Twitter started.
Corn hole became a thing.
Hipsters got cool, and I missed my moment, *maybe.
The iEverything took over the world.
Friends met new people or married each other, and babies were born.
Jobs were lost and found and lost again.
The first African-American President gave an inaugural address.
Glee, Parks & Rec, Modern Family, etc. came out, and I ruined my chance to be in on the cultural conversations.
I developed wrinkles that really won't go away and started liking it when students subtract 5-7 years from my real age.
Americans started dressing like Chinese ladies in their late 50's (floral pattern shirts with clashing plaid pants, etc.).
A bunch of historical stuff that I don't momentarily recall went down.
People realized that treating fruit with chemicals might have long-term effects on us.
Greece failed and the unthinkable happened in N. Africa and challenged all everyone thought they knew.
I adapted to new countries and continents and then left them.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Bottoms Up
I'm afraid to admit it because it just seems weird. But here goes. I'm a drink addict. Not an alcoholic, mind you (far from it, actually). At the moment, I'm working on a milk tea, and I'm thinking of having another one without sugar when I finish this cup.
As a kid, I bored easily with chewing food. I hated chewing (weird, right?), and sometimes I'd just give up mid-chew with food idling in my mouth. This laziness lead to some dinner-time show-downs and perhaps to my proclivity for choosing bread and vegetables over meat. Anyways, I always knew that I preferred almost anything in a liquid to almost anything in a solid.
I eventually outgrew my disgust for the work side of eating and whole-heartily embraced "real" food, but I still love liquids, a little too much. It's unsurprising, then, that I have tried quite a number of local drinks - from brews to salty yogurt to brown rice green tea white mustache sensha (yes, all 1 drink there) - many of which were delicious and some of which might actually bring a dead bird back to life.
There are two distinct winners in the "Worst Liquid Ever Imbibed" categories. 1 alcoholic and 1 non. The winner for the alcoholic WLEI award is Shake-Shake from Zambia. Think of chunky milk that has been left out for a while to ferment then boxed up nicely to drink. That's Shake-Shake, or at least the public-forum friendly description of it. For the non-alcoholic category, the WLEI award belongs to yak butter tea from Tibet. The picture below actually makes it look appealing, but even if a person has read 3 Cups of Tea (and she has), this stuff is undrinkable. A truly harsh verdict coming from me.
As a kid, I bored easily with chewing food. I hated chewing (weird, right?), and sometimes I'd just give up mid-chew with food idling in my mouth. This laziness lead to some dinner-time show-downs and perhaps to my proclivity for choosing bread and vegetables over meat. Anyways, I always knew that I preferred almost anything in a liquid to almost anything in a solid.
I eventually outgrew my disgust for the work side of eating and whole-heartily embraced "real" food, but I still love liquids, a little too much. It's unsurprising, then, that I have tried quite a number of local drinks - from brews to salty yogurt to brown rice green tea white mustache sensha (yes, all 1 drink there) - many of which were delicious and some of which might actually bring a dead bird back to life.
There are two distinct winners in the "Worst Liquid Ever Imbibed" categories. 1 alcoholic and 1 non. The winner for the alcoholic WLEI award is Shake-Shake from Zambia. Think of chunky milk that has been left out for a while to ferment then boxed up nicely to drink. That's Shake-Shake, or at least the public-forum friendly description of it. For the non-alcoholic category, the WLEI award belongs to yak butter tea from Tibet. The picture below actually makes it look appealing, but even if a person has read 3 Cups of Tea (and she has), this stuff is undrinkable. A truly harsh verdict coming from me.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Eclectic is a nice word.
So, way back when, once upon a time when I first started grad school, I was having a hard time finding part-time work. I went on a provost fellowship, but it was only for a year. There was no way that I was going to "just" study for the year. I knew that money would run out soon and very soon, and I didn't want to accrue debt in a career field known not to be so lucrative (ahem, not at all lucrative...).
Such a quagmire led to frantic days of searching for a grad-student friendly job. I arrived in my new town perhaps two weeks before classes started, and my roommate and I spent days scouring the local newspapers, monster.com, and every other available source for jobs and eating salads for dinner while sitting on the floor. It was the magical time we all love to reminisce about, except-not at all. I needed income to cover rent.
About this time, classes started. Fortunately, my program offered night classes only. This left some time to continue the hunt. I spent a week job hunting in the days and attending my first grad school classes at night. I drove six hours the first weekend to go to my good friend Jess's wedding in Georgia and drove back the same day. The following week, I found an advertisement in a student newspaper offering $200 per month to participants. I saw it as a boon. Two hundred would definitely help out. The catch? I'd be selling my plasma twice a week. I figured it couldn't be so terrible. I'd faithfully given blood approximately every three months since I'd turned seventeen with a few lapses, altruist that I fashioned myself. So, by my estimation, giving plasma for money would be about the same deal. Big needle prick, some light-headedness followed by a need to prop my feet up, a good 20 minutes, and then it would all be over with juice to celebrate.
The first time I "donated" plasma was almost o.k. It was definitely worse than giving blood. Far worse. Giving blood only requires removing something from your body. Giving plasma requires donating your blood, waiting for the machine to spin off the plasma, and receiving your blood sans plasma but with fluids -cold fluids - back into your veins. Not comfortable, not fun, and not quick. In addition, before this enjoyable process gets started, a donor has to go through about 3 hours of paperwork and tests, and I'm not exaggerating. The first time through the plasma donation process, I didn't get sick, and I didn't die. I did have some difficulty driving myself home. But, in the end, besides the discomfort, it seemed like an o.k. way to make a few bucks until I found something a bit more standard.
About a week later, I returned to donate more plasma, hoping the second attempt would go more smoothly and steal fewer hours from my day. I arrived early in the morning to a super-air-conditioned room. I had awoken approximately one hour before, and I wasn't completely warmed up for the day. The nurse had to check my pulse twice that morning. It was too low the first time for donation. I offered to run a few laps around outside. Once the pulse passed the check, I moved on to the waiting room where I saw one wiry man I had encountered on my first day there. I noticed he had nice veins.
Another nurse led me to my chair and checked my arms. She poked me with the needle, and I nearly came off the chair. I'm a champion blood donor, or so I like to think, but something here was wrong. She inquired, "Does it hurt, or is it the idea of it?" It certainly wasn't the idea of anything causing pain. It hurt more than any needle stick I've had, and she decided to re-position the needle just by wiggling it around inside my arm, eliciting more groans and teeth gritting from me. At this point, she was probably thinking that I was the biggest pansy she's seen in a while, and I was wondering why she couldn't find a vein. The morning progressed without getting much better. The donation was taking forever, and the nurse kept returning to my side, frowning, and sighing about how my blood had stopped flowing. My body seemed to know what was best at this point. The nurse, on the other hand... The situation was resolved when the nurse returned and offered to stick my other arm, at which point I said no and asked to leave. Her concern was, "But this bowl of blood. We've got to get this blood back in you." No thanks, lady. Just flush it and get me out of here. I was allowed to leave.
All week long, the bruise on my arm continued to grow. Over the next few weeks, it morphed through several of ROY.G.BIV's letters. I'm not entirely convinced that nurse actually got the needle into the right place. In the end, I gave up on the easy money and found a job as a supervisor at a C-store on campus (think, gas station snacks).
The lesson in it all, for me, was that what comes freely ought to be given freely. We don't choose to be born, to have blood coursing through our veins. We don't achieve it. And so, I shouldn't sell it. Good to know, especially on nights like tonight when I start to think creatively about income-generation.
Such a quagmire led to frantic days of searching for a grad-student friendly job. I arrived in my new town perhaps two weeks before classes started, and my roommate and I spent days scouring the local newspapers, monster.com, and every other available source for jobs and eating salads for dinner while sitting on the floor. It was the magical time we all love to reminisce about, except-not at all. I needed income to cover rent.
About this time, classes started. Fortunately, my program offered night classes only. This left some time to continue the hunt. I spent a week job hunting in the days and attending my first grad school classes at night. I drove six hours the first weekend to go to my good friend Jess's wedding in Georgia and drove back the same day. The following week, I found an advertisement in a student newspaper offering $200 per month to participants. I saw it as a boon. Two hundred would definitely help out. The catch? I'd be selling my plasma twice a week. I figured it couldn't be so terrible. I'd faithfully given blood approximately every three months since I'd turned seventeen with a few lapses, altruist that I fashioned myself. So, by my estimation, giving plasma for money would be about the same deal. Big needle prick, some light-headedness followed by a need to prop my feet up, a good 20 minutes, and then it would all be over with juice to celebrate.
The first time I "donated" plasma was almost o.k. It was definitely worse than giving blood. Far worse. Giving blood only requires removing something from your body. Giving plasma requires donating your blood, waiting for the machine to spin off the plasma, and receiving your blood sans plasma but with fluids -cold fluids - back into your veins. Not comfortable, not fun, and not quick. In addition, before this enjoyable process gets started, a donor has to go through about 3 hours of paperwork and tests, and I'm not exaggerating. The first time through the plasma donation process, I didn't get sick, and I didn't die. I did have some difficulty driving myself home. But, in the end, besides the discomfort, it seemed like an o.k. way to make a few bucks until I found something a bit more standard.
About a week later, I returned to donate more plasma, hoping the second attempt would go more smoothly and steal fewer hours from my day. I arrived early in the morning to a super-air-conditioned room. I had awoken approximately one hour before, and I wasn't completely warmed up for the day. The nurse had to check my pulse twice that morning. It was too low the first time for donation. I offered to run a few laps around outside. Once the pulse passed the check, I moved on to the waiting room where I saw one wiry man I had encountered on my first day there. I noticed he had nice veins.
Another nurse led me to my chair and checked my arms. She poked me with the needle, and I nearly came off the chair. I'm a champion blood donor, or so I like to think, but something here was wrong. She inquired, "Does it hurt, or is it the idea of it?" It certainly wasn't the idea of anything causing pain. It hurt more than any needle stick I've had, and she decided to re-position the needle just by wiggling it around inside my arm, eliciting more groans and teeth gritting from me. At this point, she was probably thinking that I was the biggest pansy she's seen in a while, and I was wondering why she couldn't find a vein. The morning progressed without getting much better. The donation was taking forever, and the nurse kept returning to my side, frowning, and sighing about how my blood had stopped flowing. My body seemed to know what was best at this point. The nurse, on the other hand... The situation was resolved when the nurse returned and offered to stick my other arm, at which point I said no and asked to leave. Her concern was, "But this bowl of blood. We've got to get this blood back in you." No thanks, lady. Just flush it and get me out of here. I was allowed to leave.
All week long, the bruise on my arm continued to grow. Over the next few weeks, it morphed through several of ROY.G.BIV's letters. I'm not entirely convinced that nurse actually got the needle into the right place. In the end, I gave up on the easy money and found a job as a supervisor at a C-store on campus (think, gas station snacks).
The lesson in it all, for me, was that what comes freely ought to be given freely. We don't choose to be born, to have blood coursing through our veins. We don't achieve it. And so, I shouldn't sell it. Good to know, especially on nights like tonight when I start to think creatively about income-generation.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Pick your habits carefully. They stick.
Bumming around the world as a professional English teacher takes it's toll on a person, mind, body, and soul. Along the way, we pick up languages and customs, bouts of food poisoning, and friends. I've also discovered that I've picked up more than a few bad, or simply odd, habits. The habits I've developed are purely of my own device; I wouldn't attribute these to culture's influence, necessarily. They're more the products of circumstance, necessity, and lack of options. Here they are, to the extent that I can recall:
China
1. stir fry
2. laundry on the line
3. not exercising as often
4. walking & busing
5. 2 hour lunches
6. sharing food at meals
7. watching t.v. shows online
8. tea
9. taking my time at the grocery store
10. limited AC
Zambia
11. leaving food out and open
12. salt and vinegar chips
13. eating with hands
14. walking
15. "iwe"
16. not leaving the house after dark
17. cokes with sugar
18. always being on the look-out for pick-pockets
19. bringing food to share at work
20. solitaire on my iPod
China
1. stir fry
2. laundry on the line
3. not exercising as often
4. walking & busing
5. 2 hour lunches
6. sharing food at meals
7. watching t.v. shows online
8. tea
9. taking my time at the grocery store
10. limited AC
Zambia
11. leaving food out and open
12. salt and vinegar chips
13. eating with hands
14. walking
15. "iwe"
16. not leaving the house after dark
17. cokes with sugar
18. always being on the look-out for pick-pockets
19. bringing food to share at work
20. solitaire on my iPod
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
The First 7 Months
I've been back in the U.S. for about 7.5 months now. I've already finished one contract and will start the second in one week. It keeps getting harder to be reflective, and without that reflection, I feel like I'm not actually living. True introvert. I think I'm at that awkward stage of transition, the one right before things start to get easier. I do want life in the U.S. to feel comfortable again, but I'm equally afraid of losing the way of life I had to adapt to over the last three years.
Self-definition (see above example) is one trait of "life in the U.S." that stands out more than ever, and it's a trap that I quickly find myself falling into. On almost any day that I interact with people who speak English, I hear some version of this sentence: "I'm a _____________, so ________." Why is it that we feel the need to so clearly state where we stand and what we think and who we are at all times? Whatever happened to letting people figure it all out as they go, even if they should get it wrong? This need to self-define almost becomes a game. I have to state what I am before anyone else in the room should say the exact same thing about him/herself. Once it's out there, and someone says, "I'm a perfectionist, so these uneven margins really grind my gears*," all other comment is usurped. There's infinite pressure not to say, "Oh yeah? I'm a perfectionist too! That's so neat. We're so much alike." In this economy of selling oneself at all times to anyone, it's sacriledge to claim a similarity with someone if it's already been used as that person's identity. We're all individuals, so we can't possibly have the same idiosyncracies. And this is where it all gets tricky. In order to avoid looking contrived, or worse, like a follower, I must come up with my self-definition first, before anyone else has laid claim to it. I'm not sure when all this competition in the realm of self-identity surfaced, but I've noticed it in doses I've never experienced before.
Perhaps we need to constantly define ourselves for those around us because we live such separated lives here. The extreme "my time-my life" individualism of the U.S. strikes me as odd after spending time in significantly more collectivist societies. Although I always remained an outsider in those places, I could observe daily the extent to which social groups, family groups, community groups, and work groups collaborated and shared more than just the narrowly defined tasks that brought them together. As an outsider, I had the liberty not to be bound by such obligations, and perhaps I look back on it fondly since I had no real responsibility within that system. However, I miss it. I miss seeing people check with others first before making their plans. I miss the concept of always having more space at the table, more room for others. I miss the physical proximity of squeezing into crowded areas and the normalcy of seeing coworkers' laundry on the line.
Isolation becomes so much simpler when the most common mechanism for crossing streets, states, and statuses is a car. I hop in mine, and it's just me. I admit that I love the isolation of driving. I hate the waste of space and resources. I am definitely torn on this point, but at least driving myself everywhere still feels odd. I hope it never becomes my norm, even if it is my habit out of necessity.
The anthropologists task lies in the familiar quote: "making the familiar strange and the strange, familiar." I think I've lived this even if I haven't come back with anything resembling ethnography. For me, the exercise isn't one of purely academic inquiry. There's something to learn when you cast off the "norm" and borrow another's way of life. The greatest loss would be to forget the strangeness that, for a while, became familiar.
*clever phrase credit - S. Dutt
Self-definition (see above example) is one trait of "life in the U.S." that stands out more than ever, and it's a trap that I quickly find myself falling into. On almost any day that I interact with people who speak English, I hear some version of this sentence: "I'm a _____________, so ________." Why is it that we feel the need to so clearly state where we stand and what we think and who we are at all times? Whatever happened to letting people figure it all out as they go, even if they should get it wrong? This need to self-define almost becomes a game. I have to state what I am before anyone else in the room should say the exact same thing about him/herself. Once it's out there, and someone says, "I'm a perfectionist, so these uneven margins really grind my gears*," all other comment is usurped. There's infinite pressure not to say, "Oh yeah? I'm a perfectionist too! That's so neat. We're so much alike." In this economy of selling oneself at all times to anyone, it's sacriledge to claim a similarity with someone if it's already been used as that person's identity. We're all individuals, so we can't possibly have the same idiosyncracies. And this is where it all gets tricky. In order to avoid looking contrived, or worse, like a follower, I must come up with my self-definition first, before anyone else has laid claim to it. I'm not sure when all this competition in the realm of self-identity surfaced, but I've noticed it in doses I've never experienced before.
Perhaps we need to constantly define ourselves for those around us because we live such separated lives here. The extreme "my time-my life" individualism of the U.S. strikes me as odd after spending time in significantly more collectivist societies. Although I always remained an outsider in those places, I could observe daily the extent to which social groups, family groups, community groups, and work groups collaborated and shared more than just the narrowly defined tasks that brought them together. As an outsider, I had the liberty not to be bound by such obligations, and perhaps I look back on it fondly since I had no real responsibility within that system. However, I miss it. I miss seeing people check with others first before making their plans. I miss the concept of always having more space at the table, more room for others. I miss the physical proximity of squeezing into crowded areas and the normalcy of seeing coworkers' laundry on the line.
Isolation becomes so much simpler when the most common mechanism for crossing streets, states, and statuses is a car. I hop in mine, and it's just me. I admit that I love the isolation of driving. I hate the waste of space and resources. I am definitely torn on this point, but at least driving myself everywhere still feels odd. I hope it never becomes my norm, even if it is my habit out of necessity.
The anthropologists task lies in the familiar quote: "making the familiar strange and the strange, familiar." I think I've lived this even if I haven't come back with anything resembling ethnography. For me, the exercise isn't one of purely academic inquiry. There's something to learn when you cast off the "norm" and borrow another's way of life. The greatest loss would be to forget the strangeness that, for a while, became familiar.
*clever phrase credit - S. Dutt
Sunday, June 3, 2012
No Wonder I'm Exhausted
In the last ten years, I have lived:
5 months in France
1 senior year of college in Georgia (U.S.A.) - 3 different apartments, but same roommates
1 year in Toronto, approximately 10 house-mates, though not all at the same time
1 year in Alabama w/my parents
3 years in Orlando, 2 different apartments, 4 roommates (first 2 years, 1 roommate/last year, 3 roommates)
2 years in China, 2 different apartments
5 months in Alabama, parents' garage
10 months in Zambia
5.5 months in Alabama, 1 apartment (1.5 months to go)
next year: new apartment, Alabama
5 months in France
1 senior year of college in Georgia (U.S.A.) - 3 different apartments, but same roommates
1 year in Toronto, approximately 10 house-mates, though not all at the same time
1 year in Alabama w/my parents
3 years in Orlando, 2 different apartments, 4 roommates (first 2 years, 1 roommate/last year, 3 roommates)
2 years in China, 2 different apartments
5 months in Alabama, parents' garage
10 months in Zambia
5.5 months in Alabama, 1 apartment (1.5 months to go)
next year: new apartment, Alabama
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Favorites
It may seem that my stories of Z revolve around the difficulties and frustrations. I write about the things that left me scratching my head since those most easily show the culture hiccups and clashes I experienced. I mean them not, per se, as a comment on all of Zambian society. They are merely a recounted story of how I got through my days and what bizarre things I met along the way.
However, now that I'm back in Americaland and seeing it as a foreigner, I'm feeling nostalgic for what I can't find here. So, here are some of my favorite things, minus the people. (By the way, you should know I miss you). Without further qualification:
Harvey Tile advertisements. For example, "A roof without Harvey Tiles is like a baby without nappies. It might be leaking." "A roof without Harvey Tiles is like a hospital without doctors. There might be deaths."
Houses painted with actual colors, instead of shades of grey, brown, and black.
Walking as a common means of transportation.
The excitement of a good hitch.
Laughter, as long as it's with and not at.
Nshima. Yes, I actually enjoyed it. Well, as long as meat wasn't involved. Along with this, I must add softies in glass bottles, avocados, and mangos.
Students who sacrifice and save for their education.
Zampop and singing in general.
The interesting man who worked at the ice-cream shop in Kamwala market.
Kamwala market.
Chitenges.
The post-rain smell, if not the post-rain mud.
Landscapes and skies that defy description.
Laughing with the elderly women I passed on the way to work as I tried to spin the "I love you"s coming from random guys as being pointed at them.
Eavesdropping on Chinese construction workers, to the degree that I was able.
Cairo Road. Love it or hate it, it's a defining feature of life in Lusaka. If you haven't walked down Cairo road lately, you haven't really been living.
Ghandi's.
Laundry on the line.
However, now that I'm back in Americaland and seeing it as a foreigner, I'm feeling nostalgic for what I can't find here. So, here are some of my favorite things, minus the people. (By the way, you should know I miss you). Without further qualification:
Harvey Tile advertisements. For example, "A roof without Harvey Tiles is like a baby without nappies. It might be leaking." "A roof without Harvey Tiles is like a hospital without doctors. There might be deaths."
Houses painted with actual colors, instead of shades of grey, brown, and black.
Walking as a common means of transportation.
The excitement of a good hitch.
Laughter, as long as it's with and not at.
Nshima. Yes, I actually enjoyed it. Well, as long as meat wasn't involved. Along with this, I must add softies in glass bottles, avocados, and mangos.
Students who sacrifice and save for their education.
Zampop and singing in general.
The interesting man who worked at the ice-cream shop in Kamwala market.
Kamwala market.
Chitenges.
The post-rain smell, if not the post-rain mud.
Landscapes and skies that defy description.
Laughing with the elderly women I passed on the way to work as I tried to spin the "I love you"s coming from random guys as being pointed at them.
Eavesdropping on Chinese construction workers, to the degree that I was able.
Cairo Road. Love it or hate it, it's a defining feature of life in Lusaka. If you haven't walked down Cairo road lately, you haven't really been living.
Ghandi's.
Laundry on the line.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Names
Zambia taught me to lie, at least a little. I think most people who have known me for some time would consider me a somewhat guarded, private person. But, somewhere along the way (probably in China), that changed. So, I moved to a country where there's no such thing as "strangers" and where conversation and making friends is a perfectly fine hobby to have. That's just great, except when I don't get to choose who my friends are and when they show up. I learned the hard way that being honest with strangers, especially about where you work and live or what your address or phone number is, is a very stupid thing to do. I'm not really in the habit of giving out my personal data so easily, but I'm also not accustomed to being asked point blank, "Where do you stay?" "Where do you work?" "What's your name?" Especially when the asker is clearly drunk or old and of addled brain.
There are some good stories to go along with my stupid mistakes of telling the truth after being caught off guard by a personal question, but those will have to wait.
Instead, here are some of the lies I managed to come up with.
Name? Mwape, Faith, Charity, Marie, or whatever popped into my brain most recently. Ever wanted to get a whole bus to roar with laughter? Let the white girl on the bus say her name is "Mwape". That gets them going.
Do you stay this side? No, no, I'm visiting a friend.
Where do you stay? Other side. (Apparently, this completely unclear response is perfectly acceptable and understandable to a Zambian. I, however, didn't even understand it when I gave it.)
Where do you work? Oh, I work at ZNBC. Oh, I work for a bank. I don't have a job. I'm a volunteer (the one word that people seem to understand and will accept quickly. Thanks PC Zambia!)
Are you married? Yes.
How long? For three years.
Do you have children? No. (Well, that's true. Sometimes the truth is just easier.)
They aren't so creative to say the least, but I learned to quickly and confidently respond with anything BUT my real information!
There are some good stories to go along with my stupid mistakes of telling the truth after being caught off guard by a personal question, but those will have to wait.
Instead, here are some of the lies I managed to come up with.
Name? Mwape, Faith, Charity, Marie, or whatever popped into my brain most recently. Ever wanted to get a whole bus to roar with laughter? Let the white girl on the bus say her name is "Mwape". That gets them going.
Do you stay this side? No, no, I'm visiting a friend.
Where do you stay? Other side. (Apparently, this completely unclear response is perfectly acceptable and understandable to a Zambian. I, however, didn't even understand it when I gave it.)
Where do you work? Oh, I work at ZNBC. Oh, I work for a bank. I don't have a job. I'm a volunteer (the one word that people seem to understand and will accept quickly. Thanks PC Zambia!)
Are you married? Yes.
How long? For three years.
Do you have children? No. (Well, that's true. Sometimes the truth is just easier.)
They aren't so creative to say the least, but I learned to quickly and confidently respond with anything BUT my real information!
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Trip That Wasn't
Back to storytelling...
I had been in the country for something close to 6 months. I was getting stir-crazy. People all around me, Zambians and expats alike, were telling stories of adventures across international borders. I hadn't been this country-locked in quite a while, thanks to former employment that provided a month-long winter holiday (in exchange for giving up Christmas, we got New Years) and an ample selection of nearby vacation spots on the cheap. So, what's a girl to do? Normally, I'd talk to coworker-friends and try to arrange something, but that wasn't possible in the current situation.
So, I decided to venture out alone. Zimbabwe being the nearest country, it was chosen as the weekend destination. I had a long weekend coming up (some holiday or protest or election or something; it slips my memory now), and I was determined not to waste it doing laundry and visiting Pick-N-Pay. I sorted through guide-book suggestions of lodging and decided to book the cheapest available (stupidity part 2. Part 1? See "Hong Kong Travel"). There wasn't much to choose from, and the cheapest available wasn't so cheap. But, since I'd be taking a bus, it would all even out. As a world-wise international traveler, I wasn't stupid enough to attempt to book a bus ticket a week in advance or to try to get one the same day. I made my way to the Intercity Bus Terminus the day before I hoped to travel in order to buy a ticket. I kept my shoulders back and my eyes averted. Still, a number of people insisted on helping the Muzungu. I sincerely wonder if there's a "white girl" alarm that someone at that bus station sounds on sight. I decided to stop fighting the system and see if it could work. I let one nice-enough guy lead me to the Harare bus area. We approached the counter. Could I buy a ticket for tomorrow? No, go see the men at the buses. Excuse me, could I please buy a ticket for the bus to Harare tomorrow? No, you just need to come a couple of hours before the bus leaves. Are you sure? Sure. (Back to the window) Is there any way I can buy a seat today for a bus to Harare tomorrow? No, come back tomorrow. Somewhat dejected, I shook my new friend's hand, secretly passed him 10 pin, and went on my way.
The following day after work, I headed back to Intercity. My bag was packed, my hostel was booked, and I was completely ready for a long, hot ride and whatever adventures lay along the way. This time I didn't accept the offers for help and found the correct bus all on my own. As I asked for a seat, I was informed they were all sold out. "Why didn't you buy a ticket yesterday?" the thoughtful gentleman kindly asked.
I had been in the country for something close to 6 months. I was getting stir-crazy. People all around me, Zambians and expats alike, were telling stories of adventures across international borders. I hadn't been this country-locked in quite a while, thanks to former employment that provided a month-long winter holiday (in exchange for giving up Christmas, we got New Years) and an ample selection of nearby vacation spots on the cheap. So, what's a girl to do? Normally, I'd talk to coworker-friends and try to arrange something, but that wasn't possible in the current situation.
So, I decided to venture out alone. Zimbabwe being the nearest country, it was chosen as the weekend destination. I had a long weekend coming up (some holiday or protest or election or something; it slips my memory now), and I was determined not to waste it doing laundry and visiting Pick-N-Pay. I sorted through guide-book suggestions of lodging and decided to book the cheapest available (stupidity part 2. Part 1? See "Hong Kong Travel"). There wasn't much to choose from, and the cheapest available wasn't so cheap. But, since I'd be taking a bus, it would all even out. As a world-wise international traveler, I wasn't stupid enough to attempt to book a bus ticket a week in advance or to try to get one the same day. I made my way to the Intercity Bus Terminus the day before I hoped to travel in order to buy a ticket. I kept my shoulders back and my eyes averted. Still, a number of people insisted on helping the Muzungu. I sincerely wonder if there's a "white girl" alarm that someone at that bus station sounds on sight. I decided to stop fighting the system and see if it could work. I let one nice-enough guy lead me to the Harare bus area. We approached the counter. Could I buy a ticket for tomorrow? No, go see the men at the buses. Excuse me, could I please buy a ticket for the bus to Harare tomorrow? No, you just need to come a couple of hours before the bus leaves. Are you sure? Sure. (Back to the window) Is there any way I can buy a seat today for a bus to Harare tomorrow? No, come back tomorrow. Somewhat dejected, I shook my new friend's hand, secretly passed him 10 pin, and went on my way.
The following day after work, I headed back to Intercity. My bag was packed, my hostel was booked, and I was completely ready for a long, hot ride and whatever adventures lay along the way. This time I didn't accept the offers for help and found the correct bus all on my own. As I asked for a seat, I was informed they were all sold out. "Why didn't you buy a ticket yesterday?" the thoughtful gentleman kindly asked.
Unposted Facebook Updates Seeking Outlet
"2011 kicked me in the pants. In 2012, I'm kicking back."
"Sometimes, I wish someone else would make all my life decisions for me. In those times, I seriously contemplate joining the military."
"Remember when Facebook was all about hatching eggs and Shite gifts for academics?"
...More Zamlife stories to come. Never fear!
"Sometimes, I wish someone else would make all my life decisions for me. In those times, I seriously contemplate joining the military."
"Remember when Facebook was all about hatching eggs and Shite gifts for academics?"
...More Zamlife stories to come. Never fear!
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Oswald, Part 2
(The story begins a few months after "Oswald, Part1")
Me: "Hello?"
Him: "Hi Jenica."
Me: "I'm sorry, who is this?"
Him (w/whiny, wounded tone of voice): "What, you don't remember me?"
Me: "No, I'm sorry. Could you please tell me who you are?"
Him: "It's Oswald."
Me: "I'm sorry, Oswald who? I don't think I know an Oswald."
Him: "Oswald, from the Woodlands Post Office."
Me: "Oh, hi. I'm sorry, I forgot your name."
Him: "You have a parcel here. Can you come get it?"
Me: "Well, I'm at work right now."
Him: "So, when will you come get it?"
Me: "I'm not sure, but I'll try to make it this week."
Me: "Hello?"
Him: "Hi Jenica."
Me: "I'm sorry, who is this?"
Him (w/whiny, wounded tone of voice): "What, you don't remember me?"
Me: "No, I'm sorry. Could you please tell me who you are?"
Him: "It's Oswald."
Me: "I'm sorry, Oswald who? I don't think I know an Oswald."
Him: "Oswald, from the Woodlands Post Office."
Me: "Oh, hi. I'm sorry, I forgot your name."
Him: "You have a parcel here. Can you come get it?"
Me: "Well, I'm at work right now."
Him: "So, when will you come get it?"
Me: "I'm not sure, but I'll try to make it this week."
Oswald, Part 1
This is my story of Oswald, the world's worst post office worker who still has a job. First, a few explanations of the Zambia Post Office are needed. In Lusaka, there aren't really individual mail boxes. No, scratch that. There are no individual mail boxes at houses. There are post office boxes at, as one might guess, the Post Office. I inquired into the cost of renting one such box. I am old fashioned in some ways, and I still enjoy sending and, especially while living the expat life, receiving snail mail. So, how much would it be to rent one? Exactly correct. 500,000 kwacha for the year, or, roughly $100 USD. I love letters, but really? $100? I just couldn't see any cost-benefit in that hefty price. However, one doesn't need to rent anything to receive packages. When I told my friends that I could receive parcel post but not letters, it wasn't a joke.
To receive such a package, I first had to visit the Main Post Office, at the corner of Cairo and Church Roads. One day before work, I went early and lined up. I explained the situation (I'd like to receive a package from the U.S. How do I do that?), and I was given the correct mailing address for my home. Interestingly, part of that address included my personal cell phone number. I laughed at my triumph, actually accomplishing what I set out to do, and walked to work.
The package receiving process works this way. Presumably, a package arrives with my name and address. The postal worker sees it, reads the phone number, and calls to inform me that I've received a package. Some time within the next two weeks, I search for a day when I can make it to my neighborhood post office before 4:30 p.m. and pick it up. I arrive, give my name, fake an NRC number, show I.D., sign 5 different lines, and pay a fee. At this point, the package is mine. Alternatively, there is also a delivery service, but I must be home at the time for the delivery boy to drop off the item. This only worked one time. Inexplicably, the delivery service does not include any fees.
Receiving a package from home is, for the foreign teacher, a way to get through the rough times. Just the fact that someone cares enough to go through the hassle of picking out items, carefully packing them, and paying to ship them to across the ocean makes you feel like your life matters to someone, even if it's not to anyone in your immediate vicinity. My sister is the best package sender ever. She deserves an award. She sent great boxes that included a glass jar of salsa, sheets, tortillas, magazines so I can pretend to keep up with fashion trends and celebrity gossip, art, scarves, and the essentials that couldn't make it into my 2-bag limit. I eagerly awaited the arrival of my first package from home in Zambia.
Enter Oswald.
Ah Oswald. Sometimes, life is too easy, so an instigator is sent to mess with you. This is the only explanation possible for the presence of Oswald in my Zamlife. Oswald's job, from what I gather, is searching the back room for parcels and handing the parcels to the customer. He also seems to be the one who is meant to call customers when a parcel has arrived for them. Additionally, he delivers parcels, on occasion.
I left work and walked home - a bounce in my step on the 1.5 hour walk down Church Road and Independence Avenue. I was going to the Woodlands Post Office to pick up my first package. Excitement hurried me on. I got there. I gave my name. The young guy went to the back to get the package. He put it on the counter. He didn't speak. What was I supposed to do? Could I just take it? "No, you have to sign for it," he said with sarcasm, a hint of a smile...perhaps a challenge? He gave me a look, a knowing look, as if he knew me. As if he ever could. My skin crawled. Give me my box already. I signed the line where he indicated. I waited. He stared. I waited longer. I had been in Zambia long enough to know how to play this game without getting frustrated, but I was still wary of his intentions. Could I take my box and leave? Slowly, he flipped through the pages and showed that I needed to sign some more lines. Good. Was it really that hard being a postal worker? Couldn't he have just showed me that to begin with? I promised myself not to show any outward signs of impatience, then wondered if he'd even be able to read them on a muzungu. I was finally granted ownership of the box, and I hurriedly carried it home. I forgot the strange encounter at the post office as I went through the box's contents. I sent a thank-you email, text, and facebook post. There is no such thing as superfluity when a sister mails a box to a foreign country. Oswald didn't dampen my happiness that day, but soon my dealings at the post-office would carry the twin emotions of excitment and dread.
To receive such a package, I first had to visit the Main Post Office, at the corner of Cairo and Church Roads. One day before work, I went early and lined up. I explained the situation (I'd like to receive a package from the U.S. How do I do that?), and I was given the correct mailing address for my home. Interestingly, part of that address included my personal cell phone number. I laughed at my triumph, actually accomplishing what I set out to do, and walked to work.
The package receiving process works this way. Presumably, a package arrives with my name and address. The postal worker sees it, reads the phone number, and calls to inform me that I've received a package. Some time within the next two weeks, I search for a day when I can make it to my neighborhood post office before 4:30 p.m. and pick it up. I arrive, give my name, fake an NRC number, show I.D., sign 5 different lines, and pay a fee. At this point, the package is mine. Alternatively, there is also a delivery service, but I must be home at the time for the delivery boy to drop off the item. This only worked one time. Inexplicably, the delivery service does not include any fees.
Receiving a package from home is, for the foreign teacher, a way to get through the rough times. Just the fact that someone cares enough to go through the hassle of picking out items, carefully packing them, and paying to ship them to across the ocean makes you feel like your life matters to someone, even if it's not to anyone in your immediate vicinity. My sister is the best package sender ever. She deserves an award. She sent great boxes that included a glass jar of salsa, sheets, tortillas, magazines so I can pretend to keep up with fashion trends and celebrity gossip, art, scarves, and the essentials that couldn't make it into my 2-bag limit. I eagerly awaited the arrival of my first package from home in Zambia.
Enter Oswald.
Ah Oswald. Sometimes, life is too easy, so an instigator is sent to mess with you. This is the only explanation possible for the presence of Oswald in my Zamlife. Oswald's job, from what I gather, is searching the back room for parcels and handing the parcels to the customer. He also seems to be the one who is meant to call customers when a parcel has arrived for them. Additionally, he delivers parcels, on occasion.
I left work and walked home - a bounce in my step on the 1.5 hour walk down Church Road and Independence Avenue. I was going to the Woodlands Post Office to pick up my first package. Excitement hurried me on. I got there. I gave my name. The young guy went to the back to get the package. He put it on the counter. He didn't speak. What was I supposed to do? Could I just take it? "No, you have to sign for it," he said with sarcasm, a hint of a smile...perhaps a challenge? He gave me a look, a knowing look, as if he knew me. As if he ever could. My skin crawled. Give me my box already. I signed the line where he indicated. I waited. He stared. I waited longer. I had been in Zambia long enough to know how to play this game without getting frustrated, but I was still wary of his intentions. Could I take my box and leave? Slowly, he flipped through the pages and showed that I needed to sign some more lines. Good. Was it really that hard being a postal worker? Couldn't he have just showed me that to begin with? I promised myself not to show any outward signs of impatience, then wondered if he'd even be able to read them on a muzungu. I was finally granted ownership of the box, and I hurriedly carried it home. I forgot the strange encounter at the post office as I went through the box's contents. I sent a thank-you email, text, and facebook post. There is no such thing as superfluity when a sister mails a box to a foreign country. Oswald didn't dampen my happiness that day, but soon my dealings at the post-office would carry the twin emotions of excitment and dread.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
"Opportunity", or, The Sour Taste of Promises Unkept
In case you happen to be unfamiliar with Sir Edward Rowland Sill's poem "Opportunity" (which is nearly impossible should you have been lucky enough to sit through Mrs. Well's 7th and 8th grade English classes at the academy), the opening line begins thus: "This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream, there spread a cloud of dust along a plain. And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged a furious battle." As I memorized and chanted these lines along with fellow classmates, I hardly expected the words to come back to me nearly 16 years later as I walked to my bus stop on the way to work in Zambia. If NMA was good for nothing else, it was good for our powers of memorization.
So it was, memorization powers refined, that I found myself reciting Sir Edward Rowland Sill's known work on a 15-minute walk down a dusty road that lead to my bus stop. Each morning began with this walk or with the long 1.5-hour walk all the way to school, depending on weather. Either way, I began to carefully watch my step. I plotted in advance the street crossings I would need to make. No goats? Safe to cross. No speeding trucks? Safe to cross. No people who will accost me on the other side while I wait for the bus? Safe to cross. No large puddles or patches of mud? Safe to cross. The walk wasn't that easy. One had to be cognizant of everything, if one wanted to arrive on time for her 8 a.m. class still somewhat professionally dressed and clean.
I somehow managed the trek to work through muddy season and learned to stay dry and clean, mostly. However, it was the 2011 Zambian presidential elections that foiled my newly-honed skill. Dear President Banda, may he rest in retirement, thought the way to win the elections, in addition to accepting bribes, probably, and selling out all of the country's natural resources to China, probably, was to build roads. Zambia does need roads, good ones, ones that last more than one season. And so, the Roads Commission got busy. In their haste (rare for the country) and excitement, old, decrepit, pot-hole strewn asphalt was torn up left and right through the capital. One such road was the small side street I took on my way to the Mosi-O-Tunya bus stop.
A person might wonder, and indeed, I heard many frequently wonder aloud, "Isn't this one of the reasons government exists?" Don't we give them a portion of our hard-earned, over-the-table earnings just so that we can drive and, or, walk down decent roads, and the like? Perhaps it was the intelligence of the Zambian electorate that they didn't buy into the roads-for-votes scheme, or perhaps it was the magnitude of Banda's failure to follow through on what he began that lead to his electoral demise. The Roads Commission, you see, did a brilliant job of tearing up old roads and grading them for future paving. However, at least on the many streets I walked, that paving never occurred. And so, I ventured to my daily bus-stop on a newly created dirt path. Since the old potholes had been done away with, the Zambians wealthy enough to afford vehicles took pleasure in powering down the dirt road without the need to touch the brake. The effect was eery to behold. Where there was blue sky just moments before, all I saw was brown swirl of earth in sky. I tried to avoid becoming drenched, but it simply wasn't possible. The other walkers and I would exchange sour looks, shake our heads, and continue on...dreaming of the day we too might enjoy the luxury of racing, windows-up, past the foot traffic.
All I can say, in retrospect, is thanks to the individual who taught me I didn't need to show up to work clean. Mr. Banda, it was a good lesson. Learning can happen, even when you're covered in dirt. But battles will rage on, as you found. Perhaps keeping promises is important after all. Here's to Sata - may he learn from his predecessor's mistakes, for the sake of all Zambians, especially the majority who travel on foot.
So it was, memorization powers refined, that I found myself reciting Sir Edward Rowland Sill's known work on a 15-minute walk down a dusty road that lead to my bus stop. Each morning began with this walk or with the long 1.5-hour walk all the way to school, depending on weather. Either way, I began to carefully watch my step. I plotted in advance the street crossings I would need to make. No goats? Safe to cross. No speeding trucks? Safe to cross. No people who will accost me on the other side while I wait for the bus? Safe to cross. No large puddles or patches of mud? Safe to cross. The walk wasn't that easy. One had to be cognizant of everything, if one wanted to arrive on time for her 8 a.m. class still somewhat professionally dressed and clean.
I somehow managed the trek to work through muddy season and learned to stay dry and clean, mostly. However, it was the 2011 Zambian presidential elections that foiled my newly-honed skill. Dear President Banda, may he rest in retirement, thought the way to win the elections, in addition to accepting bribes, probably, and selling out all of the country's natural resources to China, probably, was to build roads. Zambia does need roads, good ones, ones that last more than one season. And so, the Roads Commission got busy. In their haste (rare for the country) and excitement, old, decrepit, pot-hole strewn asphalt was torn up left and right through the capital. One such road was the small side street I took on my way to the Mosi-O-Tunya bus stop.
A person might wonder, and indeed, I heard many frequently wonder aloud, "Isn't this one of the reasons government exists?" Don't we give them a portion of our hard-earned, over-the-table earnings just so that we can drive and, or, walk down decent roads, and the like? Perhaps it was the intelligence of the Zambian electorate that they didn't buy into the roads-for-votes scheme, or perhaps it was the magnitude of Banda's failure to follow through on what he began that lead to his electoral demise. The Roads Commission, you see, did a brilliant job of tearing up old roads and grading them for future paving. However, at least on the many streets I walked, that paving never occurred. And so, I ventured to my daily bus-stop on a newly created dirt path. Since the old potholes had been done away with, the Zambians wealthy enough to afford vehicles took pleasure in powering down the dirt road without the need to touch the brake. The effect was eery to behold. Where there was blue sky just moments before, all I saw was brown swirl of earth in sky. I tried to avoid becoming drenched, but it simply wasn't possible. The other walkers and I would exchange sour looks, shake our heads, and continue on...dreaming of the day we too might enjoy the luxury of racing, windows-up, past the foot traffic.
All I can say, in retrospect, is thanks to the individual who taught me I didn't need to show up to work clean. Mr. Banda, it was a good lesson. Learning can happen, even when you're covered in dirt. But battles will rage on, as you found. Perhaps keeping promises is important after all. Here's to Sata - may he learn from his predecessor's mistakes, for the sake of all Zambians, especially the majority who travel on foot.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Newly Old
It's the new year, and I'm newly resolved to get back to updating this blog. However, this not an official New Year's resolution. I haven't made any, simply because I haven't even had a chance to slow down and be reflective since, oh, somewhere around mid-November.
I can't believe a whole calendar year has passed since I boarded a plane, destination Zambia. Last year sometimes feels like the lost year. I'm forever grateful that I finally got to experience life in sub-Saharan Africa and that I now have a better understanding of what it means to be Zambian - to be born there, educated there, and struggle to find ways to make it there. I know my insight is limited, and I've only scratched the surface, yet still, the year challenged me in ways I didn't expect and taught me things I never particularly wanted to learn (exhibit A: lying through your teeth with no qualms).
I'll reach back as far as my 30-year-old brain will allow in order to post post-humously some reflections on the adventure of 2011. Meanwhile, I'll try to capture my observations of life now as it actually happens.
Currently, culture shock has me in its death vice. I drive more slowly, and possibly more erratically, than my adorable French grandmother ever did. If you pass me on the road, please don't judge. Driving skill is honed by excessive practice (in the U.S.), and I've been sorely out of practice for three years. In addition to driving troubles, I'm constantly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choice available in this country. It seems impossible to make decisions. Grocery store trips are leisurely outings that can take over an hour for just a few items. I think the Publix employees are extremely confused whenever they see me calmly wandering around.
Being overwhelmed by transport and food options is a classic reverse culture shock trait that most returning expats experience. Mention your difficulties, and you'll get knowing nods and smiles. But why doesn't anyone ever warn you about trying to actually talk to Americans when you return? I'm having the most difficulty, I think, with conversational norms and turn-taking. I'm guessing this is a result of several competing factors. First is the fact that in Zambia, I made great efforts to learn to communicate effectively with Zambians. This communication task may seem easy. "Isn't Zambia an English speaking country?" How many times have I heard this question? And yet, most of the expats I knew who lived in Zambia primarily communicated with locals who were used to the conversational norms of Americans and had adapted their own style of speech to what they'd observed. In my workplace however, I was frequently lost, and I had to truly work at being understood and avoiding miscommunication. This was partly due to the fact that Zamblish is its own dialect, different from British English and American English and equal in its own standards and rules. The communication difficulties were also partly due to the fact that most Zambians, even those who now speak better English than they do their mother tongues, blend the two (or three) languages in an exemplary melody of code-switching. So, yes, part of what they were speaking was English, but a large part wasn't. However, I did adapt, and I learned to change my English to Zamblish in order to be better understood.
A second factor may be that living abroad - for me, two years in China and a year in Zambia - forces same-language speakers to relate and bond to one another more quickly, and it shows in conversational patterns and norms. This reality is both annoying because I don't get to make friends at the slow pace I'm used to and comforting because it's always lonely being the foreigner on display somewhere. The result is that I look at everyone who speaks my language as a potential friend, even while I recognize that most of the people I meet probably already have all the friends they need and want.
I think I'm also having difficulty jumping to the end of people's sentences and thoughts before they have the time to get there. And I'm so excited to be talking to anyone at all (living alone does have its drawbacks. My cat doesn't talk back. At least, not really), that I respond a few seconds faster than a normal person. As someone who has (or used to have? I'm not sure) a hard time getting my thoughts out of my mouth, I know it can be frustrating to be around someone who talks too fast or responds too quickly. I hope these "returnee" quirks work themselves out soon.
I can't believe a whole calendar year has passed since I boarded a plane, destination Zambia. Last year sometimes feels like the lost year. I'm forever grateful that I finally got to experience life in sub-Saharan Africa and that I now have a better understanding of what it means to be Zambian - to be born there, educated there, and struggle to find ways to make it there. I know my insight is limited, and I've only scratched the surface, yet still, the year challenged me in ways I didn't expect and taught me things I never particularly wanted to learn (exhibit A: lying through your teeth with no qualms).
I'll reach back as far as my 30-year-old brain will allow in order to post post-humously some reflections on the adventure of 2011. Meanwhile, I'll try to capture my observations of life now as it actually happens.
Currently, culture shock has me in its death vice. I drive more slowly, and possibly more erratically, than my adorable French grandmother ever did. If you pass me on the road, please don't judge. Driving skill is honed by excessive practice (in the U.S.), and I've been sorely out of practice for three years. In addition to driving troubles, I'm constantly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of choice available in this country. It seems impossible to make decisions. Grocery store trips are leisurely outings that can take over an hour for just a few items. I think the Publix employees are extremely confused whenever they see me calmly wandering around.
Being overwhelmed by transport and food options is a classic reverse culture shock trait that most returning expats experience. Mention your difficulties, and you'll get knowing nods and smiles. But why doesn't anyone ever warn you about trying to actually talk to Americans when you return? I'm having the most difficulty, I think, with conversational norms and turn-taking. I'm guessing this is a result of several competing factors. First is the fact that in Zambia, I made great efforts to learn to communicate effectively with Zambians. This communication task may seem easy. "Isn't Zambia an English speaking country?" How many times have I heard this question? And yet, most of the expats I knew who lived in Zambia primarily communicated with locals who were used to the conversational norms of Americans and had adapted their own style of speech to what they'd observed. In my workplace however, I was frequently lost, and I had to truly work at being understood and avoiding miscommunication. This was partly due to the fact that Zamblish is its own dialect, different from British English and American English and equal in its own standards and rules. The communication difficulties were also partly due to the fact that most Zambians, even those who now speak better English than they do their mother tongues, blend the two (or three) languages in an exemplary melody of code-switching. So, yes, part of what they were speaking was English, but a large part wasn't. However, I did adapt, and I learned to change my English to Zamblish in order to be better understood.
A second factor may be that living abroad - for me, two years in China and a year in Zambia - forces same-language speakers to relate and bond to one another more quickly, and it shows in conversational patterns and norms. This reality is both annoying because I don't get to make friends at the slow pace I'm used to and comforting because it's always lonely being the foreigner on display somewhere. The result is that I look at everyone who speaks my language as a potential friend, even while I recognize that most of the people I meet probably already have all the friends they need and want.
I think I'm also having difficulty jumping to the end of people's sentences and thoughts before they have the time to get there. And I'm so excited to be talking to anyone at all (living alone does have its drawbacks. My cat doesn't talk back. At least, not really), that I respond a few seconds faster than a normal person. As someone who has (or used to have? I'm not sure) a hard time getting my thoughts out of my mouth, I know it can be frustrating to be around someone who talks too fast or responds too quickly. I hope these "returnee" quirks work themselves out soon.
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