Back in Grapids

I've got to admit, I like the way home smells. I thought I could still sense pine needles from Christmas, maybe chili powder and ginger (dad's favorite ingredients), definitely the dog's ear medicine, maybe some chlorophyll from mom's plants... who knows what the sum of it is, but it's a good smell.

Other than that, I've perfected the art of the sloth. Not that it's hard to do, that's the whole point. Small, 5 minute tasks manage to go undone for days on end, because I'm more interested in watching an entire season of House in a single day. My Fulbright application is currently no more than a bookmark on my Firefox toolbar, and my letter to grandpa, written a month ago, has yet to be mailed.

But even if it is just House, it's nice to spend hours focused on a single purpose. College tends to consist of me finishing homework assignments from 5 different classes while fitting in my two jobs, various meetings, and the drama that always arises when a few hundred students stew in their own juices for three months at a college that resists most attempts to live off-campus.

Still, if I keep at this for much longer, I'll risk losing all the neuron connections I am going to need to survive next year.

Labradoodle: part labrador, part poodle

Lessons Learned

I had assumed that, since I had mastered bus routes in both England and Nicaragua, I could handle the Twin Cities transit system. Turns out that I had not quite made the distinction between rural routes and the urban ones. For example:

+ Always check to make sure you are going in the right direction (or you end up in the Minneapolis U of M campus rather than the St. Paul capitol building).

+ Turns out that buses from multiple routes can stop at the same bus stops. Therefore, determine that you are not only on the right side of the road, but also boarding the #3, not the #62L which takes you to a strip mall on the south side of Rice St.

+ Asking people for help does not result in a blank stare or the phrase, "oh...I was hoping you could help me..."

Every time I'm on a twin city bus, I imagine what a Nicaraguan might think. The buses aren't old schoolbus models, the air doesn't reek of fresh onions or cheese, and I have yet to spend any amount of time jammed next to the driver because there's not even room to move, let alone available seats.

The price of a ride may be an issue, but you can always ask for transfer tickets. The climate might be worrisome for some, but they all have fully functioning heating systems. There is one downside: no snacks. Every bus driver on the country routes I took had deals with women selling corn on the cob, cornbread, juice, water, candy, cigarettes, you name it. They would get on a stop, walk up and down the bus to sell their goods, then get off at the next one and do it all over again. I got the feeling that it was one big intricate dance, played out day after day, with the exact same characters each time, and if I could stay for just a bit longer, I could figure out the pattern. That's really all I wanted to do during my research project--figure out the patterns. But I highly doubt they would let a frail looking, pale gringa in on their dance.

I won't miss the music. Clear Channel may broadcast worthless music, but at least the drivers preserve our eardrums.

Real life.

I'm starting to learn how to cook again. How to pour milk from a carton rather than an industrial stainless steel cooler. That spaghetti needs a full pot of water or it will congeal into a singularity of gluten--not exactly the thank you present I wanted to give Dennis and Molly, family friends who are letting me sleep in their basement while I live in the twin cities.

I've also been drinking more cran-grape juice, but it tastes too much like communion, so I feel that I will soon desist.

The capitol is a lot like an episode of the office. Well, no one is quite as embarrasing as Michael, but Andy is here. Dwight too.