Whatever you do- Don't eat the Ostritch!

Hello friends- Its been nice hearing from you. It has been requested that I put up a picture of my new haircut... which, in retrospect, may have been an exaggeration on my part. Then again- if you're reading this blog you know that i'm prone to exaggeration! Some people call in dramatics, others maddness but, hey, whatever gets you through the night.
So, for those that made the request:

So, South Africa...
The south africa I grew to love is featured below:

The hotel swimming pool. (ps. took this really pixelated picture with new camera phone I got for christmas- the camera serves no other purpse than to text people images of south african swimming pools while they are stuck in a smelly highschool in dreary england.)

And for this reason (the swimming pool, not the phone) I want to move to africa. "Now, wait a second...", you might be thinking. "Has she really thought about this? Is basing a major life decision, to live on a continent ravaged by war and strife, on a hotel swimming pool a good idea? Is this the kind of decision making skills she is passing onto our impressionable youth?"

Maybe.
But I have other reasons too! Honestly, I do. Remember, I'm an adult now...

But look at that pool... with it's clear blue water flowing over the side down into a watefall, high above the courtyard, so when you are floating on your back you feel like you're floating among the treetops?

"No," you say. " First point- the picture is so blurry I cannot appreciate the wonder of which you speak. And second point- why the %#$@! would anyone move to africa based on a hotel swimming pool?!"

Well, its because of the people I met AT the swimming pool. Don't get me wrong- the sunning and the swimming and the massages and the daily runs and the gin and tonics were all very well and good- but it was being back in the company of people who shared so many of my thoughts and ideals that really sealed the deal. There were even a few RPCV's in the bunch.

The American accent was in the definite minority- so much so that when I ordered a drink at our conference reception the person next to me turned and said, "Western United States? California? Colorado?" And me, thrilled to hear his mid-west accent said, "Colorado-and what are you doing so far from Chicago?"

I thought I was the only one that played that game! To think of all those other ex-pats who overhear a voice from the states and silently play the "what state are they from" game. (Of course this isn't limited to accents. Clothes play a big part. People from the east coast tend to wear synthetic fabrics. Those from the west prefer cotton- or anything that has an REI tag on it!)

Anyways- back to my point. The people I met. I made a friend over breakfast (but later joined me at the pool!) who was from Yorkshire. We had a great discussion about the UK and she asked, a few minutes before we were due to be at the opening meeting- "How did you ever fall in love with a British man?" I said that I found their complete lack of emotion kinda cute. To which she snorted her tea out her nose and exclaimed, "I know! Men are shit at that anyways- but, God! The british managed to even make tha worse!" Needless to say- we were quite late to the opening plenary. And I had found myself a new friend.

That night (after a swim, of course) I went out with my new friend who works at an international school in Tanzania and her friend, a Head of another international school in Tanzania. They were brilliant. The most extroverted British ladies I had ever met. They spent the evening, over ostritch and apricot skewers, telling me about their life in Dar- the scuba diving, the swimming, the boating, the surfing, the wild game reserves, the food, the people... and I was sold. S-O-L-D

The next day, at breakfast, someone asked where I taught. (It became quite a cause of anxiety for me when people asked where I was from. It wasn't until later, when explained to me, that you only give your most recent residence, that I was at ease. No need to say where you live now and follow up with, "But i'm originally from.." I was told, "We are ALL from somewhere else... where you're from now is the interesting place. It's the reason you left the other's, isn't it? He had a point- but where I come from IS interesting. Thank God i'm not from Iowa.)

So, i was asked where I taught... I replied, "Oh... um, London." To which my RPCV friend says, "don't feel so bad about it!" To which my new British-Tanzanian friends said, "She has to feel bad about it- she's turned english!" And I could tell they were quite chuffed with this.

Over tea, during that afternoon's session at the conference (the actual reason I was there) the south african IT teacher starts chatting on about what we should do while were in Jo-burg. We should go here and go there but whatever we do... don't eat the ostritch. Up until this point I had been keenly focused on trying to hold this ridiculously small tea cup with a 1/2 inch handle without giving myself thrid degree burns. I had already plonked the think back into the saucer spilling half the contents but, damn, did that cup conduct heat! But at this comment, I managed to grasp that little nub long enough to squeak, "Why shouldn't we eat the ostritch?" And as my finger burned and thoughts of last nights scrumptious dinner filled my head, he answered, "Becuase the first case of bird flu was just discovered in Zimbabwe- in an ostritch." Sniffle, Sniffle. Cough. Cough. Do I have a fever?

As we all know- you can't get bird flu from eating the well-cooked infected poultry- but you CAN get some wicked sinus infection from having to sit next to a smelly Spaniard who coughed and breathed all over you for 11 hours in an enclosed airplane cabin. And while, i don't have bird flu- I would like my face to stop hurting now.

Ok, I'll wrap it up folks. I really enjoyed myself in South Africa- both professionally and personally. I met some great people, was asked to be one of the youngest IB examiners ever, and ate ostritch... possibly infected with bird flu.

However, on the last day, an hour before I was to leave for the airport, I was lounging by the side of the pool trying to get enough vitamin D to last me through to April (when I go home again) When my friend, the Head of the international school in Tanzania, sat down next to me. She said, "Here is my email address. I hope we can keep in touch. I think I might be starting ITGS at my school in year or so... You might be a good person to chat with." And with that she smiled, wished me a good flight and dove into the pool.

And that is the reason why I want to move to Africa.

Haircut for my Third Continent

When I arrived in london on friday night, I was a sensible girl wearing jeans and tucking my dull hair into a low ponytail (as i've done since leaving tonga over a year ago- but by sunday evening I had chopped up my hair, got it highlighted gold, and bought some gold 4-inch heels to match! What happened!?

Well, I'll tell you. I am going to South Africa!!!

Ok, I didn't get a haircut because i'm finally going to Africa- but I did get a haircut because I'm grown-up enough to get someone to pay for me to go to South Africa!

I'm so excited- and i'll tell you all about it when i return- but first i just want to give a little credit where credit is due.

I had a little inside joke with myself until a few months ago. My inside joke was that I would say, "Oh, how grown up!" to anyone who did anything even slightly domesticated... or let's just say normal. And I would smirk. This does NOT mean that i was judging or thinking of myself as better. This you have to understand. Everyone is allowed their own path and adventures- no matter in what form they come. But for me, to be a "grown-up" was something that other people did. I myself was not grown-up.

I knew this because:
a) I didn't have any wrinkles
b) I didn't have any money
c) Objects such as cars and houses were things I was not allowed to play with and believed i'd have to win the lottery to afford.
d) My college loans were my biggest "downer" and
e) I still liked the idea of backpacking around the world, living off $1 a day, and sleeping anywhere they'd have me.

Then the unthinkable happened:
a) I got wrinkles.
b) My regular paychecks started to accumulate.
c) I actually contemplated buying a car.
d) My college loan is now the smallest bill I have...and no longer my biggest downer, either
e) And while sleeping a few feet from an irishman with smelly feet in Seville- I realized that, in fact, I didn't want to backpack around the world living off $1 a day.

But that doesn't mean I still don't want to go around it....

It just means that I want to do it like a grown-up.

And this past weekend in London was my first weekend as a grown-up. And it was lovely- I don't think i've ever been in a better mood!

Phrases like, "settling" and "sell-out" and "boring" were all I used to think of when I'd hear the word grown-up. But now, NOW I hear words like, "opportunity" and "security" and, belive it or not, "fun"! Because let me tell you- South Africa is going to much better with money than it would be without!

But we all get there at different times. My wonderful parents knew this. They'd tell me about all the perks. I'd see them when I'd go out with my good friend and her husband back in colorado. But I wasn't ready. Now that i'm here- I can't believe I waited this long! And thanks for everyone's patience!

But the best part about being a grown-up is that you're allowed to OWN your mistakes, to take risks knowing that you can deal with the results, and be bold enough to get bangs... or "fringe" as my british hairdresser insisted.
And when she started cutting- I knew that however it turned out, the grown-up in me would handle it and the kid in me would just laugh.

Home from the Holidays

My plane landed at Heathrow on the last day of 2005.

When the plane left colorado soil, I couldn't help but get choked up about having said goodbye to the people I love.

And when the plane touched down onto UK soil, I couldn't help but get choked up about saying hello to the boy I love.

But for all those hours in between (apart from the 2 hours of my life watching The Dukes of Hazard which I will never get back) I spent the time pondering the meaning of home:

The oddity of having to get travel insurance to visit the place where I grew up. The strange sensation of clearly knowing the directions from my house to the airport I had left and how to get home from the airport to which i was going. The idea that while I was in colorado I was as conscience of the words I was using as much as when I am in the company of Britons. How, after 6 months of complaining about british TV, I couldn't bring myself to watch even 20 minutes of the American version after being stressed out by the intensity of Entertainment Tonight. And, while britishrailasis is its own breed of illness, I had forgotten about the nausea-inducing car sickness that comes from the wide, careening roads of southern metro-Denver. Then the Tylenol PM kicked in and I was out until I was jarred awake from the jolting landing.

There is a law in the universe which says that your bags will arrive in accordance to how fast you want to see whoever is on the other side of customs. This also stands for passport control and the speed of disembarking from the aircraft. By this I mean that if you have no one waiting for you on the other side- your bags will come out first, the immigration officer will stamp your passport without looking at you and you will be seated in an aisle seat two rows back.

However, if the love of your life is standing on the other side of the glass doors of international arrivals- you will be seated in in the last window seat in the last row, the immigration officer will assume your work visa is a forgery, and your bags will be lost. Good thing Romeo did not have to pick Juliet up from Verona's international airport.

And, lucky for me, the universe pulled some strings and I only had to suffer seat 30E, a few extra questions, and my bags arriving dead last.

New Year's Eve was spent overwhelming my boyfriend with my adoration and american generosity translated into christmas gifts. (which equals an entire suitcase-full) It took him two days, one nap, and three blushes, but he eventually made it though all his gifts and was sufficiently embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

And if you combine my jetlag, his constant studying, and the exhaustion of gift-receiving, you have a recipie for a New Year's Eve spent with one's eye's closed. So we slept through the turning of the new year and awoke momentarily among the wrapping paper and champange glasses loosely lying in our hands to whisper happy new year, give each other a kiss, and immediately resume snoring. But for all those years I had wished for parties and glamour- my best new year's was spent alseep.

On New Year's Day we found ourselves walking along the streets of my village and came upon a wheelbarrow race. And since England spends the entire holiday season, from the 20th of December to the 2nd of January completely housed, pissed, drunk, loopy, smashed, and wasted- it was only appropriate that the family wheelbarrow race included having to chug or "neck" a pint of beer ever few feet while making the loop around the village. There is a picture below to illustrate the event.

But all good things must come to an end. And so my Christmas Vacation is done. My boyfriend has returned to studying for hellish exam part duex (he passed part une!) and I have to return to my moody teenagers tomorrow morning. But it was truly lovely being in my big, intense, open-skyed, spread-out, inexpensive, good-quality, earnestly nice, quietly xenophobic, food-loving, blued-sky, central heated home. But it is strangely comfortable to return to my pub-going, round-buying, grey-skyed, bitterly-cold, poorly programmed-tv, public transportation dependent, self-depricating, understated, understocked, expensive, witty, reserved home.