked her horn. I looked in the rearview mirror to see her gesticulate at me. She was dressed in business attire, driving a nice car. I gesticulated back through the mirror. "What do you want me to do, b****?" I asked angrily. Usually, this question is directed towards Peabody. I'm sure she was relieved to have the cursing targeted elsewhere. 

My brows were furrowed, my lip curled, my shoulders tensed nigh to my ears. The road-rage beast, already stirring from lack of sleep, food, and patience, was awake. 

Maybe, just maybe, the woman behind me is a nice person. Maybe she had someplace to be. But after I've been driving for two days after a very stressful exam week, you don't get the benefit of the doubt. You get called naughty names.

You won't like it when I'm angry.

One of Those Days

I'll take a brief break from the literary dissection of the facial expression. And a break from my break from writing for this blog.

The weather has stricken me down once more. I awoke a few precious minutes before my alarm, my head making its plaints known to me in a very specific and painful manner. I fumbled my way through the dim apartment for some medicine and coffee--thankfully, I had set the coffee maker last night. Score one for Alicia.

Usually, after the application of heat and caffeine, my brain's plaints subside. And I, triumphant over my own physiology, attend my second class of the day, albeit a tad befuddled. This morning, I am not so lucky. Every sudden movement reminds me why I'm not moving from the futon.

Why, then, am I writing now? Why, then, did I take the effort to write two emails in two different languages (neither of them English) to excuse myself from class?

Because, unfortunately, though my migraines limit my physical efforts, it doesn't limit my mental acumen. Quite the reverse, actually. I seek distraction, a way of distracting my brain from the pain that it can't ignore otherwise.

Well or not, I often find myself seeking distractions; it is one of my hobbies. And today is just one of those days.

A (Truly) Crooked Smile

It had been quite the summer. But it wasn't over yet; Ben, having decided to switch universities, was going on another college visit. I served as his faithful companion, and, of course, as his GPS. Starting in northeast Georgia, we hopped in the Brave Little Toaster and set out on our adventure.

I miss my baby... :(

When I woke up that morning, I noticed nothing amiss. One of my eyes felt a little heavy, but we started off (relatively) early in the morning. And this was before I started drinking coffee, so you can imagine that I wasn't the most perceptive of individuals at the time. 

Okay, okay, I'm not the most perceptive of individuals at all. But I digress.

The loss of sensation was odd. I don't know exactly when it happened, but eventually, half of my face was numb. As we left Lousiville, I contemplated the situation. 

I can't move half my face. That's weird.

We enter Indiana.

Have I had a stroke? I mean, isn't that what happens when you have a stroke? Can 17 year olds even have strokes? This is really weird. I wonder what my face looks like when I talk. Ugh, I hate this song.

I had to make a decision. I didn't have access to WebMD, but I didn't need the vague symptom checker to tell me something was wrong. 

Okay. Something is wrong.

"B, I'm gonna call Mom. Maybe she'll know what to do." 

I'm not going to guess what my brother said, but I'm sure it was some form of grunt or other sound effect that meant, "Yeah, that's probably a good idea." 

"Hey Mom."

"Hi sweetie, how's the trip? Are you guys having fun?"

"Ummm...Mom? I can't move half my face."

"What?"

"I can't move half my face. It doesn't move, Mom." 

I'm proud to say that I remained calm for the duration of the conversation. My mother, however, cannot make the same claim. 

"Okay, okay, well, you're going to your grandmother's house. Call her. Tell her what's going on. Have her take you to the emergency room." Now imagine that spoken with the rapidity of a tongue twister.

"Oh, I should go to the emergency room?" That hadn't occurred to me. Was it that serious?

My mom sighed. "Yes, Alicia. You need to go to the emergency room."

"Okay, I'll do that." 

Now, emergency room trips aren't exactly fun, but if you absolutely have to go, take my grandmother. After raising two boys with a horrifying propensity for injury, she is a pro. 

I got a CAT scan and a MRI to make sure my brain was okay. (Don't worry, there was one there. I checked.) I had to follow a flashlight and my reflexes tested. Meanwhile, my brother cancelled his visit to a certain college in Grand Rapids, Michigan. At some point, our youth pastor called.

"Yeah, I'm in Kalamazoo, with my grandparents. I was supposed to. No, I had to cancel. We had to take Ali to the emergency room. Oh no, she's fine. She just has some sort of weird facial tic."

For a writer, my brother has no dramatic flair.

The doctor came back, looking very important in his white coat, as doctors tend to do. "So, you have Bell's Palsy." My half of a facial expression must have communicated my confusion, because he explained. "That means your facial nerve gets irritated. When it swells, it gets pinched, and that causes it to be paralyzed."

Good. Not a stroke. 

"There's not a lot we can do. We'll give you some antibiotics and some artificial tears. And you need to make sure you tape your eye shut when you sleep to make sure it closes all the way." He scribbled a prescription. "Actually, I've never heard of someone getting it so young before, but that's a good thing. It means you should get the feeling back in a few weeks, with no real side effects."

"Good." I flashed half of my pearly whites and hopped down from the paper covered table. Just a few weeks. Few meant a small number. It was summer, so there was no need to go out in public. No photographic evidence. No one had to know about it beyond its role as a funny story I could tell later. Much, much later. Heck, road trip aside, the timing couldn't have been better!

Wait...when does school start? 

Confusion and Curiosity: The Outsider Syndrome

Being on the inside is fun, I suppose. I have to suppose, because it's a largely unfamiliar territory. Everyone is born into and raised within a specific community. Small town girl, city boy, lonely world. Being a military child is a unique experience these days; deployments, overseas tours, and the globalization of just about everything gives every family their own obstacles.

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

"Hi, my name is Alicia." We shake hands, even though the situation doesn't really call for it; this is orientation week, not a boardroom. We stand kind of awkwardly, because everything about this is awkward. New people, new place, everyone trying to hide the fear that we humans, apparently singular amongst the animal-like kingdom, cannot smell. 

"Nice to meet you, Felicia," I am offered in return. I keep my sigh inward, choosing not to comment on the mistake. My social instincts, on a finely sharpened edge, tell me that an exacerbation of the awkward situation isn't the way to go. I wonder if I should put my name tag in a more prominent place. My forehead, perhaps?

"So where are you from?" 

Maybe she heard the slight twang of the Southeast, imbibed into me by four years of sweet tea and red clay. Maybe it's because I'm not one of them. No height to me. Not blonde enough. I keep my sign inward again. Tact. Diplomacy. I'm trying, I really am.

"Actually, my parents just moved to Germany," I say. I try not to think about dropping Mom off at the airport, B silently accepting my hiccoughing sobs as we drove away. What a neurotic eighteen year old. 

"Wow!" There it is, a spark of curiosity. It's a true emotion, not the dull acceptance of the hundredth introduction. Name. Hometown. Major. Dorm. Okay, that's nice, move along, this is not the student you are looking for. 

"So are they missionaries?"

Valid mistake. Christian school. Far away from most military installations. But I decided to correct this one. Felicia is to Alicia is not as Missionary is to Military. The SAT is too fresh in my mind.

"Actually, my dad's in the Navy." I keep a smile. 

And there it is. Curiosity begins to fade into confusion. She doesn't get it. She has no experiential framework with which to classify me. 

"Oh, that's nice." Move along, pat down the edges of the peeling name tag. I am not the student you're looking for. Because you wouldn't even know where to begin.

A New Series

I've been thinking about beefing up the content on this blog. The inanity is starting to overwhelm the insanity now that I'm no longer gallivanting all about the Continent. I also want to try my hand at other writing styles; as much as I love my fantasy child that is my all-consuming project, I need to pull myself out  of that headspace every once in a while.

The genre of creative non-fiction was tossed around me during the Writer's Retreat last year; I wrote about my overwhelming childhood fear of velociraptors. It was humorous, I suppose, with a tinge of the self-deprecation that colors my self-dialogue. It was new and different, and I want to experiment with the genre again.

So, I'm proposing a new mini-series. My life can be condensed into a series of unconscious facial expressions; bewilderment, confusion, disdain, disbelief, etc. etc. I'm going to play with the creative non-fiction using the basis of the different facial expressions I perceive when I'm introduced to other people. We'll see how it goes.

Down from the Door

The past few weeks have been busy. I thought I was getting the hang of my new schedule, which then proceeded to kick me in the pants and take my lunch money. My stubborn compulsion to not go to bed when I should doesn't help. Self-discipline isn't exactly the most prominent facet of my personality. But I digress.

So it's been a while. However, I've managed to make somewhat good use of my time. You know, work, internship, school, homework, studying, Lord of the Rings marathon...the usual. This yearly tradition of an Extended Edition Extravaganza was compressed into a single weekend and enhanced by the excellent bass system of some accommodating neighbors. We received the first volume decrease request of the semester from our long-sufferring RA. It's a wonderful tradition.

I have also managed to take time to write some letters to my Swedish correspondent, work out on a regular basis, and bake a cake for my roommate's 21st. It was a beautiful cake, though Hallie and I may have an unhealthy fondness for frosting. She says she won the frosting eating contest, but I'm not so sure.

There's really nothing particularly exciting going on in my life right now, and I'm really enjoying my hobbit side. No adventures, just the excitement of living the day-to-day. There are no plans for the weekend, just sleeping, homework, church, and many, many naps. I haven't had a truly lazy weekend in a while, and I'm really looking forward to having one. I need a holiday, a very long holiday. I mean to take a deep breath and enjoy the little things. I intend to experience a cup of tea, a good book, and not wearing shoes. Hey, it's starting to get cold again, so I might even go a little crazy and break out the fuzzy socks!

I'll Probaby Regret This in the Morning

I will, really. After all, it's a quarter to one (how did that happen? Last time I checked the clock, it was only seventeen after...). I have a nine AM Mandarin Chinese class tomorrow, and I'm pretty sure I don't even speak English until at least ten.

It's been a busy-ish weekend, I suppose. Friday afternoon I left for a retreat with other members of the student committee for the Festival of Faith and Writing. We spent the evening at a lodge in Muskegon. There was even a beach, though the water was a bit chilly for my bare toes. And for once, I was, a successful beachcomber. My new friend Mary and I stumbled upon a pair of brass rabbits. Yes. Brass rabbit figurines. Do with that what you will. We named them River and Simon, because one looked like he was protecting the other. River now lives on my desk. I'll post pictures of her soon, I hope.

I know it's silly, but it makes me happy.

The sunset on the beach was glorious, and it was followed by dinner and Festival Jeopardy. My team, Dumbledore's Army, wasn't particularly successful, but we had a lot of fun guessing. The beds were surprisingly comfortable, and after a pleasant morning we were on our way back to Calvin.

Saturday night we went down to ArtPrize. Some of the pieces were interactive. Being college students with nothing better to do, we interacted.

It's like a flip book! With shadows!

Fun with forced perspective!

After church, I spent the afternoon with my grandparents. We went to the store and to dinner, and I told them all about what's been happening in my life. And my grandmother brought three cakes. It may be her not-so-subtle way of bringing boys to my apartment. Or she had a desperate urge to bake. I don't know. I don't argue with cake. Delicious, delicious homemade cake.

It is now officially past one, and I'm not so in love with coffee as to want to be drinking it all day tomorrow. So, goodnight.

I'll Figure Out a Title Later

This week has been interesting. Not quite the "Oh God, we're all going to die" interesting of Serenity, though the possibility of burning out was quite real. Because, if I'm going to be honest, I don't handle stress well. At all.

I'm getting better, I think. But considering where I started, my progress is still around a normal person's, how should I put it, anal-retentiveness. I can be fussy, if you want to put it more nicely and less honestly than my mother did. This week has been a little difficult. I have/had a lot on my plate, and it's hard for me to sit down and focus for extended periods of time. Anyone who's ever watched a movie with me can testify to this. And that's something fun.

So this year, I knew, would be an experiment in taking chill pills. This metaphorical self-medication isn't easy for me. I haven't been doing well. Yesterday was a tipping point. I had a Japanese test, the results of which I shudder to consider. So I was a bit...testy. High strung. Prone to venting that didn't always maintain the courtesy, respect, or clean language that every human being deserves when being spoken of or to. I should probably issue a blanket apology to everyone in my immediate vicinity for having to listen to me.

Sorry.

I don't know when my day started to turn around. Maybe when my mom gave me the brutal honesty my whiny self needs every once in a while (I still hate it, though. Hate. Hate. Hate it.). Maybe when I had the opportunity to get some things done, uninterrupted by distractions. But it was probably when I got an unexpected compliment.

I'd been forced to stare at my shoes all day from the sunshine. Keeping my head held high is something I'm working on, and somehow, despite the awkward eye contact, I've grown to enjoy it. And I needed a pick-me-up, so I wore my new sunglasses. They more than quite possibly make me look like a complete dork, but I love them. They make me happy.

As I walked out the door, a friend from English class last year was passing by. "Hey Alicia." He smiled. "You look really hip, with your glasses and everything."

That's right. Someone under forty called me hip. This never happens. Trying not to blow the perception, I smiled.

"Thanks," I replied suavely. "I try." And my smile stuck. I even chose a happy song to listen to on the way to Chinese conversation group. My step, dare I say, became sort of jaunty. My friend probably doesn't remember this mini dialogue, less than 24 hours later. But my evening was just dandy after he said it. And today was pretty fine too.

I can't promise that my chill pill will stick. After all, I've ranted about laundry- yes, laundry- on this very blog. But it's a start- I've been pretty optimistic for about 24 hours now, and that never happens.

I'm not perfect. Neither is my attempt at a duckface. Never again.

Destination Procrastination

On Fridays, I have a break between my internship and my last shift of the week. Perfect time, I'm sure, to get some work done before relaxing this afternoon. After all, there was reading to do for American Lit, worksheets for Chinese, etc. etc. But I hit my quota of motivation/energy for the day. I was, as per usual, in desperate need of a nap. And my cheap coffee maker failed me. It was a perfect storm of exhaustion and procrastination, as you can imagine.

In happier news, there was free, delicious cake at work. I brought a slice home with me, letting it slide about in the passenger seat. Thankfully, no frosting was harmed. And in the evening, I reunited with some old friends at the English department picnic. More free food. Another slice of free cake. And a free book!

Every year, the department chooses one book for "One Book, One Department." If you so choose to accept a free book, in return you attend discussion groups at professor's homes. It is, in the words of Professor Rienstra: "All the best things of an English class without the tests and papers." This year, in honor of the Festival of Faith and Writing this spring, the department decided to shake things up and do "One Festival, One Department." Instead of choosing one book, they chose four, each by an author attending the festival. I chose The Butterfly Mosque, by G. Willow Wilson.

I'm very excited, as I wanted to read this book and her graphic novel, Cairo, but was unable to do so because of my ever-changing address situation. It's too bad Amazon can't keep up with my semi-nomadic lifestyle, but I got a free book. All's well that ends well, as they say.

Hallie and I had a girl's morning. We went to Old Navy in search of clothes, the used book store for books, and Target for...what have you. Hallie walked away with a dress, I'm so happy to say. I completely missed my targets (tee hee), a winter coat and a coffee maker, and bought an owl purse (yes, you read that right), sunglasses, and colorful socks. All in all, a successful morning/early afternoon. And in the evening, I got roped into playing bocce ball with Hallie and some of the guys from Alpha. I'm sure we made an interesting spectacle as we wandered the KE grounds, tossing deceptively heavy balls around. We finished off the evening with a "love story," The Expendables. A very successful day.

Today (Sunday), I managed to remember to replace my coffee maker. I'm so excited that I'm drinking coffee past 6 PM just to enjoy having it again. I will rue this decision later, but for now, the caffeine high is making me very insouciant. 

The biggest news in Alpha 5 is the betrothal, engagement, what have you, of roomie/friend Elisabeth to upstairs neighbor/friend Chris! He did a very decent job at proposing (but, I have to admit, not so well at recounting the story), and we were all very, very giggly. This is a whole new experience for all of us, as Elisabeth is the first of us to take the plunge (brave girl), and we're very happy to be a part of it.

The semester adventures continue! What will happen next?

Jots and Tittles

The phrase just makes me laugh. Sorry.

Girl's Night Out was somewhat a success. It involved cheesecake, so I was pretty happy with the outcome. To make up for the cheesecake, I went out for a jog with Hallie on Sunday. I pretended that I was a super in shape cross country runner. Thankfully, we didn't meet any of the real thing to bust my illusions.

But it was back to work today. Two language classes are no joke, but thus far it hasn't been that bad. Mondays are a short day, and I took advantage of that. (Read: I took a long nap.) I should be at the gym at the moment, but my weekend languor has spilled over into my Monday. Not that I haven't been productive (and somehow developed a bad, bad habit of double negatives). Just unmotivated. Lacking in vim and verve.

I'm procrastinating my energy. So, a domani.

In Return

It has been quite the week. I am back at school, fully moved in and fully scheduled. The reunions have been fun; having my second family around me is, of course, wonderful. Considering this, I've been extraordinarily social between class, work, gym, and my internship.

Today has been particularly fun. This morning was Mud Bowl, where the apartments gather in recreational combat in a giant mud pit. Our team was the Spartans, and we tailored our cheers and self-decorations appropriately.

Before. Only a Spartan smiles before battle.

After. Even after taking a beating, we're still ready to fight.

Three hours later, after a hose-down and a shower, I am still digging mud out of my ears. Some individuals, you see, found it hilariously to pick me up and drop me in the mud. It doesn't taste particularly good, though my newly-exfoliated skin feels wonderful. Who needs a spa when you have free stuff just lying around and an excuse to play in it?

Tonight will be the exact opposite experience. From a muddy, barbarous Spartan, we're transforming into young women of the 21st century for a girl's night out. High heels, makeup, and dresses await, a far cry from the spectacle we were this morning. I, for one, am/was equally excited for both. I'm not sure what that says about my character, but at least I'm having fun.

Falling Off the Wagon

I used to have something interesting to write about. But my travels are over for the summer, which I've already made clear by changing my "current city" on Facebook. So it's been harder and harder for me to summon up the spunk necessary for a good post. Not that I don't have anything to say-- far from it. It's just that I don't feel like my ordinary life is worth writing about. Hence the falling off the wagon.

I know, I know. I am a member of a narcissistic generation, where it has become customary for girls (and quite a few boys) to take photos of themselves with their smartphones, to contort their features and their body in the bathroom mirror, and then to upload those photos for others to leave comments like: "OMG you look so hawt!" or "Ur lookin' good babe!" Oh yes, compliment fishing has gone high-tech.

My last photo upload was a picture of pasta salad I'd just made, tagging my brother in the midst of its mayonnaise-y goodness so he knew exactly what he was missing. Oh yes, sibling teasing has also gone high-tech. And it probably tells you a little bit about my priorities. And why, despite the current cultural acceptance of egotism, I have a hard time coming up with a blog post I deem worthy for publication. Not that things have been completely boring. As I write, Hurricane Irene is blowing my area a kiss goodbye. And last week, an earthquake hit the East Coast, sending people into an unnecessary panic. For my part, I wondered if my mom's new dryer was already acting up. Thankfully, it wasn't.

I've also been finishing up my final errands before my final year of undergrad begins. Repairing the car, buying new clothes, packing my suitcases, etc. etc. It's actually been fun, shopping, considering I've lost over 20 pounds since the end of January. (Fulfilling one of my goals in my first entry, as a matter of fact.) I mean, it's still a work in progress, like my novel, but progress is progress.

So, I head back to GR and to student life. Back to books, Meijer runs, and fending for myself. And I'm ready to go back, if only for some sort of routine. I even copied down 30+ of my mom's recipes in the hopes of expanding my culinary repertoire this year. We'll see how the balance of inanity and insanity works out; knowing me, it will probably skew towards the insanity, but isn't that more fun?

Coming to America

It's been ten days since my grand summer adventure ended. I was hoping to have a deep breath, a chance to recover. And so far, it's been that. On the other hand, I've entered a new adventure for the time being. My parents have moved into a new house, and it's theirs. My mom spent my month away painting: her bedroom is blue (but she thinks it's green), the den is (actually) green, and my bedroom is a purple-gray. And she has plans for more. We've also spray painted my old desk, a chair, and a lamp. Let's just say that I won't be the next big street artist.

We've also received our last shipment from storage, which has been a trip down memory lane. We put all this stuff in storage in Georgia, so we haven't seen it in three years. And, frankly, we really haven't missed most of it all that much. My mom is cleaning out, and our garage has taken on the feel of a cosmopolitan secondhand store. Twenty-eight years of moving around has left us with quite a kooky collection of odds and ends, and Mom is weeding it all out. I've stepped in to save a few things from the pile, including a plate that commemorated birthdays when I was a kid.

Mom (confused): "You really want to save this?"
Me: *sniff* "Yes."

To be honest, I hadn't thought about in years. But when she brought in a pile of plates to keep, it hit me that one was missing. Honestly, I don't know why it's so important to me, but when she pulled it out of all the bric-a-brac for me, I knew that it had to be saved. I guess it's the tradition. For the Sheppard family, tradition has kind of been an elusive concept. I didn't realize how odd my family was until my first year in Georgia. We had to talk about our family's Thanksgiving traditions, or, if we didn't have one, we had to tell the class about our last Thanksgiving. I had to take Option #2. After five years overseas, Thanksgiving traditions had fallen by the wayside (if they'd ever existed at all).

But Option #2 wasn't great, either. Because on Thanksgiving 2003, three of the Sheppards were on a flight from Tokyo to Hong Kong to meet Sheppard #4, who was serving on the USS Kittyhawk. As the only forward deployed aircraft carrier, the Kittyhawk was gone a lot, so we seized the chance to see my dad. My Thanksgiving feast was an airplane meal (and if my thirteen-year-old self is anything like my twenty-one-year-old self, she didn't actually eat it). When everyone else talked about how they went to one set of grandparents for lunch and the other for dinner, I reminded them how essentially different my upbringing was. Cue the crickets for dramatic effect.

So, to condense the moral of the story, tradition isn't exactly our thing. But we do have little things: the red plate for birthdays, hiding the pickle ornament in the Christmas tree, and frosting sugar cookies in odd colors (my favorite has always been purple). My mother gives me stranger looks each year as I insist on following those childish traditions, but they also get more important to me each year. Traditions are constant, even when location isn't.

And yes, I will be eating my twenty-second birthday dinner off of that red plate.

A Week of Firsts

"You've had a lot of firsts this week, haven't you?" Sanna commented. This astute observation came after I said, for the umpteenth time, "I've never done [insert activity here] before!" And it's true. I've done a lot of things most people my age haven't. But there are a lot of things that I haven't done. So...my week of firsts in Sweden:

I went to Sweden.

I ate wild strawberries, rasberries, and blueberries.

I love rasberries.

And tried cloudberry and lingonberry jam.

Photo courtesy of Sanna. Cloudberry jam courtesy of her grandmother.

 I played darts.

I shopped in loppis (Swedish secondhand stores).

I went to a Swedish sing-a-long. I'm sure my pronunciation was horrific, but I gave it my best.

I helped rescue a bird.

And...I went fishing! I didn't catch anything, but it was still fishing, I think. I wouldn't know any better.

To Grandmother's House We Go

Exploring the garden.

Surprises everywhere.

Spoiling our appetite.

We finally pulled ourselves away from exploring the garden, as dinner waited within. We had pork pancakes (so delicious) with lingonberry and cloudberry jam.

With a fancy glass of milk to wash it down.

Sanna took this picture of her taking a picture. So meta.

Seeing my Swedie

I arrived in Umea late in the evening, tired after three (surprisingly stress-free) flights hopping from Rome to Paris to Stockholm to Umea. But I was immediately cheered to see a set of distinctive red bangs hovering at the top of the crowd, waiting for me. Sanna drove me from the airport to her family's apartment on the outskirts of the city. It was a very exciting experience, though that may have been the haze of exhaustion.

For my first day in Sweden, Sanna and I wandered around Umea, shopping and catching up. Not even a surprise rain shower could dampen our spirits, as we took shelter in a cafe for hot chocolate. When we returned to her apartment, I was introduced to my new favorite anime, Fairy Tail.

What otaku we are.

The next day, we walked down by the river and got snacks, enjoying the return of the sunshine.

We didn't stay out long, as my migraine attacks returned with the sunshine. Sanna was a particularly good nurse, putting me to bed right away and making me tea when I got up. She distracted me with Fairy Tail until my headache finally dissipated and made me pancakes when I felt well enough.

The next day, we prepared to go to the summer cottage. We were delayed, however, by an unexpected guest Sanna picked up in a local puddle. He called shotgun, tried to drive the car, made us pull over for snacks, and didn't even say "thank you" as he took his leave. Of course, we still don't know his name. Or whether he was a he or a she.

行きましょう！

Investigating the Vatican

The Vatican. I would like to say that my grand entrance into that bastion of Christendom was a graceful one.

But no. The Line A of the Rome Metro was in a tizzy, so I escaped from the underground for a bus and some fresh air. Crowding onto a bus with other tourists and some nuns, I bobbled about until, judging by the mass exodus of said nuns, I had reached the stop closest to St. Peter's. Bypassing semi-desperate tour guides in search of an audience, I proudly presented my reservation to the guard at the Vatican Museum. He was not impressed, but he did let me in, so I didn't quibble with him.

And then I got lost. Now, my ability to get positively turned about in a building has added numerous gray hairs to my venerable mother's head, particularly when she lost me in a massive Hobby Lobby. I was 16. Too confused to find a map, I just followed the signs and the tour groups.

This does NOT help with disorientation.

Somehow, it worked. Eventually I realized that I was, in fact, seeing everything I was supposed to. The Hall of Maps, the Laocoon group, the Raphael rooms, the Sistine Chapel, etc. etc. Being slightly lost made the whole experience like exploring, which was fun in a dizzying, confusing sort of way. I really enjoyed the museum. The Sistine Chapel was beautiful, though the security guards seemed to have been chosen for their anger management issues.

I got lost again finding the exit, but once again I followed my feet, and managed to stumble upon the Basilica. I went through metal detectors and under the inspection of the Vatican fashion police, on the lookout for spaghetti straps and miniskirts. I felt like I was back in private school, tugging down my skirt for a particularly strict teacher. Having been deemed suitable for entrance, I was set loose on the Basilica.

I spent most of my time craning my neck, trying to get a better glimpse of the beautiful ceilings, and the statuary placed at inconveniently high levels. St. Peter's is the product of centuries of decoration, and it was slightly overwhelming. I couldn't figure out where I was supposed to look, so I just kept looking. Even as I was leaving, I was turning around trying to catch a last glimpse of it all.

Returning to the sunshine, I accosted another tourist to take my photo.

Castel St. Angelo was closed, so I walked through the covered market before returning to the hostel. And yes, I got thoroughly lost. Domes, it seems, aren't particularly useful landmarks in a city full of them.

I got up early the next morning and trundled my suitcase back to the train station. It was a thoroughly uneventful trip, a pleasantly anticlimactic farewell to Italy. The flight from Rome left on time. The gate in Paris was near food and restrooms. (It was even the same exact gate for my flight from Paris to Rome last month.) I didn't get lost in the Arlanda airport. And, waiting for me in Umea, was my dear friend Sanna.

When in Rome...Do Stuff

I "slept in" today, which meant I got up after 8. Most of the other girls in my room had already up and went, allowing me to get ready in relative privacy and quiet. I tried to keep my pace slow, but inbred habits (thanks, Mom) prevent me from strolling for too long.

My first stop was the Musei Capitolini, home to some amazing statuary and other bits of ancient Rome. From colossal statues of Marcus Aurelius and Constantine (poor Constantine was in impressively-sized pieces) to the famous wolf statue with Romulus and Remus, I enjoyed wandering through the blank gazes and broken noses of the museum's collection. My favorite part was a selection of busts of Roman women, with the emphasis on their elaborate hairstyles. In fact, a lot of the museum's focus was on the cultural context of Roman statuary, making it popular with history and art history students (who get in for 2 euro, the lucky dogs).

I dragged myself down from the museum and back into the streets of Rome. I sauntered past the blindingly-white monument to Vittorio Emanuele II (also known as "the wedding cake"), examined Trajan's column, and wandered to the Trevi Fountain. As the hour drew closer to 14.00, I returned to the train station to meet Chelsea, a classmate of mine from Perugia. She had a few hours before her flight back to the States, so we dropped her luggage off at an office in the train station and set off for a little mini-adventure before her departure. She was glad for a chance to wander around Rome, and I was glad for some companionship. My internal dialogue gets stale after a while.

We found lunch, which can be a little difficult around 15.00. We went to the Trevi Fountain and took pictures and threw in our coins, which is supposed to guarantee our return to Rome. We wondered if our chances or quality of said returns were lessened if we threw in a two cent coin versus a whole euro or two.

If the quality of my return trip is based on how much I threw in, let's just say that there aren't any 5 star hotels in my future.

We went to the Pantheon, marveling for a short time at its beauty before realizing that Chelsea needed to go back to the train station ASAP. The nearest metro station, funnily enough, was right next to the Spanish Steps. Since it wasn't high on my list of places to go (Perugia's steps take precedence in my heart), it was nice to stop for a minute or two for a picture and have a reason to move on.

I didn't want those flowers...

After shoving the half-wilted roses back into the hands of a dedicated vendor, we hopped on the Metro and went back to the Termini. It took a bit of a jog and the help of some moving walkways, but we got Chelsea onto the express train to the airport just in time. It was also just in time, conveniently enough, for me to call it a day.

Vado a Roma

Trying not to think about leaving my new friends behind and worried about making my connection in Foligno, I boarded the train departing from Perugia with a rather weighty heart. For the past month, Perugia has been home, with all of its ups and downs (quite literally, as it's a hill). It wasn't easy leaving it behind, so I listened to upbeat music (thank you, Michael Buble and Michelle Branch) to take my mind off of it all.

Nothing went amiss with the trains, which is quite the victory considering the very common occurrences of delays, cancellations, strikes, etc. I did, however, get sexually harassed at the train station by an old man who tried to give me my first kiss (evasive techniques were deployed). Using the shelter of my guidebook to ignore him, I sent a little prayer of thanksgiving to the heavens when another Stranieri student from Perugia purposely cornered my attentions until he went away. Even though she spoke no English, I understood one word: "maniac."

Needless to say, I was kind of shaken by the experience. I rarely get any of that kind of attention in the States, so I was unprepared for the comments as I walked down the street to class or the grocery store. It didn't really matter what I was wearing or the time of day. And even though I knew that this kind of thing is common in Italy, I didn't expect it to be this frightening. The constant reminders that I am being objectified was/is terrifying, and it's not something I'm going to miss.

I had recovered from my experience by the time I reached Rome. The sunshine did a great deal to get me out of my funk, to which I promptly returned as I dragged my suitcase to the hostel. Thankfully, it wasn't far, and I put my feet up for a while as I contemplated my map. I decided to seize the hot afternoon, making my way to the historical center of Rome. Taking the wise advice of my guidebook to heart, I skipped the long ticket line at the Colosseum and bought a combined ticket at the Forum/Palatine Hill entrance.

Colossal, yes, but not as much as the amount of people trying to get in.

With no one else to entertain but myself, I wandered aimlessly through the ruins. The people watching was, I have to admit, just as fascinating as the ancient columns and tumbled stones. Many tourists sat on those stones, overwhelmed by the heat of the day, the same thing my brother, mom, and I did when we last visited the Forum eleven years ago. Some things, I guess, don't change.

After deciding that my symptoms of dehydration were starting to dwarf my enjoyment of the ruins, I exited to be promptly ripped off by a nearby vendor selling cold beverages to desperate tourists such as myself. Fortified by Green Mango Powerade, I tried not to smile too triumphantly as I breezed past the long line of people waiting in front of the Colosseum to enter with my nifty combined ticket.

It's hard to picture crowds of people cheering on gladiators and various wild animals, because now the crowds are planking on ancient stones and posing for pictures with cheery smiles. The most realism I found was in the exhibit of Roman graffiti, with stones carved with fighting gladiators, snarling beasts, and praises for the crowd favorites. All done, I'm sure, during half time or a time out for a commercial break.

When they weren't waiting in line for the Roman equivalent of hot dogs and nachos.

Snapshots

My own little corner, my own little chair...

The Ham Palace

Panna cotta... Yum

Corso Vanucci

Sitting on the Steps, enjoying my final afternoon in Perugia.