America is a World

Reading series from April to December 2015

I got this reading list from the Bread Loaf School of English. It is a intensive summer course taught by Professor Nash.The course description is as follows: "In this course we will explore fiction by authors of various ethnicities that examines the issues of interaction with and integration into “American life.” Under that broad rubric, we will discuss a range of topics including the processes of individual- and group-identity formation and erasure; experiences of intergenerational conflict; considerations of the burden and promise of personal and communal histories; examinations of varied understandings of race, class, and gender; and interrogations of “Americanness.” Grounding our discussions in a common historical text, Ronald Takaki’s A Different Mirror, we will examine works by Sherman Alexi, Arturo Islas, Philip Roth, Julie Otsuka, Jhumpa Lahiri, Junot Diaz, and Dinaw Mengestu."

TEXTS
Ronald Takaki, A Different Mirror: A Multicultural History of America - April and May
Julie Otsuka, The Buddha in the Attic - May
Julie Otsuke, When the Emperor Was Divine - June
Sherman Alexie, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven - July
Arturo Islas, The Rain God - August
Philip Roth, The Human Stain - September
Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake (Mariner) - October
Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao - November
Dinaw Mengestu, How To Read the Air - December

Using NYT Best Seller List to Get Back into Reading

I got back into reading by choosing books from the New York Times Best Seller List. The first title I read, In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin by Erik Larson, is based on the life of the American Ambassador William Dodd and his family during his assignment in Germany from 1933 to 1938, preceding United States’ declaration of war on Hitler. The author depicts what occurs when governments turn a blind eye to the evil actions of men in power, even when the people they ask to report call for a quick and drastic response. What was most interesting to me was the evolution of the characters, most of whom did not want to believe that such atrocities were occurring against the Jewish population. The book is based and supported by excerpts from the diaries and letters of correspondence of the people who lived in Hitler’s Germany including William Dodd, Martha Dodd and George Messersmith on the American front and Rudolph Diels and Ernst Hanfstaengl who were part of Germany security and armed forces. The author’s writing style is seamless. Larson does a wonderful job inserting the bits and pieces from different diaries and letters to create a fluid story filled with drama, suspense, danger and even more than a single love affair.

The second book I read, Lost in Shangri-La: A Story of Survival, Adventure and the Most Incredible Rescue Mission of WWII by Mitchell Zuckoff narrated the crash and rescue mission of the survivors of the Gremlin Special, a C-57 plane that went down in Dutch New Guinea in 1945, packed with soldiers and WACs who flew around the island to see an undiscovered village of natives which they had called Shangri-La. The crash took the lives of 25 individuals, leaving only three survivors, John McCollum, Kenneth Decker, and Margaret Hastings who make it in spite of grave injuries, hunger and atrocious weather conditions. The story is a detailed account of their journey from the plane to the valley where the “cannibalistic” natives live and the relationship that ensues between the survivors, rescue team and the Dutch New Guinea natives. It is an interesting and exciting read that includes pictures of the people that participated in such an incredible operation. The author’s writing style is very descriptive and clear, making it easy for an average reader to understand the inner workings of the United States armed forces, which I greatly appreciated.

The last book I’ve finished in the last couple of months was The Help by Kathryn Stockett, by far my favorite title of the three. The novel is narrated in three perspectives, first Aibileen Clark, a middle-aged African-American maid who spends her life raising white children, and who has recently lost her only son, Treelore; Minny Jackson, an African-American maid whose smart-talk towards her employers results in her having to frequently change jobs, exacerbating her desperate need for work as well as her family's struggle with money; and Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan, a young white woman and recent college graduate who, after moving back home, discovers that a maid that helped raise her since childhood has abruptly disappeared and her attempts to find her have come to naught. I found the book particularly interesting not only because it was flawlessly written, but also because of the parallels between the maids’ situation Jackson, Mississippi in the early 1960’s and Caracas, Venezuela today, even though people in Venezuela are not deprived of their rights. I enjoyed the author’s writing style and was very disappointed to find out it was her first novel and I could not read another book written by her right away.

The Climber Parts

The gentle rays of daybreak sneak into my tent through the opened zipper and land across my sleepy eyes. Still in my pajamas, I release the warmth of dreams trapped within my sleeping bag and slide into my sneakers silently, wanting to look at the sun rise alone, not wanting to experience the morning splendor with another.

The day is clear, not a cloud is in sight. I approach the steep cliff looking into the purple horizon, imagining hidden valleys surrounded by trees, unknown towns cradled by mountains, by other peaks I can see in the distance but doubt I will ever climb. I am drawn to the limitless opportunities, to the movement of the leaves on the countless trees that stretch far before me until they touch the sky.

Behind me people open their eyes, yawn while their stretch slumbering limbs into wakefulness. I hear the clacking of a camping pan, the smooth sliding of a sleeping bag being rolled up into its pouch. I do not stir, for I am hypnotized by the day, submerged in a clarity I don’t want to dissipate by moving. For the first time I feel no motivation to continue on the climb to the top of this particular mountain.

My peers pack up and continue their climb, never looking back to check my whereabouts. It is a group climb but each person has her own endeavors, timing and goals. I do not have to climb today at all if I am not inclined.

I cannot rip my eyes away from the horizon. I stand glued, teetering on the edge of a precipice that ends right after my toe tips. The movement of nature, the wind sweeping my hair lifts me, takes me on a limbless journey from this mid-mountain crag across raging rivers, flowering fields, dense forests and quaint towns. The landscape I see, on this one clear day, makes climbing seem pointless. Why would I want to spend my days watching for rocks and roots? What do I hope to achieve by climbing? It is so important to see farther if it’s from a single perspective? How integral is the view from one mountain?

With these questions I feel the climber in me lay down her back pack, trusty utensils, warm sleeping bag and waterproof tent. I turn towards the mountain only to see her smile and disappear down the path, walking into my intercepting shadow, which grows long and dark with the rising sun. I am not sad. I am not afraid. I am not nostalgic for the climber, for she has parted willingly and made way for another me.

As I relinquish my old dreams, trade the suspended and far-reaching goals of a climber I am liberated. I free to just live, experience. Within me awakes the daring infant who spent Saturday mornings playing with German Shepherds barefoot and in pajamas, the tiny girl who rode her troublesome horse bareback, the teenager who approached newcomers and new tasks in triumphant confidence.

Welcome, I say.

Together we take a couple of steps back, turn and jump off the cliff!

An Old Definition: The Climber

I begin 2008 with an old entry; a composition written by me, about me and for me. It was the way I saw myself at a certain moment in my life...

The CLIMBER

You ask me: Do I know who I am? Can I define the person I want to be with?

I answer: I know where I stand right now, the route I have chosen to travel in my infancy, youth and adolescence. Looking back over the terrain from a mountain top I know where I could have avoided tripping, a wrong turn and a long hard trail. I can see a cave where I would have slept warm and dry during the storm and a beautiful waterfall I missed along the way. Yet, I can also see that I pitched my tent in the perfect field, I enjoyed many campfires singing along friends and I took my time to appreciate the scenery.

Today, the day is clear. Clearly, I can see where I faltered and succeeded standing on this mountain of experience. I expect I haven’t reached the top, but I know I am not standing at the bottom. I also expect the weather will change and some days will be cloudy, others warm, still others clear, like today.

So, you think: So what can she answer with certainty?

I respond: I can say with certainty that life, to me, is an adventure, a steady climb to the top of my potential. To others it may be a sky-dive, a roller coaster, a chess game, a slow dance, a constant party. And because I choose to climb, the people who walk beside me are also climbers, adventurers, nature lovers, bird watchers, wanderers, nomads. That’s the constant, the certain thing, the ambition, thirst that drives us to continue to move forward, see more, farther, from a higher place; the highest place; the pinnacle.

I can say with certainty that death is a transition; it is but the separation of this adventure from the next. It is a clean slate, clear plate, the starting place of a new race. If in essence (in your soul) you are a climber, then you will stand before the next high mountain and the people around you will be familiar; climbers, adventurers, nature lovers, bird watchers, wanderers, nomads, your family. If you didn’t learn from your mistakes, you will inevitably trip again, miss a turn, sleep under the storm and in your soul you will know it is not the first time. If you did learn, then your mistakes will be entirely new, small adventures to overcome within the climb of life, the biggest adventure of all.

You ask, what about love?: Love is what I can be most certain about because I create it. It starts with accepting my self, my essence, my thirst to climb and see beyond the next cliff. Accepting that I will never be comfortable because of my insatiable need to be better, move faster, go higher. When I accept myself, I accept my adventure and truly appreciate the company. No one can carry my bag-pack, fill my canteen and step over the rocks on my path.

And within the many climbers I may find that one person I choose to walk with. In time he may become the person who I sit next to around the campfire and tell my secrets to. The person, who gives me warmth at night, looks for me if I loose my way, worries when I stay out in the rain. We walk side by side, sharing, but not burdening. Knowing that each climber must choose a trail, a pace, a resting place and that company is not an obligation, but a gift.

In answer to your questions: I am a climber, an adventurer, a nature lover, a bird watcher, a wanderer, a nomad and so will my final partner be.

Off to March!

Once every two months (or maybe more frequently) the citizens of Venezuela prepare to support or reject change in a constitutional law the government is attempting to pass with people in their specific political party. Across the entire nation people congregate in public parks, march and wear their party colors mid-workweek, activities which have become the norm in a Venezuelan’s life. Through these public displays the government and the people measure the relative support or level of rejection for the particular law, before the act of suffrage.

On a more personal note…

The announcement begins at least a week before the actual event takes place. During that time people all across the country rearrange their work, school, life commitments in order to attend. The silent tension that we live with on a daily basis, that collects on our backs or at the pit of our stomach, becomes a palpable buzz, a nervous excitement much like the rising bubbles of a couple of alka-seltzers in a glass of water. From the moment the event is made public, people begin to determine the logistics: who to march with? Where to meet? At what time? How to return home?

I like to march with my family or my boyfriend’s family, not friends. I also like to go in the middle of the event, to take the place of the people who started early. I don’t usually stay for the speeches, but walk home and watch them of the television, where I can actually understand what the speakers say. Marches are exhausting. Walking among a river of high strung, nervous Venezuelans is both draining and stimulating. Everywhere you turn someone is yelling a slogan, singing, dancing, carrying a poster or wearing an interesting shirt. You exchange tidbits of information with people you know along the way and always keep an eye out for any type of disturbance that can escalate to a running stampede or a confrontation with the National Guard. More than once I have found myself running away from advancing vehicles packed with guards that are shooting into the angry crowd. One very real lesson I have learned from attending these marches is that a second can change my life and affect (negatively) the people who care about me, thus I stay on the fringes of the conflict although I always go. After these events one frequently hears of people who where shot, injured, beaten, or captured by the National Guard and how, after that, their life is never the same.

Sometimes marching can be misleading. Seeing rivers of a hundred thousand people can make you confidant about the outcome of an election, so confidant many people who take the time to march fail to stand in line to vote. I think this is where our problem as Venezuelan’s lies and even the reason why we have lost so many elections in the past. We invest our energy in the wrong thing, in expressing our point of view so that our peers can see our devotion, yet we fail to follow through, to express this same opinion in the privacy of an election ballot. Until we learn to save our energy for the right thing, to defend our rights the right way (through suffrage), we might continue to be stuck with what we do not like.

What are you interested in?

If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate.
- Elbert Hubbard

Sometimes, when I get together with people I see regularly, like my friends, boyfriend, even family members, we seem to review the conversation we had the last time we talked. Who is each person dating and how is that going? What are the current problems or solutions at work? How are the respective kids and hubby doing? Oftentimes, after reviewing the same conversations more than twice, with very little headway, I get bored, zone out and probably come off as being a very rude friend who acts upon her obvious lack of interest. In the past, I’ve complained about the recurring topics but really did nothing to include more interesting tidbits of information into our regular conversations.

Then a couple of days ago I was riding in a car with a friend and we got into Venezuelan politics, before I knew it my friend was talking up a storm, shooting off statistics that support her personal opinion like a fine tuned machine gun. Although I try to keep current on the political comings and goings of Venezuela, I am nowhere near as knowledgeable (or devoted) as my friend but I found that her passion made me want to learn more so that we can discuss the issues when we see each other again. It was like finding a treasure I thought existed but had never ventured to find. This experience with Gaby made me realize that many times we are content with the superficial small talk that reviews what we already know about the person, and that getting off the dizzying loop may mean finding out what they are interested, doing a bit of reading, and bringing it up when you see them again.

Welcome to Venezuela

Don’t get me wrong… I love my country. When I have a chance to get away for the weekend and do a bit of national tourism I am always taken aback by the raw beauty of our beaches, the power of the rivers that carve their path through clusters of green mountains, the height and density of the trees that line the winding roads. I love the fact that my sister goes fishing for the weekend and returns with a live video of her petting an anaconda that was sunning itself on a branch by the river bank, that you can land on a beach and have it all to yourself for a day or the entire weekend, that patches of thick rainforests are no more than a stone throws away. Yet today’s Venezuela is not the place I remember in my infancy, or even the country I moved to in 1999. The most important and beautiful tourist spots are now owned and run by foreigners, Europeans, who set their prices in dollars, making them inaccessible to the majority of the native population. I admit that everything works more smoothly than it used to, some places even with the timeliness of a Swiss watch, but at the expense of the Latin warmth, camaderie, anarchy that made those Europeans set their eyes on this place. Our beaches are no longer ours, but a European oasis within this chaotic jumble, where blond men and women come to sunbathe, topless, while everything else falls apart.

Yet today I wonder what will happen to these Europeans, how will they run their businesses, survive in a country that (in spite of all its wealth) lacks basic foodstuff like milk, eggs, sugar, cooking oil and soon pasta? And for us, it is no longer a matter of keeping our best tourist places in-house. Slowly but surely we are less citizens of our country, Venezuela, as we (productive men and women) leave our parents behind to make a better life somewhere else, as foreigners. It is obvious that Venezuela needed a change that, for once, included the needs of the majority of its impoverished population. We all wanted to make the change. It was a beautiful idea; it would have been an incredible dream come true if Venezuelans had prospered as a country, if social class lines had not been turned into the trenches of a civil divide which has taken us from fear, to hate, to madness, to loss.

Book Review: "Leaving Microsoft To Change the World"

“Leaving Microsoft to Change the World” is the story of John Wood, the founder of Room to Read, a non-profit organization that builds schools, libraries and computer labs on a global scale, in addition to giving scholarships to girls of the poor communities where the schools are built. Wood relates to the readers the different events that changed his life 180 degrees, taking him from an important executive position in Microsoft, with all its perks, to the fonder/creator of a charity whose goal is to increase the literacy rate in countries that have no resources but put a high value on education. Wood not only describes the culture of this global monster (Microsoft) put also explains how different values of the company aided his success with his non-profit endeavor. Unlike other charities, people who donate to Room to Read know exactly where their money is going and have an opportunity to visit the schools to experience, first hand, the contribution they are making to other people’s life. The fluidity of John Wood’s writing style makes it possible for readers to forget they are learning about someone else’s life, and get caught in the midst’s of the author’s torn feelings about sacrificing a life of fame and luxury for one of public service. I highly recommend the book.

Missing Mindy

Finished on Wednesday, October 24^th, 2007

Shauna always comes bearing gifts, except this time it was not a gift (as such) but and event. She had planned everything down to the very last detail… the white church flowers, the choir, the order in which each of us would enter, her speech followed by the long anticipated solo. Shauna has always been a big giver; weeks of preparation and stress are meant to show Mindy how much she cares, how special and unique she really is. But as life would have it everything that can go wrong does. The decorations never make it and the twelve person choir begins the mass with the wrong song. In the confusion, we are caught on different sides of the church, running along rows of mahogany benches each of us attempting to tie a different loose end of a snarl of strings. I see thin lines of disappointment along Shauna’s eyes and mouth. My heart goes out to her because I know she has worn herself thin to plan this mass for Mindy, maybe hoping that if she can just do everything right God might give us a break and spare her, spare Mindy from the sharp clutches of cancer, of melanoma. It is illogical to feel that way, but I know Shauna, I know how very high she sets her expectations and the self-berating she will put herself through for not reaching them. But the show must go on; the minister speeds us through the ceremony, stopping at the sermon, at which time Shauna walks to the front of the church and talks about Mindy, how free she was in high school, how she succeeded in bringing this group of five together… I’m fixated on a Shauna’s neck; she cut herself rushing around the church. She is bleeding but doesn’t even notice. I stay put, watch in amazement as she does her solo (none of us knew she could sing) applaud and meet her as she walks off the podium. I bandage her wound and see her go off with a throng of people to sit and rest. Mindy is among them, a thin fragile skeleton surrounded by family and friends who take turns keeping her up, like a beehive of trained worker nurses that communicate through dance. She wears loose clothing; a gauze of a dress that falls of her tiny body like the too-small hospital gown she has worn in the past.

I silently walk around the church admiring the tall ceilings, brightly colored statues with gold details, inhaling the smell of polished wood. I don’t necessarily like going to mass, but I like the feel of a church, the way remnants of good intentions and prayers stay within its bounds and give newcomers hope and peace. It is the only place I know where the temperature is cold but one comes out feeling warm inside. I think of Shauna. I know she will be ok because what matters, what shines through are her engulfing intentions, the size and purity of her love for Mindy. Before we exit the premises of the church, the next group brings in the paraphernalia of their own event, a nativity scene. Keeping with the rules of this sanctuary, people fly by me in silence with boxes of red and green bows. Even the two dogs dressed like reindeers walk by their owners delicately and well-behaved as we (the last group) shuffle out quickly. The dogs make me chuckle. They look unhappy and uncomfortable in horns, hats and neck ruffles. They make me think of Mindy and how great it will be when we can sit around someone’s house and just say: “Do you remember when you had cancer? That was so weird and scary.” It would be like a memory we can acknowledge and then shrug off as we continue to interrupt each other with personal stories, beer dares and cigarette drags. As I rewind and take one last look at the church before me I realize that something is wrong. Mindy is too young and Shauna too worn out. It was like two periods in time had turned into ocean waves, had gained momentum and where now crashing into each other with great force. The cool air of the church was not helping me breathe and the hopes and prayers turned to dust that clogged by lungs. We did not save Mindy. Mindy was dead. I had forgotten Mindy was dead!

At first, I just pulled off the covers. I lay in the dark trying to grab the tail end of the dream and change its outcome or maybe stay away from reality for a bit longer. But sleep had left me, so I went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and wash away the dust that was lining my throat. When I went back to bed I saw that I was not alone, my boyfriend was rolled up under the covers by my side. I cuddled next to him for warmth, put my arm around his healthy body and broke down crying. I didn’t want to wake him but I was at a loss for air, even the deepest, strongest, longest breaths did not succeed in bringing oxygen into my lungs. “What’s wrong?” “I had a bad dream.” “Tell me about it.” As a walked him through the dream, through the event and the church I got it, I got the point, the meaning behind the story in my dream! Death does not matter. It doesn’t matter what is it, how it comes or when it comes. Life matters. Life is fleeting moments of friends, lovers... perfect happiness. Living life is about holding on to those moments and enjoying them while they last. I held unto him tighter, appreciated his breath, his skin, his temperature. I swore that I would remember this moment forever. He made me feel safe, warm and happy. With a mixed feeling of sadness and appreciation and like a buoy caught amid crashing waves, I cried silently until I fell asleep.

Unannounced

Finished on Wednesday, October 31, 2007.

Mindy was one or the other… the quiet, somewhat distracted, teenager unnoticed in the back of the class or the lanky ball of chaotic energy that would burst through doors and disrupt assemblies with a loud and obnoxious laugh; wallpaper or bull in a china shop. It seemed as if all that energy could only be channeled in sports. She excelled at field hockey, lacrosse and ice hockey because she rammed into players of the opposing team with the force of three grown men, scoring with impeccable aim. No one would have guessed that the clumsy pale girl was the player to fear, especially because she was always greeting everyone in such a friendly manner. Mindy was not a good student. I think she enjoyed learning, but loved making friends and just being a clown. She was adopted by the girls in the older grades, her sister’s year, who took her to high school parties before any of us knew what was going on. In our class, she seemed to hang out on the margins of every group waiting to include the girls who broke the unspoken social rules and were ostracized from their pack. She was everyone’s friend but had a soft spot for Joan, a serious individual determined to be accepted by the most selective clique in our class. Mindy stayed by her, took her in when the others rejected her valiant efforts, giving her unswerving friendship.

I was shy, and thus watched from a safe distance how relationships where built upon commonalities and crumbled easily because of differences. My Venezuelan background, my accent, my mother’s strictness made me different from the beginning, so in a way I was safe from being accepted and rejected by the people I would have to see day in and day out for consecutive years. Sometimes I was jealous, but mostly thankful that I could always keep my individuality, even at the price of loneliness. I had friends, individual friends, but not a group that would engulf me when I walked the hallways of our all-girl catholic school. I admired those girls who felt at ease talking to everyone, making a temporary friend for a long weekend, or even asking the smarter girls to tutor them on an upcoming exam. I identified with the awkward and shy smart girls who were very willing to please without ever needing to belong to more popular cliques; their lives seemed to be full of family gatherings and extracurricular activities. Mindy was extraordinary in that she was neither, or she was both. Or she was just herself to perfection.

I became friends with Mindy during one of those lonely moments when my Venezuelan roots would not let me fit in, but I was unwilling to cut them for good. She approached me, spoke with comfort and ease, and before I knew it I was spending the weekend at her house. From the moment I took a step into her life I was surprised by the differences between our families. She lived with her mother and older sister and they treated each other like adults. Mindy, in high school, was free to make her own choices and thus live with the consequences. To me, it was a breath of fresh air, and a fact that made it possible for me to comprehend Mindy’s free spirit on a deeper level. Even in the midst of such freedom, Mindy’s priority was making sure her younger siblings (kids from her father’s second marriage) were always ok, speaking about them with limitless love and tenderness, much like a parent. It was this characteristic that made Mindy such a unique person in my mind… she was free-giving.

Someone said to me once that Mindy was not meant to live that long. I waver between thinking that it is but a comforting excuse of an early death or thinking it is actually true. Even in the margins, Mindy suffered, was saddened and disappointed by people who entered and exited her life in the blink of an eye. Her approaches were always sincere, meaningful and pure. She really did want to be friends, and to prove it she would appear at your lowest moment. Classes, sports, friends, boyfriends, etc. always kept Mindy and I on different pages, but at some point we always seemed to get together. Those moments were always filled with laugher, chaos and beauty; she remained from that first moment the deep breath of fresh air that made me smile even when she was not around. Just like she did, her memory barges into my brain unannounced and always leaves me with a sense of being a deeper, better person for knowing her.

Behind the Swinging Door

Material things, like antique silverware plated in gold, have power; the power to define a couple’s social status, the power to glorify a special occasion and the power to divide a family. I leaned against the frame of the kitchen door and watched siblings who grew up together loose control over plates and forks, knives and soup bowls. One said that it is impossible to split a set because a couple of plates are simply not enough when one is throwing a dinner party. None of them had actually ever used any of the utensils they were fighting over, for they had been kept locked in a glass menagerie. Their parents refused to use them even when they had guests, a graduation from college or their first grandchild. Lack of use had made them more valuable, magical, or maybe just cursed. They loved each other dearly, but not one of them would relinquish their claim to the plates and silverware they had never touched. I knew that they, too, would never use them, but place them inside a more modern menagerie in the dinning room of one of their spacious apartments. And just like them, their children would peer through the glass at the shinny pattern, the intertwined letters of their grandparent’s last names and the different colored wine glasses made from French crystal. Untouchable, unusable, useless except to reflect victory over the others and a definite social status that stretched, now, into the second generation. Their family had become established, blue blood, no longer nouveau-riche, the plates and silverware reflected that and whoever kept them would be considered, automatically, a wealthy person with impeccable taste.

The kitchen door swung open, through which came a prim maid dressed in a bleached white uniform offering coffee with milk and sugar on a silver tray. I held the door open as she went back into the kitchen. When I let go, it remained ajar enough so that I overheard the phone ringing and the maid’s ensuing conversation with a close relative. I became drawn, completely absorbed by her words, her story, the stark contrast of her reality with what was happening in the adjacent room. Through tears of joy, she told her niece she had finally found a job which enabled her to send money back home to her family so that they could buy food and clothing. She related how over the last two years she could not even afford the bus ticket into the city to look for work and she was ecstatic and kept thanking God and all the saints for her good fortune. Fortune. As I stood there, in between these two worlds separated by a hollow swinging door, I grasped the meaning of relativity, the dividing power of material things and the beauty of true wealth. I left silently through the kitchen and thanked the maid as I walked out of the marble covered mansion.

On the Move

I’ve moved back in with my mom! Ok, there, I said it! Since my last entry, I’ve vacated my old apartment, which has officially become my younger sister’s and her soon to be husband’s abode, and moved into an even roomier pad which I will share with my mom when she visits Venezuela. Although I am stuck with a smaller room and closet, I love the location, the feel of the new place, the private yard and most importantly the very deep bathtub! So although the move from two apartments into one and relinquishing the master bedroom for the smallest auxiliary room can be traumatic at first, a daily soak makes it all worth it!

In the meantime, my sister Elizabeth is making all the preparations for her wedding in January. I wish it wasn’t so, but pre-wedding can be a stressful experience even for those of us on the periphery. My theory is to focus on three things... booze, food and music. I must say though, she is doing an excellent job so far.

In my last entry I voiced some concerns regarding my writing career. It was helpful to get my feelings out and motivating to get positive feedback from a certain friend who lives in L.A. who is dearly loved and greatly admired. Since then I have been writing a lot, reading works with content and doing a bit of research on the daily lives of international authors to see if I could actually do what they do. So far I’ve identified with Jennifer Weiner, the writer of GOOD IN BED, IN HER SHOES and other books that have made the New York Times best seller’s list and are sold all over the world. Jennifer captures those fleeting moments in our routine when our flaws intermingle with our gifts to make each of us truly unique and special. I love that her work is full of meaning, lessons, yet is told through stories that are humorous and lighthearted.

Writing Through the Crossroads

Sometimes it’s hard to get inspired, to choose which path to take and to know, with certainty, where to focus my energy. I love to read. Reading opens my mind, widens my horizons as much as learning to do something new. Through reading I get to slip into someone else’s skin, shoes, hat and see the world from their perspective, never completely living their experience since my mind contains it’s own process by which even a narration, when read by me, becomes my own. When I read I grow. In contrast, writing is my outlet. It is the one thing that purges me from myself, that purifies me from the baggage that accumulates and clutters my brain. When I write and I breathe easier, I feel better and lighter. Sometimes I even rise above mortality, to a place where I am indestructible, transcendent. My essence seems to split away, unfold, from my physical body and I can fly through time, space, worlds. Writing can be such a passionate and profound experience that I can rarely re-read what I write. When I return to reality, somehow all that dreaming and flying around seems silly and immature. It’s too much when I a grounded.

So here I am, at a crossroads, full of questions… lacking answers. Can my love for reading and writing become a career? Can these two passions of mine be molded, shaped into a job? Can I do what I love while simultaneously building a curriculum? Can I make money being inspired by writers before me and then spilling my thoughts on white paper in black ink? Can I be “productive” while living my dream? I don’t know. Thankfully, I have a lot to say, and I’ve noticed that my opinions are frequently different from the opinions of the mainstream, which might be of great use. Unfortunately, I have found it hard to sit and write daily. All I can say is that passionate feelings, inspiration, comes in waves and I am hoping I can make them come more frequently and stay longer.

Today I had lunch with one of my father’s friends. His profession is international law, and like me, he is passionate about literature. For two hours and a half we spoke about life, traveling and literature… three things that (to me) are inseparable. We share the same hair-raising awe for authors like Jorge Luis Borges and others who make reading literature an all-consuming, foundation crumbling experience. I was inspired, re-energized, motivated to read and write by just taking about the amazing people that came before me. Did they think about their careers, about publishing, about selling? Or was their need to write, to create so strong nothing else mattered? Or was it a negotiation between both, publishing and passion? Anyway, he did give me some practical advice that (at least) makes starting less overwhelming:

1) Read the entire work of authors you enjoy, considering their underlying philosophical perspective and literary strategies.

2) Write as much as you can about anything you want and send your works to contests, magazines, newspapers, etc. without getting discouraged.

3) Consider projects you are not passionate about as training exercises, dedicating time enough to make progress without overdosing.

4) Enjoy the journey!

Although my questions remain unanswered, they are no longer looming doubts that weigh me down and make me apprehensive about the future. They are just questions, potential decisions, future choices that I will make when the time is right. The important lesson is to enjoy the journey, embrace the adventure!

Road Trip of Europe

August 10th: London to Paris and Paris to Amsterdam

• Left London on the 7:25am flight.
• Met up with friends at Charles de Galle Airport in France
• We rented a Mercedes B170 for our trip
• Left airport at, ate lunch (mussels) in Brussels
• Visited Bruges
• Checked into our Hotel in Amsterdam at 10:30pm

August 11th: Amsterdam

• Ate brunch at a sandwich place called Singel 404
• Visited flower show and flea market
• Rented bikes for the afternoon
• Rode to Van Gogh Museum
• Visited Heineken Factory
• Returned bikes and only paid 15 euros for lock
• Had diner at Luden (on Singel)
• Walked the red light district and saw shows from street
• Went back to hotel at 2pm

August 12^th: Amsterdam to Berlin

• Checked out of hotel at 12pm
• Visited thinnest apartment in Amsterdam (Singel 166)
• Had hot chocolate, pancakes and omelet for breakfast at Dutch Pancakes House
• Left Amsterdam at 2pm
• Arrived to Berlin at 9pm
• Checked into Art Hotel on Lietzenburger strabe
• Ate diner at the Hamlet

August 13^th: Berlin

• Had breakfast at café close to hotel
• Got ticket for Circle Sightseeing Bus
• Went to Sony Volcano, Jewish Museum, Checkpoint Charlie, H ilton
• Had a beer at Hilton and walked through park
• Arrived at Art Hotel at 6:15pm
• Ate at Weyers (German food)
• Had drinks at Solar
• Came home at 2am

August 14^th: Berlin

• Had breakfast at local sandwich shop
• Visited Pergamon Museum
• Tried to visit Reichstad but did not go in because cupola was closed
• Visited: Bradenburg Gate, the Wall and Berlin Cathedral
• Rested for an hour
• Ate dinner at local Indian Spice, local Indian restaurant

August 15^th: Berlin to Prague

• Breakfast buffet at hotel
• Berlin Zoo
• Drove to Prague
• Checked in at Tulip Inn
• Ate dinner at Pravda

August 16^th: Prague

• Coffee on the street
• Walking tour of city: Tyn Church, Charles Bridge, Jesus of Praga Church
• Went to concert at 8:30pm at Municipal House (Smetana Hall): Pachelbel’s Canon in D, Mozart’s Divertimento D Dur, Kv 136 (Allegro, Andante, Presto), Vivaldi’s Four Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter)
• Ate dinner at Bily Konisec

August 17^th: Prague

• Breakfast buffet at Tulip Inn
• Drove to across bridge to Old Town, walked up hill to…
• Audio tour of Castle of Praga including cathedral
• Ate diner on riverside restaurant (Czech wine and goose)

August 18^th: Prague to Vienna

• Ate fruits from market
• Checked into El Levante Parliament Hotel
• Walked city and ate Go & Co restaurant
• Had drinks in lounge

August 19^th: Vienna

• Breakfast buffet at hotel at 10am
• Walking tour of city: Parliament, City Hall, Museum of Natural History and Fine Arts Museum
• Went to Sisi Museum, Silver Collection and Apartments
• Visited St. Stephan’s Cathedral and checked Mozart Museum (not good)
• Had Wiener Snitchel (typical dish)
• Woke up at 10:30pm and drove around Vienna at night

August 20^th: Vienna to Budapest

• Visited Schobrunn Castle (by car) and left Vienna
• Passed by Bratislava and arrived to Budapest at 3pm
• Checked into Art Hotel
• St. Istvan’s (Stephen’s) day in Budapest with air show
• Made reservation at Kacsa Restaurant at 7pm but arrived early (because of storm)
• Had typical Hungarian dishes

Appetizers: pate, cheeses, smoked fish, goulash, and duck strudel

Main course: duck prepared in different ways

Dessert: pancake and chocolate mouse

August 21th: Budapest

• Had coffee and sandwiches at Mocha Café
• Visited Castle on Buda side (including Matya’s Cathedral, Lion’s gate, important fountains)
• Went to Pest and visited Parliament, TV Station, Vacy Street
• Had a quick bite
• Back to hotel, drinks at the lobby, dinner reservation at 9pm at Arany Szarvas
• Ate game dishes with deer crepe as highlight
• Drove around city and had ice-cream

August 22th: Budapest to Salzbourg

• Ate breakfast buffet at hotel
• Visited bath at Gellerd Hotel
• Visited Great Market Hall and bought pate and paprika
• Left for Salzbourg at 1pm
• Arrived at Salzbourg at 6pm, checked in
• Walked from hotel (Belmonte) to town
• Ate at a local restaurant

August 23th: Salzbourg to Luxembourg

• Visited castle from 1100 on funicular
• Left at 12pm to Luxembourg
• Arrived at Luxembourg in the evening
• Checked into Hilton (far from center of town)
• Made reservations and ate at Notaro Restaurant (best Italian ever)
• Went to bed early

August 24^th: Luxembourg to Paris

• Drove around city
• Had bagel breakfast
• Left Luxembourg and arrived at Paris for lunch
• Charles and I walked to St. Germaine
• Walked back to hotel

August 25th: Paris

• Walked to St. Michel and ate lunch
• Visited Notre Dame, Louvre, Champs de Leisse
• Went back to hotel, got dressed, met up with friends
• Dinner and drinks at George, on top of Pompidou Museum
• Couple of beers and bed

August 26th: Paris to London

• Flew from Paris to London
• Took train to Anna’s apartment
• Unpacked, ate Indian food
• Went to bed early

August 27th: London

• Visited Leighton House
• Met up with Nichole at Wagamama’s
• Went to John office, walked around the city
• Had a couple of drinks at pubs
• Had a drink with Nichole, said goodbye
• Packed and went to Benito’s Italian Restaurant
• Went to sleep

August 28th: London to Miami

• Flew from London to Miami
• Rented a car at airport
• Dropped off luggage
• Had dinner at P.F. Changs (Andrew, Charles and I)

London August 8th and 9th

August 8^th

After a spot of coffee, Ana, Charles and I walked to the museum of National History where we saw skeletons (or replicas) of many species of dinosaurs. Many bones and teeth can be touched by the public. Then we saw mammals including cats, elephants, deer, dolphins, whales and even the skin and/or bones of a couple of extinct species. The mammoth bones and the skeleton of a giant sloth found in Brazil were the most interesting to me.

We had lunch at Carlucho’s, a Mediterranean restaurant walking distance from the National History Museum. Then, we took the tube to Russell Square Station to the British Museum where we saw ancient ruins from Egypt, Greece, Syria and Iran. The museum was founded in 1753 and contains “collections that span over two millions years of human history, enabling visitors to enjoy a unique comparison of world cultures under one roof”. In addition to a piece of the Parthenon and a series of wall plaques that decorated the inside of this building, the museum features the Rosetta Stone and an ancient mummy with skin preserved by the dessert sand.

In the evening we had a pint at Scarsdale, two bottles of wine with John and sake at the Lotus Garden, owned by Tian (aka Hubert). John ordered a combination of Chinese starters and entries which Charles accompanied with two Chinese liquors, in addition to the beer, wine, and sake.

August 9th

Ana, Charles and I walked around South Kensington. We had lunch at a private part with two of Ana's friends (Carmen and Ana) and their kids. Then Charles and I went to the Victoria and Albert Museum which contains cast-copies of architectural and artistic works from all over the world.

Then we went to the Museum of Science where we saw three floors of exhibitions on planes, ships, the beginning of medicine, the development of plastic, etc. Our last activity was an IMAX movie based on Sharks, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in wildlife.

In the evening, Charles and I packed our suitcases, as we were leaving for Paris at 7:30am. We had a quiet diner which consisted of a roast with vegetables, salad, potatoes and vegetables and a bottle of wine with John and Ana.

Introducing Charles Edward III

On the 7^th of August, Ana and I woke up early, took the tube and waited about two hours in the airport for (her brother and my boyfriend) Charles to arrive. We were both so excited to see him we made a poster, which we colored in into the wee hours of the night… well, maybe just until twelve! We made it extra corny to see if he would come greet us of walk straight through! Thankfully, for his sake, he came right over to us. I think he was so tired he didn’t even care.

After dropping off the bags, we had lunch at Masala Zone, visited a flat in South Kensington and came back to the apartment. Around 7:30pm we decided to have a couple of pints at a local pub called Scarsdale and grab a bite at a Thai restaurant called Blue Lagoon, where John joined us directly after work.

Before we went to bed, Ana and I got to see the next episode of Last Man Standing.

Commencement 2007

The commencement ceremony began at 4:30pm in the Chapel of Lincoln College. Because there were only 17 seniors, they entered individually. The key speakers were Jeff Brown, Emma Smith, Helen Wintle and Peter McCullough. There was a cocktail at the Rector’s quad before we were asked to proceed to high table.

Bridget (on the left) is a graduating senior who lives in the Bahamas. I have spent two summer with her... Alaska and Oxford.

Commencement dinner was even more elegant than previous high tables.

The menu consisted of:

Fried brie salad,

Potato and beet soup,

Chicken with mushroom sauce,

Carrots, snap peas and potatoes

Chocolate mousse.

The first two courses were served with white wine and the last two with red. We also had a sweet sherry for an after dinner drink.

After dinner all the graduates, their families and friends congregated in Deep Hall, where we drank, talked and even played a bit of darts. Then people dispersed in small groups and hit a couple of nightspots around Oxford. I hung out with Chelsey, Maura, Pete and Mike and stopped by the kebab cart before going to bed and shared a “Special Burger”.

Here I am with Maura, in Deep Hall) before we headed out for the night!

The Last Tours of Oxford

Friday… last day for some Bread Loaf students and the perfect day to walk around. Nichole and I started at Christ Church Meadows, where we stared (for the last time this year) at her favorite gargoyles until the bell of the church chimed ten times. We cut leisurely through the park, chit-chatting about the highlights of the summer and what each one of us learned.

Nichole was a person I had instant chemistry with and who, upon knowing her better, stirred within me feelings of adventure, risk-taking, passion, strength and (last but not least) an appreciation of the transitory moments in life (that if properly noted) can make for a hardy chuckle. She chuckled through the six weeks… at my accent, her imitation of my accent, things too small to remember now but that seemed immensely beautiful when she pointed them out. I wanted her to know how I felt before she went away, how much respect and value I have for our friendship. She reminds me of a mischievous cat that enjoys the brief patches of sunshine on a cloudy day and rubs against a stranger’s shin sneaking past his/her surprise directly into their heart. Just like cats, Nichole has that way of jumping off of high places and always landing on her feet.

We met Mike Mayo, a colleague, at the entrance of Lincoln College and continued on our personal tour of Oxford. Nichole took us to New College where we climbed the “mound” and walked through the chapel, noting the numerous statues and carvings on the cold cement floor. Then we visited St. Edmund’s Hall (one of the oldest and smallest colleges) that not only boasts a good rugby team but also a crypt within its college grounds. The tour ended at lunch time, when we met the rest of the Bread Loaf stragglers for one of the last meals. In the afternoon I walked to University Parks where lay in the grass, reading and just thinking) for a couple of hours. My reverie ended with a short game of Frisbee with Matt, Amelie, Marlene and Sophie after which I returned to my room and got ready for dinner.

Dinner was followed by another tour around town, this time lead by Augustan (the Monk) and focusing on the local ghost stories of the city. About twenty of us congregated on the entrance of Lincoln College and followed the Monk for the next hour and a half through the dark streets of Oxford, listening to the tales of the ghosts that haunt each cemetery, street corner and (yes!) college. Our own campus is haunted by a troop of parliamentary soldiers that were imprisoned in the wine cellar during the civil war, all of which suffocated because they jammed so many of them in such a small place. Augustan (in conjunction with Mike White, our computer specialist) wrote a small book about ghosts last summer, which will be available to the public next year! The tour made for a great ending to a very interesting summer!

Quiz Night: Viva La Oposicion!

Quiz Night was on Wednesdays at Deep Hall, the Lincoln College pub and organized by Simon (our local bartender). Our team was called La Oposición and it consisted of Peter, Nichole, Augustan (the Monk), Molly and I. The name of our team is the result of a joke that began the moment people in the program became comfortable with me… and started calling me the Mexican. Our slogan was: Viva la Oposición! What these people did not know is that that is the perfect cheer for a Venezuela like me.

We shared a booth with The Office, a team consisting of Joan, Eileen, Peter and a guest. I found out that professors, too, can be VERY competitive when it comes to trivia. It was just a side of Joan, Eileen and Peter I had never seen before. Other teams were: DAMM, Standing Room Only (who won), Specter, etc.

Although we did not win, we were not half bad! Molly, the last person who joined, turned out to be our secret weapon. Augustan, although good too, was just sooo excited to do something different, he was out of control, taking pictures of himself (with my camera as you will see) and making fun of the Office when they got one wrong… also a side of the Monk we had not seen. Augustan (whose name is originally Jason) belongs to the Benedictine Order and lives in St. Louis, Missouri, where he teaches English at a boy school.