update in five movements

1. While hiking in Arusha National Park, Tanzania our guide told us what to do if a buffalo charges: lie down. That way their horns can't get underneath you. This advice assumes you would rather be trampled to death than gored to death. Tough choice, that. While hiking in Murchison National Park, Uganda we had the incredible good fortune of coming across a family of about 20 chimpanzees. Some were in the trees, others on the ground about 10m away through fairly thick bush. Squatting next to the guide, he pointed at a male on the ground and whispered, "That one is rough." "Rough?" I asked. "Yes - mean." I asked what one should do if faced with an agressive chimp and was assured that with a group of our size (Z and our guide had encountered a European couple and their guide), a chimp wouldn't act agressively. "But what if you're alone? What do you do if you're alone?" I pressed. The guides looked at me like I was crazy and said simply, "Don't."

2. Sleep is not treated with the same respect here as in other parts of the world. For example, it is perfectly acceptable to honk your horn repeatedly at 2:00am. Holding conversations at full volume in hotel courtyards at 4:30am is just fine. Radios at 3:15am? No problem! On the night bus from Mbale, Uganda to Nairobi, Kenya I learned that shrieking with laughter at midnight on a darkened bus is also perfectly acceptable. I did manage to fall asleep eventually only to be awoken by the bus bumping and swaying as it progressed down what was obviously a windy dirt road. I stuck my head into the aisle and peered out the front windows. I discovered that we were actually on a straight road - a paved, straight road. It had apparently last been resurfaced in 1936. Our bus was navigating an impressive slalom course around the axle-breaking potholes. I watched until I realized that I was gripping the arm rest tightly and tensing my jaw everytime we swayed precariously. I decided it was better to put my eye mask back on and pretend that we were on a mountain road.

3. You have probably by now read about the monkey-eating chronicles. Last night we went to Carnivore, a restaurant that would strike horror into the heart of every vegetarian. I learned that I don't like crocodile - fish should be fishy and meat should be meaty. Fishy meat is not a good thing. Camel is unsurprisingly chewy and remarkably flavorless. Ostrich meatballs are quite good. Lamb still remains one of my favorite carnivoric indulgences.

In other culinary news, I have developped a taste for matooke, one of the staples of the Ugandan diet. It's cooked green banana mush, usually served with beans and cabbage. This may explain the lack of East African restaurants in America. But really, it's not that bad.

4. In Sipi, Uganda we had dinner at the restaurant in town which was also the pub. Picture a small room with ancient, dusty chairs arranged around a low formica table and unpainted concrete walls with ripped beer ads and faded religious calendars tacked up at strange angles. Across the doorway swung a "beaded" curtain made from bent bottle caps and blue twine. It was here that we got into a discussion with three men about AIDS. One man, the youngest at about 20, asked if it's true that condoms cause cancer. We emphatically denied this vicious rumor, drawing all the authority we could from the fact that I'm a scientist and American. Hopefully the young man was convinced and will tell his friends.

That evening was the first time in two months that I have felt comfortable, welcomed and at ease with locals. The conversation was motivated by mutual interest, not money. It was fantastic. It made me aware, however, of the things that I miss. I'm looking forward to finding a home somewhere - to feeling at home somewhere.

5. In three hours we fly to Addis Abbaba, Ethiopia. I think it's going to be very different. At least I know that I like Ethiopian food.

Bombs

No, no, no. Not that kind of bomb! I'm talking about guava bombs. And believe me, when a monkey or hornbill drops a guava from a tall tree onto a tin roof, the effect is as shocking as a bomb - though perhaps not as destructive, unless you're the guava.

We rented a lovely cabin with a nice tin roof under a tall guava tree by the shores of a crater lake near Fort Portal, Uganda. There were lots of monkeys and lots of hornbills, and therefore lots of guava bombs. The ones in the middle of the night were the worst. There's nothing quite like waking up suddenly to what sounds like a shotgun being discharged right above your bed!

I spent a morning lying in a hammock watching red colobus monkeys in the trees across the lake while Z and our Canadian travel companion, Frances, went for a walk. All was still until a tree rustled violently and a small brown body appeared in mid-air, hurtling from one tree to another. In this fashion, the monkeys would cross gaps of about 30m. On my side of the lake, a curious black & white colobus descended low into a nearby tree to stare at me with its grumpy-old-man face. Behind me, the crash of guavas onto tin let me know that hornbills were about. Their wingbeats sounded as loud as small helicopters. With so much noisy wildlife (including toads that at night sang a chorus of belches!), the lake wasn't exactly peaceful - but it was relaxing.

From Lake Nkurubu, we moved on to Lake Bunyoni by bus. I fared better than Z, actually getting a seat - but one so cramped that several of my toes fell asleep. In some places, the road was under construction which meant that we detoured onto side roads - really more like tracks parallel to and below the real road. I caught a glimpse of the first detour through the crush of people around my seat and was dismayed: thick, black mud, a deep and wide puddle, and tire tracks that seemed to slide all over the place. "We're going to get stuck for sure," I thought. Seeing the look on my face, a woman seated near me (by seated, I mean perched on the railing above the stairwell) turned to reassure me saying, "And now we pray." Uh, thanks. Feeling much better now! We didn't in fact get stuck, though we did slide all over the place and I did pray.

The view from the bus grew steadily more beautiful as the hills gathered into highlands and mountains and the bus emptied out and my toes woke up. We got to Kabale under dark storm clouds which highlighted the contrast between sky and bright green hills. From there, we took a taxi to Lake Bunyoni: a stretch of silvery grey water between steep green hills covered with a patchwork of green terraced fields that reached all the way to the shores of the lake. It was beautiful and peaceful and surprisingly cold. On our second night at the lake, a storm rolled through. The lightening lit up lake, clouds, trees and grass with a violet light. I sat outside and listened to the thunder rumble from one side of the sky to the other and back. I once counted it rumble on uninterupted for two minutes. I crawled into bed once the rain pounding on the tin roof drowned out the thunder.

From bunyoni we took a spectaculor bus ride to Kisoro, a town nestled at the foot of the Virunga volcanos on the border with Rwanda and the Congo. The volcanos are immense, rising 10,000ft in perfect triangular form - exactly the shape that children draw mountains to be. Their peaks were wreathed in swirling clouds and their slopes densely forested. Staring into the Congo and Rwanda was a strange feeling - there, right over there, are two countries that are kinda sketchy. And here we are, in Uganda, feeling safe and happy. I guess I'm still a stranger to land borders.

Once again, our room in Kisoro had a tin roof, though it wasn't guava bombs that woke me in the morning but crow bombs. Which is to say crows - big crows, landing full force on the roof and jumping around. Not quite as loud as guava bombs, they nonetheless woke me up!

We had come to Kisoro in search of pythons which live on the shores of nearby Lake Mutanda. We walked with guide Joseph across hills and through villages to the lake, the air echoing with the sound of children yelling, "Muzungu, how are yooooooooooouuu?" (Muzungu means, approximately, white man.) I had imagined us taking a dugout canoe trip around the island looking for pythons that were curled in trees and safely distant across the water. Once again, however, Africa delivered the unexpected. We did take a dugout canoe across to the island, but they we got out of the canoe and walked. In search of snakes. Big snakes. Clad in sandals, we pushed our way through thickets of beans and corn and bananas and rushes, staring into the reeds for python. This struck me as absurdly stupid. I mean, who goes looking for snakes in thickets? (Answer: M&Z - duh!) The thought of surprising a snake made my toes curl protectively towards my body, as if that would put enough distance between me and snake to avoid getting bitten. Hah! For better or worse, we didn't see any snakes. Not surprisingly, I was disappointed.

The night after the hike was filled with another storm. The thunder was so loud that I couldn't help but flinch when it crashed directly overhead, sounding like a semi truck trailer full of metal filing cabinets rolling around on the roof.

After a crappy bus ride on a broken seat, we find ourselves back in Kampala. The trip through southwestern Uganda was really great. I felt happy to be traveling; the work to get somewhere was rewarded by the places at which we arrived. Not a lot of Africa has been like that. Kisoro was just so beautiful - and not overrun with overland trucks full of drunken yahoos. A lot of our experience here has been tempered by the presence of these large groups. I met an Austalian from one truck at Lake Bunyoni who asked me which company I was traveling from. When I told him that my husband (!still not used to that!) and I were traveling independently he was astonished by our bravery.

"You have a jeep, then?" he enquired.
"Nope."
"Well, how do you get around?"
"We take the bus."
"Bus?"
"Yeah, the public bus."
"You do???" Astonishment. "But how?"
I tried to limit the sarcasm in my response, which was something like, "You get on the bus. Someone asks you for money. You give that person money and they give you a ticket. You get off at your stop." I mean, what's the bravery in that???

Sigh. We're going to rest up here for a few days, stuff ourselves with Indian food and get over the colds we both have before pushing on to Murchison Falls. From there the plan is still to make our way overland to Nairobi and hop on a flight to Ethiopia. I'm looking forward to seeing Ethiopia. It should be really different. I'm also looking forward to going white water rafing on the source of the Nile. And then seeing the other end of that mighty river in Egypt. Even with travel being different this time - not so much fun, I suppose - I certainly can't complain. I mean, I'm in Africa!

Funnies

We are in Kampala, Uganda. We are safe and well and like this city a helluva lot more than Dar es Slum. There are lots of funny signs and ads here, including:

"OMO: Removes even hidden stains."
(If a stain is hidden, is it still a stain?)

"When you have a choice, Sleeping Baby is the right choice."
(I think all parents will agree with this!)

"Real fruit juice taste."
(mmm...)

"Need a lover? 4356678"

"Need a wife? 4356678"

"Need a husband? 4356678"

Now that's called one stop shopping!!!!

"plans"

I think it was just yesterday that I blogged, though with the days feeling as long as weeks, it could have been last year. It's funny how time slows down while one is traveling and yet still things can manage to change so fast - like our travel plans.

We looked into going south and discovered it expensive and not that appealing. After much indecisiveness and a trip out of town to a decent bookstore (where we sold a fellow traveler our Tanzania guide - turns out there aren't any to be found in Tanzania), and some wandering in and out of travel agents, and some reading and at least one sleepless night we actually have a plan -- one that involves a plane ticket. Yep, it's a real plan this time! On Saturday, we're flying to Kampala, Uganda (seemed worth the extra $$$ to avoid a 25 hour bus ride, the day-time part of which crosses country we've already seen - twice). Aftr Ugand we intend to make our way overland across Kenya to Nairobi where we'll hop on a flight to Addis Abbaba (Ethiopia). Perhaps we'll even be in Lalibela (home of immense rock-hewn churches and the ancient Christian Coptic sect) for Christmas. The thought of onward movement has me feeling fresh. I found that the lack of plan - then lack of concrete plan, made me a little crazy.

My dear friend Kelly sent me some wonderful advice about the stage of travel which goes something like:

Stage 1. Wheee! Everything's new and exciting and wonderful. Oh my god! Did you see that lion???
Stage 2. Huh? Why did we leave our comfortable bed with the clean sheets and the shower with the water in it and the car and the paved roads and the recognizable food to come to some hot, mosquito-ridden place and take Larium???
Stage 3. In the groove - enjoying travel. Things going as smoothly as can be expected. Able to laugh when confronted with absurdly frustrating circumstances.
Stage 4. Winding the trip down and preparing to come home.

I can say that after spending a certain amount of time in stage 1 and what seemed like a long time in stage 2, I think I'm working my way into stage 3. I'm quicker to laugh at the things that go wrong (exhibit A: the computer system that issues AMEX traveler's checks in Tanzania and Kenya is down. For a month!) and I think I've figured out how to cross the street. Here we are in Tanzania's main city and there are no stop signs, no yield signs and a snarl of honking cars going every which way at each corner. The few traffic lights I've seen have been red but that hasn't appeared to dissuade the cars from driving on anyway. Needless to say, crossing the street is an art - and I'm certainly getting better at it. Signs are looking good that things are getting smoother.

Happy Thanksgiving to all the Americans! Perhaps we'll have (more) Indian food???

two questions i hate

People tend to ask two questions of travelers: where are you from and where are you going. I have had no answer to either question. I'm not really from America, and compared to other Aussies, I'm not really Australian. The 9 months I spent in the U.K. (from age 0) really haven't instilled in me any sort of Britishness that I wasn't going to get from hanging out with my paternal grand-parents. Perhaps I'll settle to telling people that I'm from Gondwanaland - that covers all the bases!

The second question has proved just as tricky. We had plans to go to Zanzibar and some vague notion of a safari after that. But that was as far as our plans got. After the safari finished, I felt a bit lost, a bit aimless. We traveled back to Dar es Salaam from Arusha by way of Lushoto in the impossibly steep Usambara mountains. It was a nice town, cool with a sprinkling of Jacaranda trees. We hiked up to a view point and admired the Masai Steppe far, far below. But then I was done. I didn't want to stick around. I realized that I'm antsy for the next thing. We've been in Tanzania for over month now and I think I've seen all I need to see. There is of course more to see and do but it's either expensive (more safari) or involves really uncomfortable bus rides. I've done more than enough of those for one life time! So, we've hatched a plan - if it can be called that. Fly to Maputo, Mozambique or to Durban, South Africa. Explore. Fly to Marakesh. On to Cairo. Through the middle east and Turkey to eastern Europe. Up to Russia, onto the Trans-Siberian. Through Mongolia and China and SE Asia to Australia. It's a grand loop. You (yes, you) should plan on meeting us at some point along the way. We're doing a bit of everything so I'm sure that something in our travels will appeal to you. We'll see if we actually pull it off. It's quite likely that we'll run out of cash along the way and so may be forced to spend some time working in Prague or Sofia. Damn. That sounds terrible. Poor us.

Now we're off to a bookshop to read guide books. And then to travel agents to find the best way to Mozambique. The land border crossing sounds helacious - involves wading 25-45 mintues through a river to a dug-out canoe that will take anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour to get to the other side where there may or may not be a bus waiting to take us down some crappy road to a crappy town. The good news? If we get stuck, there's a bug-ridden hotel on a sandbank in the middle of the river. I think we'll fly.

Habari za safari?

1. Day one, morning one. We've driving to little-visited Arusha National Park on the shoulders of Mt. Meru. It rained so hard during the night that our bathroom flooded. It was not comforting to wake to the sound of pounding rain on a tin roof given that we were to be leaving on an 8 day camping safari in the morning. Walking to breakfast in the rain, we avoid stepping on the fat toads that have appeared to feast on the fat insects that are swarming in the rain. And then we're on our way out of town, and then onto a bumpy road (not so bad in retrospect) and pushing under the gate and past the fence into the national park. Immediately - and I mean immediately - we see a giraffe not too far off the road, bending its long neck to eat from the low-lying scrub. We ogle. Later, we hike in the pouring rain that comes at an angle that manages to get under our rain jakets. We pass giraffes that are only 6 feet along and 21 feet up away from us. Yes, it's a good day.

2. Pushing under another gate and past another fence, we enter the immense plain of the Serengetti. Grass stretches unbroken by tree or bush to the shimmering horizon. Immense lakes appear in the distance and then evaporate as we approach: mirages. I feel very, very small. We turn off the main road and bump toward a hillock behind which is a muddy pool. Five lions lie there sleeping, one male on his back. A little above the pool in the grass rests a sixth lion. We drive around them, through them, stop to watch them from a distance of 6 feet. They do not appear to care. When the male lion rights himself and yawns, I can see the whiteness of his teeth and the pinkness of his tongue. Yes, it's a very good day.

3. We're on our way back to our tent after a long day of driving around the Serengetti. We've been moving in and out of rain, lowering and raising the roof of the land cruiser. All around us, there are small pockets of grey cloud streaked toward the horizon, interspersed with sunlit clouds. The sky looks like it was a swirling mess of twisting motion until someone just hit the pause button - all is still. We round a corner back into the rain and into the middle of a herd of wildebeest that is approaching a million strong. Masha (our driver and guide) cuts the engine and we coast to a stop. The sun probably hasn't set yet thought the heavy grey clouds give the air the color of deep dusk. Above, thunder carooms and lightening burns stripes across our retinas. On the ground, there is the grunting of the wildebeest and the barking of the zebras. In the background a buzz that I take to be flies but then realize is the sound of a million hooves moving through grass. The air is alive and crackling. We sit in silent witness. It is literally awesome.

4. Day 8 and we are tired, very very tired. We are woken up before there is any hint of morning to the air or sky. The full moon is lowering its yellow self into the acacia scrub. We are near Lake Eyasi though we're yet to see anything resembling a lake -or water, for that matter. Its dry scrubland. Before dawn, we are bouncing our way toward the Hadzabe family with whom we will be hunting. The men are gathered around a fire smoking when we arrive. We greet them, our tongues awkwardly inserting a click into the middle of "Matundo", shake hands. Then we are off and running. I'm a fast walker but they put me to shame. We're down in a dry river bed, the dirt the color of mud, scaled and curled into leaflets. It looks like it should be wet but it's bone dry. We are four hunters, one guide, two wazungu (white folk) and a pack of dogs. Occasionally the hunters speed up and the dogs get excited. A tree of fat birds but no catch. Then things get really exciting and somehow I understand that they are hunting a monkey. I run up the side of the embankment through soft red sand and into a thicket of acacia. The monkey moves by in the treetops followed by a hunter. The bush is impenetrable - as I push through, I'm sure my clothes are tearing. Then I spy a trail, so low I have to take off my day pack and crawl through. I emerge with sticks in my hair to find that the monkey has been caught. It gets thrown down from the tree where the dogs immediately go for it. Z and I follow the older of the hunters and he passes me the monkey to carry. I grip its still not yet cold front paws and try to keep the dogs away. And then it's on the fire and then it's in my mouth. I do my best to chew, my best to swallow - but the taste is so strong, so sickening that I begin to gag. I subtly spit it out and drop it to a scavenging dog. I did my best but must admit that the monkey beat me.

The road back from Eyasi to the tarmac is terrible - it's a braid of roads through fine red dust that gets into everything. I am so exhausted that I manage to fall asleep in the car, waking when a particularly deep pothole slams my head into the side of the truck. Unphased, I fall back asleep. I wake up with a start remembering the baby monkey's death. I'm awake all the way back to Arusha.

I set out on safari hoping to see a zebra and a giraffe, a hyena and an ostrich and maybe, just maybe, a lion. I saw so much more. Over the years of hiking in the California wilderness I have seen a bear or three, a mountain lion, a bobcat, a bunch of deer and a few foxes. And here, in eight short days, I saw so so so much life. Life and death. Lions mating by the side of the road. A hyena with a tail in its mouth. Ostriches doing a mating dance. Vultures and lions tearing at carcasses. Baby elephants. A baby giraffe in the road not sure which way to turn, a car in either direction. It runs off the road toward its kin. Its legs move like those of a horse, fast. But above the churning feet all is still - the head on that impossibly long neck glides above. It's graceful and yet also awkward. The giraffe is almost my favorite animal, though after all consideration, the prize goes to the warthogs which look exactly like Disney caricatures of themselves. It's easy to give them gruff voices and impatient personalities. And there were cheetahs in the grass and a leopard in a tree. It's astonishing. I can't recommend safari enough. Everyone should see the Serengetti. And then after you've visited there, you should meet up with us wherever we may be.

here i am

We're in Arusha, northern Tanzania at the foot of Mt. Meru. It's cooler here. The drive from Dar es Salaam passed incredibly steep mountains and wide plains with cinder cones in the distance. Outside Moshi, the horizon becomes one big mountain: Kilimanjaro. I think I spy the summit which is about twice as tall as anything nearby. It's wreathed in clouds. Then I look to the side and realize that higher still is the actual summit: just a small patch of snow looming above the clouds. It's impossibly tall - mind-blowingly large. Big.

This afternoon, we were walking on the dirt at the side of the road that constitutes the sidewalk. It's dusty, the sky was looming rain and minivans full full full of people rushed by competing with bikes, pedestrians, cars, trucks and buses for the tarmac. Ahead of me, I saw an African woman in a colorful kanga (wrap) - it's yellow, red and black print. She had a matching piece wrapped around her head. On her back was slung a small child with big black eyes staring out at the world. I stepped around her and looked up to see a tall Masai tribesman walk by in colorful purple and red robes. Then my field of vision jumps further out to the dusty road and the loud cars and the thronging people and the crappy shacks that pass for stores and I realize: I am in Africa.

Tomorrow we go on an 8 day safari. I cannot wait to see zebras and lions and leopards.

Zippers

We left the beautiful beach of Kendwa a few days ago, having grown sick and tired of paradise. Yep, that's right: I got sick of lying on a beautiful beach doing nothing. Never thought I'd say that! We hitched a ride with a large group of Aussies/Kiwis because things were still a little iffy in Stone Town due to the election (safety in numbers). The morning of the departure found me in our room at White Sands Bungalows packing my bag, the contents of which had kinda exploded into a big pile that was more on top of the bag than in it. Step one was to empty the bag. I lifted up a stuff sack and found beneath is a very flat, very dead scorpion. I uttered a little shriek as one tends to do in such situations, took the bag outside and attempted to shake the scorpion out. Instead, the critter slipped into a fold of the fabric and wouldn't budge. Z helped and together we managed to get the thing out and onto the porch. It still hadn't budged and we peered at it agreeing that it was very squished and very dead. I picked up my pack cable and nudged it into the grass. We both shrieked as the scorpion came to life, got up on its toes and scuttled into our room and hid under a shoe. I gingerly picked up the shoe and Z swiped it out the door into the grass. Seeing us staring at a patch of "lawn", one of the staff women asked us what was going on. When she heard that it was a scorpion she asked, "Were you fright?" "Kidogokidogo" was our response - a little bit.

Of course, I still had to pack and I very gingerly went through every pocket and fold in my bag looking for unwelcome guests. Lesson learned: always leave a bag zipped up.

Another lesson learned is that the best way to get rid of touts is to claim that you have already done what ever it is that they are offering:

Q: "My friend, welcome, this way, you have dinner, mzuri sana".
A: "No thank you, we have just eaten."

Q: "Jambo rafiki! You want spice tour? Very nice..."
A: "We have gone on spice tour, thank you."

Q: "Karibu sana. You come in, just looking."
A: "Thank you, I already have Massai jewelry/picture on banana leaf/wooden carving."

Q: "Taxi?"
A: "I am a taxicab, thank you."

Actually, the pressures to look and buy and do are much less than expected. Perhaps the street kids were all arrested after the unrest that followed the election? Perhaps people are so happy that Ramadan is over that they are too busy celebrating (and eating) to be a hassle? Whatever the reason, I am not complaining.

So, tomorrow we really do go on a spice tour (with ambivalence) and the day after that to Dar es Salaam. From there, who knows!

Polepole

Habari from Kendwa, Zanzibar!

Story 1.
One night at the Shooting Star, we sat down to dinner next to a couple from San Diego who were also on their honeymoon. A waiter appeared carrying a bottle of champagne and four glasses. As he filled my glass I asked, "Where is this from?" He replied, "My behind". It took me a moment to figure out that seated behind him were Katie and Mark, a San Francisco couple, who raised there glasses in our direction and wished us happy marriages.

Story 2.
Yesterday we went diving. We took a zodiac ride out to an island called Mnemba, about 35 minutes of smooth sailing across postcard perfect green waters. The dives were nice - I saw a really big puffer fish in a cave (hard to say, but probably about 50cm long), a lion fish, schools of unicorn fish, a turtle with tag-along remora and what I think was a really big nudibranch. In the warm patches of water on the bottom, it was 80F. I decided that the next research project I work on will be in warm water.

Story 3.
Last night, Zack took a nap and I wandered down to the beach to watch the sunset. Dhows slowly sailed by on their way home and the boats moored in the shallows turned to sillhouettes and then faded altogether. The stars came out and the lighthouse on the island across the way started blinking. The waves curled lazily onto the beach. I realized that this was the first time I had just sat. I wasn't reading, writing, playing backgammon or scrabble. I was just sitting. Finally, the thesis, wedding and moving is fading from my body. I feel calm and quiet and incredibly lazy. It's a good thing. As they say, "Polepole" - which means slowly. I'm doing my best to heed their advice.

ohboyohboyohboyohboy

i woke up this morning, rolled over and discovered z lying next to me about as relaxed as a wooden plank, eyes blinking rapidly at the ceiling. "you 'k?" i asked. his response was something along the lines of, "boingboingboingboingboing." yes, that's right, folks. we've had our last sleep in an american bed (much thanks to larsok for sleeping on the floor last night so that we could sleep in said bed) and are merely hours away from getting in the car to drive to lax. we've sorted through our bags, repacked them and i'm about to take a shower. we're in serious, serious countdown mode. to deal, z is slumped on the couch watching tv. and i'm blogging. wheee!

yes, dealing is required. it's pretty nervewracking leaving the country indefinitely with a pack of stuff and heading for a land to which you've never been. i always get a little nervous before travel - i think everyone does. unless you're going to dayton or something.

boingboingboing.

i realize that i've been so busy i've barely had time to register the fact that i'm leaving. the lovely rr was wonderful at amber on wednesday night - she was infectiously excited on our behalf. talking to her, i rememberd that i'm g-o-i-n-g t-o a-f-r-i-c-a. uh, today. yes, that'd be today that i'm g-o-i-n-g t-o a-f-r-i-c-a.

boingboingboing.

in other good news, my cold been reduced to a lovely morning cough and the occasional sneeze. i would no longer be an assett to the tenor section of a raspy-voiced choir.

my mind is spinning too much to concentrate much longer on this post. i think i'll take a shower, change into my airplane wear, finish packing my bags, call kkr+aj and twitch some more.

boingboingboing.

Ba-bye

I have been very much over the whole bay area for the last few months. More recently, I've been trying to appreciate this place as my time here diminishes. Today, I had some errands to run in Berkeley (which, I can only hope, included my last trip to REI for a long, long, long time). As I crawled toward the bridge on I-80, I had a wonderful view across the bay to San Francisco. Some combination of afternoon light and hazy fog made the city appear as a smoky grey cardboard cutout - the kind of back-drop you'd see at a high school musical. One building, over near PacHeights, looked like it was leaning at a precarious angle toward its neighboring high rise. Even I had to admit that it was pretty. Then I got cut off by a guy on a cell phone driving a Lexus SUV, sat in traffic at the toll booths, waited for the metering lights and then got buzzed by the Blue Angels while crossing the western span. It was a fine San Francisco day. Strangely enough, I think I will miss this place - or at least I will miss the convenience of stores with food that I recognize, a bus system that mainly works, a population that mainly speaks English and a multitude of friends that are only a phone call away.

In completely unrelated news, from Mr. PressingThoughts comes the following piece of wisdom: East Bay is Pig Latin for Beast.

d'oh

my new favorite picture should give everyone puase.

Wedding clothes off

In addition to the wave, the exboyfriend dance and Lumpkin getting bitten on the head, it has come to my attention that at our wedding one woman broke the strap on her dress almost leading to a janet jackson moment, and that another lost her skirt entirely during the hora. You know it's a good wedding when people are dancing so hard that they dance their clothes off.

wowzers

what a wedding! even in my most hopeful moments, i couldn't imagine that it would be *that* good. i have memories of noa spinning me around so fast amongst grinning faces that i thought i would go into orbit; my new younger brother yelling, "you only get to do this once! don't let it stop!!!"; anita telling me that i gave new meaning to circling the groom; my advisor in lipstick making fishy faces with two of my labmates; almost falling during the chair dance - twice; laughing as larry and eddie danced with the energy of four year old boys; watching my three exboyfriends dance and bow, love so evident on their faces; singing "son of a rabbi-man" to my father-in-law as we danced; miryana losing her voice; the face on my mum as she was hoisted in a chair, her arms upraised in exultation; my dad's hand appearing with a handkerchief while zack spoke to me; throwing back my head and screaming "WOOHOO!!!" again and again and again. it was awesome - in the true meaning of that word.

Geographical clarification

Just to be clear, we are not planning a trip to Tasmania. Nope. We're going to Tanzania - as in that country in Africa. Seems that at least one person (you know who you are) was a little confused - especially when I blathered on about warm tropical beaches. There aren't so many of those in Tasmania. Also, you won't find the Serengetti or Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tasmania. If you want to see those, you're better off going to Tanzania. Like us. In a very short period of time. Boy do we have a lot to do.... Now, back to working on my thesis defense...

Pick an Island ... Any Island ...

Z and I are reconsidering our travel options. Plan A will take us to Palau for two weeks at an incredible expense, then to Oz and SE Asia, with a "final" destination of India. Trouble is that - at this very late date - I have realized that I don't really want to go to Oz nor to SE Asia. India sounds OK but not exciting. Instead, I'm interested in the other side of the world: Turkey, Morocco, Egypt, Jordan, Madagascar, Mozambique, Zanzibar, Ethiopia... While we talk about getting to Africa and the Middle East eventually, I worry that we will run out of money before we make it to the places that I really want to go. While I've felt this for a while, it all came to a head yesterday. Perhaps it was learning that my god-parents just decided to come to the wedding (best frackin' news in a while!) thereby reducing the number of people to see in Oz by two. Unfortunately, all this last-minute questioning has turned Z into a lump under the covers; he's a little stressed out about having another thing to think about. I'm trying to figure out if there's another beautiful island that we could honeymoon on - y'know, one with white sand beaches, warm tourmaline waters and a cloudless cobalt sky - for less than the cost of our trip to Palau. We aren't really interested in roughing it - we even want to make reservations so that we don't have to lug our backpacks through the tropical heat in search of a room. The island could be anywhere - really, anywhere. As long as it doesn't cost us a quarter of our money to get there.

So, know any islands we should consider? When you dream about escaping it all, where do you imagine going? Help please!

Twitterpated

I had a plan. It went something like: submit first draft of thesis to advisor on day before advisor goes into the field where he has no access to e-mail and therefore no way to contact me; enjoy a relaxing ten days off from thesis-writing because there's really nothing to be done until advisor returns. This plan started to go awry when I finished chapter two early enough to give it to advisor five days before his departure. Then I finished chapter one a day early and sent it in. The plan began to unravel further when I received chapter two back before he left. The plan came completely undone when I discovered chapter one sitting in my inbox last night. I guess he got to e-mail before he got to the island. There goes my ten days of no-thesis-writing-luxury.

What's really astonishing is that upon reviewing the manuscripts, I've realized how little work I have left to do. It might take a day to finish up chapter one and a few more to make changes to chapter two. That means I'll have them back to him when he gets back, therefore not giving him a break just like he didn't give me one. Given how quickly he's able to turn these things around, it's likely that I'll be able to send a draft to my committee by the end of the month. And, here's the really big news, defend my thesis before the wedding.

Yes, that's right: I think I'll be able to defend my thesis before the wedding.

Do you have any idea how phenomenally fantastically awesomely wonderful that would be??? I would be DONE, almost completely, before the wedding. Afterwards, I would have some formatting to take care of and some printing up and turning in of the final thing. But that's it. There wouldn't be any more stress and panic. That part would be over. Over as in done. Done as in no more. As in over. Gasp.

This realization left me all twitterpated last night: I felt like someone was running a light electric current through my innards. After realizing just how wound up I was and that Z's deep-breating-hippy-visualization did nothing to calm the rising nervous excitment, I took half a xanax. I slept fairly well but when I woke up, I was A-wake.

Oh my. Done. What a wonderful sound that word has to it.

Unelation

My new favorite quote:

Give a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Give a man a religion and he'll starve to death praying for a fish. ~Judith Bandsma


Speaking of fish, I just sent the first draft of my thesis to my advisor. I'm strangely unelated. I think the pain in my shoulders, hands, elbows, wrists and neck has detracted from the experience somewhat.

Kaya just got back from a few weeks with Roberto. She appears unelated to be home. Now she's whining at Zack. Great.

I'm going to go eat (faux) ice cream in celebration. Whoo.

For the best?

When I need to take a break from fish statistics, papers and writing, I go on-line. I like to read friends' blogs and check out the www.sfgate.com Day in Pictures. Lately, none of you (and you know who you are) have been bloggin very often, leaving me with a very limited suite of procrastination options. While I would like to curse you all, I realize it's actually for the best. And like most things that classify as, "for the best" it totally sucks.

(Anyone who points out that this counts as procrastination can shove it.)

Bitterness - not mine

My heart spits at their version of love.

- Arm tattoo, J-line

Discrepancy

On Sunday, we sat on Pemberbutt's roof admiring the fact that we were sitting in the sunshine while being surrounded by fog. We could see that our house was right where the fog began to evaporate as it poured over twin peaks. This morning, up at Kite Hill, I sat right on that fog line. I was bathed in hazy sunlight; the city below was brightly lit; the houses 50 yards behind me were shrouded in fog.

On my way down from Kite Hill, I noticed a man standing on the sidewalk with his dog, staring across the street. I followed his gaze to see about eight green-bodied, read-headed parrots hanging out in a cypress tree in someone's front yard. It's strange enough to see such bright tropical birds in this cold, windy city when they are sitting in a eucalypt - but when they're in a cypress, it's even stranger.

First Grade Math

Good lord, am I ever sick of looking at otoliths and counting rings! It's all I've been doing for a couple of weeks: counting. At this point, I think that I have proved my ability to count - well, at least to about 30. This is a good thing considering I turn 30 next year. It does not, however, bode well for any future birthdays - though getting stuck at 30 can't be a bad thing.

I can even count repeatedly for hours at a time while leaning over a computer and pointing at lines on the screen. How I highlight this valuable skill on my resume beats me. Perhaps it goes under the section, "Ability to apply first grade mathematics"?

And to think that I turned down another project (one that has since received much funding) because it required that I watch video footage in a dark room. That's right, I didn't want to spend hours in a darkened room. Instead, I took on a project that involves spending hours and hours and hours in a darkened room crouched over a screen. This has lovely side effects like waking up this morning feeling as if someone had been pummeling me in the back all night. (Z, do we need to talk?)

It's enough to drive a woman completely mad. Raving mad. Loony. Nutsy cookoo.

In other counting news, I am so much happier now that I have only two things on my plate. Yes, wedding + thesis is quite manageable. Wedding + thesis + coursework + middle school is not, as it turns out, a feasible work load. Well, it's possible to do it all but at a cost of sanity, vivacity, and happiness. Not quite the price I want to pay as I am of the opinion that sanity + vivacity + happiness = good life. And I would like to have a good life, thank you very much.

In other very happy news I found a pair of shoes for the wedding. As pottyparty pointed out, this is more of an accomplishment than finding a dress. Not only do the shoes work with the dress, but I also happen to really like them. And they fit. Added bonus that last part.

And now, back to the one ... two ... three ... four ...

Oof.

Afoot Change Is

Things are changing here at a rapid pace.

1. I have started to eat red meat. I grew up vegetarian and didn't try red meat until a few years ago when I had a bite of someone else's steak. Since then, I've had a bite here, a taste there. Last week, I ordered lamb. Yes, a plate of lamb all to myself. It was phenomenally good! Last night I had meatballs for the first time ever. They were also exceptional. Both times my meal has been accompanied by a drink, so it's hard to tell if the high I feel is associated with the alcohol or the red meat. What I am sure of, however, is that red meat is really, really good. Why did I wait 29 years to eat this stuff???

2. I'm about to turn down an all-expenses paid (plus $600 stipend) trip to Belize. Yes, you did read that right. Perhaps it will help if you understand that I would not be going alone, but would be trip leader for a group of thirteen 8th grade girls. The trip sounds great - lots of hiking, canoeing, spelunking, horseback riding (as opposed to horsestomach riding?), snorkeling and exploring. At the end, we would spend about three days on a caye (small island) at a marine station where I would teach marine biology. It's a dream job for me. But the timing is impossibly bad. See, there's this thing I'm working on at the moment called a thesis (THEE-sus). It takes a lot of time. And there's also a plan involving a marriage and a departure of these united states. If I go to Belize for 11 days, I risk delaying the plan again. A certain man in my life would be very much less than thrilled by any further delays. I think this may be the first time that I have made a decision for a relationship that's at direct odds with what I would do were I single. Welcome to the world of compromise and long-term relationships. Ultimately, the decision comes down to this: 11 days of exhausting but fun activities in Belize and a summer of incredible stress with no time to spare for fun OR passing on the fun in Belize, taking a couple of long weekend backpacking trips, working on my thesis at a less-than-frantic pace, not risking another delay to our departure, and getting to see friends on evenings and weekends. Sigh. See? There's one right answer here.

3. I am done with classes and teaching at middle school. What a fucking relief! I loved my classes and I usually loved teaching, but I'm really ready to have two things on my plate and two things only: thesis (THEE-sus) and wedding (WEH-ding).

4. Kaya is going to spend the weekend with Roberto, her probable future owner. I'm dropping her off at his home in Sausalito this afternoon. I feel strangely nervous - like a mother on the first day of school. I hope she won't get into any fights or throw up on the couch.

5. I am thinking about careers. This was spurred on by the realization that one of us in this couple should give some thought to earning a decent salary at some point in our life. If you know Z at all, you'll realize that that someone needs to be me. I'm once again considering a Ph.D. and future professordom. Perhaps you should start calling me doctor now so that I have time to get used to it. (Does that sound kinky or is it just me???)

6. I think we're all growing up. Last night, I had dinner with A&A who are leaving for at least a year SE Asia next week. Over dinner we chatted about what it's like to grow up. I feel like my parents' generation tended to get married younger and tended to have few jobs (the exception being my dad). Despite our resistence, my generation is getting married and talking about/having children and buying houses. I just don't know what "settling" down will look like for us. It's all so very much up in the air, and will be for quite some time. It's exciting and also a little confusing.

As for right now, I think I'll dream about settling back with a rum-filled glass on a beach in a beautiful tropical location without thirteen 8th grade girls.

The beginning

This morning, like every other morning, I brushed my hair. One hair in particular caught my eye because it was so very blonde - kinda white-blonde. Later, Z came and said good-bye. He stopped mid-sentence and stared at something on my head. I instantly knew that that hair was not in fact blonde: it was grey. My first grey hair.

My Dad only started going grey when he hit his 50's. He and I both have very fine, dead straight hair. My mum, on the other had, was white by her mid-20's. She has thick, wiry hair that's ranged in color from blonde to auburn to brown (all natural). I figured that because I had my dad's hair and was not yet grey, I had a long life of hair color before me. Perhaps it is not to be.

I know, I know - it's just *one* hair. And yet, there's nothing "just" about discovering a grey hair. It is one of the many "grown-up" things are happening to me this year. They don't add up to me feeling like an adult, though. I wonder when that will happen. Perhaps with the third grey hair?

Twoo Wuv

A few weeks ago, we were awoken early by a shrill beep followed by a silence long enough that I thought I'd imagined the noise. Kaya, who hates the sound of fire alarms, immediately came over to wake me up and cower by the bed. The second beep assured me that yes indeed, our alarm was low on batteries. I got up and removed the fire alarm from the ceiling, stumbled sleepily with it to the kitchen only to discover that it had no batteries in it. Confused, I went back to bed.

BEEEEEEP.

Then I remembered that we also have a carbon monoxide alarm in the bedroom. I pulled out the foot stool again to retrieve alarm number two from the ceiling. A very anxious Kaya followed me to the kitchen as if to make sure that I pulled all the batteries out of that awful, shrieking thing.

We finally replaced the batteries last week. Last night as I lay in bed unwinding from the day, Z noticed the comforting green light of our now functioning carbon monoxide alarm.

"At least we know we won't die of carbon monoxide poisoning during the night," he commented.

There was a pause as my mind whirred. Then I began to laugh.

"I wonder how many times you'd have to fart to set off the carbon monoxide alarm?" I asked. "Could you hot box a room? What about if you farted directly onto it?"

Laughing, we traded fart stories until we fell asleep. Aaah, true love.

(This post dedicated to my dear friend Kevmo. For some reason, talking about farting onto carbon monoxide alarms made me think of you.)

My best John Hancock

I just returned from downtown, specifically 630 Sansome Street where I met with a very nice lady at the INS. It was my citizenship interview and test at the ungodly hour of 8:20am. Actually, it's very good (from "godly") that i was scheduled so early as it meant little time for lengthy delays to build up.

She, the very nice lady, asked me many questions like: What's your name? Where were you born? Have you ever been a member of the communist party? Would you like to listed as 5'5" tall or 5'6" tall on your naturalization form? and Which was the 49th state? I got all of the questions right, even that last one. The only thing I had trouble with was signing my name.

Yes, signing my name.

It turns out that my actual signature is (and I quote) "too complicated" for the INS. I need to write my name out - all of it. But not like that! It needs to be in cursive, with all of the letters connected. The first time I tried this, I was told that I was printing my name though it was as good a cursive rendition of my name as I've ever done. I was given a blank piece of paper and told to practice. Practice! My signature! My *new* signature. I eventually got it right.

And that's it. They will contact me in one to two months with the date of my swearing-in ceremony. And then, I will be an American (and an Australian and a Brit). I still don't know how I feel about that.

A friend of mine - someone who shares my political values and with whom I often get into rants aobut the current state of affairs - learned yesterday that I had this test this morning. We got into a discussion about the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and its Preamble. She finds these documents to be eloquent and just, and she believes that the ideas upon which the US was founded were fantastic. Since then, however, she said that democracy and republican government have become synonymous with capitalism resulting in things going to hell. Her patriotism was the first I've been able to stomach and to agree with.

Oh my. Look at that. I almost - *almost* - sound patriotic. I better stop writing.

Having your cake

Z and I went to our first cake tasting on Saturday. The cake maker was someone that one of my stepmum's patients had recommended and we were pretty excited because the cake was actually affordable. Plus, free cake! I mean, really, what could be bad about free cake?

Well, it turns out that lots can be bad about free cake. We arrived right on time, astonishing considering that we had to budget for the vagaries of bridge and 101 traffic. And we didn't even have to do a single u-turn. Things were looking good.

We were shown past the ceramic cherubs on the front porch into the baker's commercial-grade kitchen at her house. She asked us all sorts of questions about the kind of cake we want - flavors, design, how many tiers, what kind of frosting, flowers or not, etc.. To all of these questions we provided answers laden with uh's, er's, um's and we think's. Yeah, we had no clue.

Then she brought out the cake - four different kinds plus two small tubs of frosting. There was carrot, lemon, white and chocolate, plus chocolate chip and custard frostings. All of the cakes had different fillings. They all tasted like ass. And let me tell you, there's only one thing worse than eating bad cake: eating bad cake while seated two feet from the person who made the cake, a person who is intently watching your every move. In a valiant attempt to be nice, Z asked me which cake I liked best. For the record, this tactic was only nice to the cake maker and incredibly un-nice to me. I stuttered something about the lemon because it actually had flavor. My all-time favorite kind of cake is chocolate and raspberry. Knowing this, Z had asked the cake maker to bake us such a sampling. I have never tasted such raspberryless raspberry frosting. Blech! While we sampled and muttered, "Mmm's" the cake maker talked about how much she loved baking - she's been making cakes for 29 years. Her husband recently began to talk about retirement but, she explained, she can't imagine not making cakes. It's really what she loves to do. It's a pity that her cakes suck.

To be fair, I'm sure that there's someone out there who probably loves that kind of cake. We are not those someones. As we left, we agreed that were we to be given a slice of such a cake at a wedding, we would take one bite and put it down.

As we finished nibles, she asked us if we would like to take the remainder of the cake with us. Zack shot me a look and said yes - we couldn't really say, "No, ma'am, because we think your cake sucks.". Later that night, we brought the cake out for Z's sister and brother-in-law. Everyone agreed that equivalent cake can be found in your local Safeway deli section. I guess you pay for what you get - meaning that we're going to be paying a lot more for cake.

*************************************

On an entirely different note, I overheard the following while walking across campus today:

There's a difference between starting a war and starting a holocaust.

Adding the word, "Discuss" to the end of this would make for a great essay test question.

The List

Again last night, for probably the twentieth night in a row, I had trouble falling asleep; my mind was clinging to The List. The List contains all the things that need to get done between last week and October. Items get added to it at a far faster rate than they get removed resulting in what feels like exponential growth. Come to think of it, it probably is growing exponentially because every single item added triggers a small landslide of other items that Must Be Done. It is so overwhelming that sometimes when I think about it, I get the mental equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. It's either that or I achieve sudden Enlightenment, though the severe back, jaw and neck tension seem to indicate the former. Some malfunctioning part of my brain seems caught in an eternal loop through the items, repeating them to ward against forgetfulness. Z appears to have the same problem, at least when he's not snoring. Last night I suggested that it might be helpful if we wrote everything down. He laughed, pointing out that it is about a billion items long. The world does not contain that many post-it notes and we do not have enough wall space.

I usually try to replace thoughts of The List with images from an imagined life after October - an after-life of sorts. I usually place myself on a warm beach under a warm sun next to a warm ocean. Invariably, something in these images takes me back to The List. For example, Z leans over to rub sunscreen into my back as the birds sing and--- don'tforgettoaddsunscreentothepackinglist which reminds me that weshouldgetourwebpageregisterysiteforourhoneymoonup and before I know it, I've left the serenity of the beach and am instead scrolling through a list of wedding guest accomodation options.

I cannot wait for October. How all this shit is going to get done between now and then is anybody's guess. Sometimes I'm reassured by the fact that it will all get done because, quite simply, it has to. At other times, I can't see how I'm going to complete next week's assignments, let alone my entire thesis. I find myself doing things like walking Kaya up the hill chanting, "I have so much to do, I have so much to do, I have so much to do." This is not helpful at all.

Perhaps it's time to rediscover all those meditation practices that I grew up with. It's definitely time for something - perhaps another cup of tea.

The Mind of a Scientist

Has it really only been eleven days since I updated this blog? It feels like an eternity. I have been busier than an ant at a picnic - and I've only been doing one thing: School. Of course, that one category can be further broken down into subcategories such as: seminar reading; fellowship coursework; middle school planning and teaching; and most recently, Moss Landing Marine Lab. Once again, I am spending one day a week driving to and from MLML to use their otolith-slicing facilities. Yes, I have officially given up on my thumbnails as otolith breaking tools. However, I'm still using the nail strengthener because I'm curious about whether or not it works.

Occasionally I stop and listen to myself. When I do, I'm amused to discover how much of a scientist I am. For example, I'm doing an experiment on my thumbnails at the moment. No, I don't have a control - other than my past 29 years of experience. Even my above sub-categorization of tasks is scientific. Or really anal - I'll let you be the judge.

Last night, I had a dream about mapping relationships between people so that I could determine the series of events that led to me meeting my future husband. The technique is a little fuzzy, though I do remember that the angle of the line drawn between two names signified the strength and duration of that relationship. The key piece appears to be Cassidy inviting Jon and I to the Plutonic Ideals Picnic in 2000. That was where I met J, who invited me to my first RS event where I met EE. She knew Mo and Bahati, who were the connections to Z. And five years later, here we are. But there are so many more questions that could be asked: who invited Cassidy to the picnic? How did he know that person? Who introduced Mo to EE? And how did Bahati enter the picture? It's probable that the links of connections can be extended back many, many years to create a webbed picture of causality. I'd like to hang that on my wall.

Like I said, I think like a scientist. The good thing to this slightly compulsive scientific reasoning is that I am becoming ever more aware that I am actually a scientist; that I have things to offer the scientific community. When I think about having the chance to move to Mozambique to get hired as a marine biologist, I'm not worried that I won't be able to do the job. In fact, I'm already weighing the pros and cons of various experimental designs. It is a really big change for me to finally feel confidence in my abilities - or rather, to recognize that I have some. And I'm chomping at the bit to get out there and implement all the knowledge that I've gained. I'm ready for something new - not in terms of subject material, but in terms of action. Enough reading - I want to start doing.

The faith in science

The other day, Z said: I don't share your faith in science.

Faith? In science? Huh??? Doesn't he realize that science is beyond faith? It is purposefully designed to not rely on faith.

Or is it?

Since he said that, I've been thinking a lot about science, undermining my career with every heretical notion. Perhaps science is a religion all of its own. If so, it's a religion of knowledge - of replicable, peer-reviewed knowledge.

Or is it?

Is science just as reliant on belief as religion? Is it perpetuated by followers who don't see other opinions as valid - who dismiss those opinions using esoteric language that is only intelligible to people with advanced degrees? In science only accessible to people who have entered its inner sanctum of knowledge?

Sure, we teach science in elementary school, so it must be easy to grasp. Right. Please raise your hand if you think science is easy. And now, raise your hand if you can describe that tenet at the base of all science, the scientific method. Anyone?

Now raise your hand if you understand statistics. That's the real foundation of scientific reasoning. Sometimes I think it's just a bunch of fancy mathematics. Somewhere, someone thought that 0.05 was a good number. Ever since then, we've been dong fancy math, comparing our results to this and then drawing conclusions about The Way Things Are. We sell these as Facts. And don't you even think about questioning them...

OK OK. So statistics is more complicated than this. But I don't have a degree in mathematics, so I'm just going to have to take my biometry professor's word on faith. I better believe because it seems unlikely that I'm ever going to know.

And how is this different from religion?

Red Pawed

This afternoon, I walked through the door of my apartment and the strangest thing happened: nothing at all. For those of you who know Kaya, you'll realize that this is very bizarre. Normally, I am greeted with an enthusiastic, overwhelming and whiny welcome. Today: nothing. At first I thought that she must not be home; that perhaps our landlords were hanging out with her downstairs. When I reached the top of our stairs, I saw Kaya standing in the bedroom, head bowed, ears back, tail wagging lethargically at half mast. Instantly I knew that she'd done something bad - something really bad.

I first checked the trash in the office but it was still in its bin. Next I checked the bathroom trash but it was encased in its container too. Then I did a scout of the apartment floors for poop or upchuck or jellyfish. Nothing. Baffled, I checked our bed for hair and warmth. (Yes, I know her pretty well at this point.) There didn't seem to be more hair on the bed than usual and it wasn't warm to the touch, but every time I looked at the bed or touched it, Kaya cowered at my feet, ears plastered to the side of her head. Busted! If only she knew how much more she'd get away with if she didn't act so guiltily. Perhaps it's just as well she doesn't.

What's strange is that her reaction doesn't match her crime. Being "really bad" involves making a big mess, usually of the trash. Sleeping on our bed is only so-so bad. And yet she was clearly more guilt-consumed than if she had gone through the trash (when she does that, I find her belly-up and submissive at the top of the stairs).

She knows that going through the trash or sleeping on our bed is wrong and yet she still does it. I imagine her at home alone, dozing on her bed and dreaming of the cushiness that lies a mere three feet above her. She sits up and peers at the bed more closely. Overcome with guilt at the mere thought, she lays back down and tries to go to sleep. But the comfort of our bed calls to her and suddenly she finds herself standing next to it, one paw raised to touch it. Again, she is overwhelmed with guilt and so she returns to her bed. The next thing she knows is the sound of me coming home. With a start she wakes up only to realize that she's sleeping ON THE WRONG BED.

For Kaya, there is no "one ring to rule them all"; instead, there's "one bed to bring them all and in the darkness bind them."

Uh, I think I just outed myself as a LOTR geek.

Externality Internalization

I thought that the word nonplus meant to be mildly upset about something as in, "Used to being a straight A student, Mary was nonplussed by her 88% on the exam." Z thought it implied neutrality: not caring about or being attached to a certain outcome. So, I looked it up in the OED and found:

nonplus v. & n.: completely perplex; a state of perplexity, a standstill.

To be perplexed, of course, means to be puzzled, bewildered or disconcerted. So nonplus somehow implies confusion as in, "I am nonplussed by the definition of nonplus."

I came across another great term in a paper that I read for my fisheries class: externality internalization. It made me cock my head to one side and say, "Rrrr?" like Kaya.

At first I tried to ignore it, figuring that we would define it in class tomorrow. Unfortunately, it doesn't just appear in the title of the paper; it's one of the focal points too (go figure). Given that I'm presenting the paper, I felt like I should probably turn up with a definition. I turned again to the OED which stated that to externalize is to give or attribute external existence to, while to internalize is to make internal.

Can you say, "Rrrr?"

For an apposite definition, I had to pull out my Conservation Biology text book from college. The meaning is so unsatisfying that I won't bore you with it here. It's better to misuse it deviously. Just think of the fun you can have in that next monthly meeting! You should practice saying it out loud right now. Perhaps if you repeat it three times a genie will burst from your computer screen, cleverly demonstrating an externality internalization.

What if an elephant?

This morning, for no particular reason, I am in a fantastic mood. Just like I can wake up feeling bitchy and crabby, I can wake up feeling full of life and excitement.

It's almost sunny here - there's a haze to the air but above that a blue sky can be discerned. I took Kaya to the park and then the corner store for milk and met four people in the block between home, park and shop. They too seemed happy to be alive. My body feels great this morning - twinges in my knee are minimal and I feel healthy and well. Maybe my cold/flu has finally gone? All these reasons could contribute to my stellar mood, though I don't know the ultimate cause of the flood of feel-good juice flowing through my brain. And for once, I don't need to know; I am happy and satisfied with just feeling good.

Last night, I went to dinner with my father. My family has always called me Miss Enthusiasm because of my tendancy to excited jubilation. He said that when I was about three years old, I got very worked up and excited about something and said, "But ... but what if ... what if an ELEPHANT???"

And that's how I feel to day: What if an elephant?

Has anyone seen my focus?

I have no focus today. I should probably add an "again" to that sentence. Classes started on Tuesday and I have a tonne and a half of work to do this semester. Yet somehow, I can't seem to get started on any of it. Probably going into the lab would help - at least I wouldn't be distracted by the endless amusements of the internet. But then again, I would be distracted by conversations amongst lab mates. It's easy to get drawn into (another) Bush-bashing or the-end-of-the-world-is-nigh discussion. Yes, we are happy people us fish labbies. I would go in and spend a few hours working on my project but I broke a nail - a thumb nail - and am once again waiting for those suckers to grow. I've read a few papers today and should go to the local cafe and read some more. This afternoon, I have to give a three-minute talk on why everyone should apply for the fellowship program I'm in; why it's so great. I should probably think about what I'm going to say. I should also prepare for the various talks I have to give next Tuesday.... But I'd rather surf the web. I feel like this week really is my final calm week before all hell breaks loose as I juggle teaching at middle school, a fisheries seminar, a fellowship seminar, writing a thesis, diving and - oh yeah - planning a wedding. It's like my mind/body has entered a state of rebellion: you can make me work next week, but today, I'm taking it easy.

In other news, I have officially left my women's circle. After a few months of thinking about it, I realized that I'm just not excited about a regular, structured thing. I love the women in the circle and will miss them, but it's not where I need to be focusing my energy right now. I was really nervous about letting them know given the shit that went down last time I left a women's circle. It ended up being really wonderful, despite my concerns. I was able to tell them how great they've been and they were able to do the same for me. I left feeling loved and supported. It was truly a wonderful evening.

On my way home, we pulled up behind a land rover with a cover over its spare tire upon which was drawn a fish. I identified it out loud before I realized what I was doing. Meghan turned to me and asked, "Do you ever feel like you know too much about something?" I think she was hinting at something.

And now that I have procrastinated even more, I will go and read what is sure to be a fascinating paper titled, "Fecundity of shortspine thornyhead (Sebastolobus alascanus) and longspine thornyhead ( S. altivelis) (Scorpeanidae) from the northeastern Pacific Ocean, determined by stereological and gravimetric techniques" - because I actually don't know too much about this quite yet.

Crazy Talk

There's a certain phrase than I've said more than a few times:

Getting married??? That's a crazy idea!

I've been thinking a lot about why I say this. It certainly doesn't result from questioning my decision; there's no doubt in my mind that Zack's the best Goddamn thing that's happened to me. But the concept of marriage scares the hell out of me. I did not grow up with working examples of long-lasting relationships; all my experiences show that they fall apart.

On Wednesday night I decided that taking my hacking cough to the symphony with Zack was rude and so I stayed home and watched a movie. Anyone seen Lantana? It's a recent Australian film about five couples in various states of marital decay. This is not a good movie to watch when you're planning your wedding. Or if you're having marital troubles. Or if you're in a relationship at all. Though it was a good movie. All you single folks should rent it.

Needless to say, Z came home from the symphony to discover a very upset fiancee on the couch. I don't watch movies like that and think: What awful relationships - that's not going to happen to me. No, instead, I think that that sort of decay is inevitable.

I'm working on changing my mind about this, but it's occasionally hard going. I spent a long time with my stepmum yesterday talking about marriage and the wedding (two different things: one involves more tablecloths than the other). In talking to her, I reconnected with just how much I love Zack; that he is the best thing ever. I cannot think of anyone for whom I'd rather work through this stuff. His unending support makes this kind of deep self-inquiry possible.

Thank you Zack, with all my heart, thank you.

Nail Care

I have never cared about (or for) my finger nails.

(With an opening sentence like this, I probably just lost the interest of all of my three readers. I would promise that this entry is going to rapidly improve, but it's about fingernails for God's sake.)

So, anyway... Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I went and had a manicure. You may think that my sudden fascination with nail care is related to my impending wedding, but if you did, you'd be wrong. It actually has to do with my thesis. Seriously. An integral part of my thesis - the cornerstone upon which everything else rests - is determing the age of my fish. Considering that all efforts to swim up to a fish and ask it its age have so far failed, you might wonder how one determines the age of a fish.

Fish have a small bone called an otolith that essentially floats in part of their brain case. Being, like us, mainly water, fish face a problem when it comes to orienting themselves in their rather weightless watery domain. Because otoliths are bone and therefore denser than body tissue, they react differently to movement than the rest of a fish's body. When the otolith moves, it triggers recptors that let the brain know that the fish has, for example, just executed a sharp right turn with a quarter twist. It's analogous to the fluid in our inner ear canals pressing against the hair cells.

At this point in my ramble, you are probably wondering what on earth an otolith has to do with the age of a fish. And wasn't this post supposed to be about nail care??? Patience, gentle reader, and all will be revealed.

Otoliths increase in size as the fish grows. Fortunately for science, the bone growth is opaque in summer and clear in winter. These alternating bands form rings akin to those found on trees: count the rings, you know the age of the fish. A large otolith, however, is about the size of a pinkie finger nail (aha! you erroneously think, finally we're getting to the nail connection), meaning that rings need to be counted under a microscope. Some of the older fish have such thick otoliths that the rings can't be clearly seen. In this case, the small bone needs to be broken half and lightly charred, a procedure appropriately named "break and burn".

How, you might ask, does one break an otolith in half? Well, one carefully grasps the otolith between thumbs and forefingers, placing the thumb nails in the center of the bone. With a quick snap, one (hopefully) breaks the bone straight down the middle. The problem I have is that my thumb nails don't extend beyond the flesh of my thumb pads, thereby making it impossible to place them along the center of the otolith. Every time my nails begin to approach the appropriate length, they crack and chip and need to get trimmed.

When this happened again yesterday, I realized that if I ever want to finish my thesis I'm going to need to take care of my nails. Having no idea how to do that, I sought the help of a professional: I got a manicure and some extra special (and quite expensive) nail strengthener stuff.

I find it amusing that it is science, a profession populated with tomboys and grrrls, that has forced me to pay such close attention to my fingernails.

In Another Life

A friend introduced me to a fun little exercise: off the top of your head, imagine what you would be if you had another life to live. These are not necessarily dreams that you have and want to fulfill, but more like the first five things that come to mind. This afternoon I would be a/n:

1. Fireman
2. Secret Agent à la X Files
3. Forensic scientist
4. Dog
5. Epidemiologist

Number one because it was the first thing that came to mind; number two because I would be privy to all that top secret, classified information and would therefore know whether or not alien abductions really happen; number three because I would know how they figured out that Mr. Peacock did it in the library with the candlestick; number four because it would be fun; and number five because it would be a good conversation starter (and ender) at a cocktail party:

Exceedingly handsome man (looks just like Zack) approaches with two martinis: Say, pretty lady, what do you do?
Me: Well, kind sir, I'm an epidemiologist.
Exceedingly handsome man: Oh?
Me: An epidemiologist studies the spread of disease. I'm currently working on Ebola - that's the African virus that causes death by massive hemorrhaging. If infected, your body basically turns to goop. It's terribly contagious.
Exceedingly handsome man: Oh. Really. How interesting. I'll be right back...

One Fish, Two Fish ... Only Three Fish!?!?!?

Today has not been a good day at all. No siree. I was awoken at 6:28 to the sounds of Kaya heaving and then throwing up. Without a doubt, this is the Least Pleasant way to wake up.

I woke up again at 7:20 when the alarm went off. I felt like I was being resurrected from a nice, warm, cozy death. I made a quick assessment of my head, realized it was filled with throbbing cotton wool, rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke up again when Zack got up, and finally heaved myself out of bed at 8:16. I called my dive buddy Lisa who said I sounded like hell. Then I called my advisor; both he and his wife agreed with Lisa's assessment of my health. Those of you who dive know that diving with sinuses full of snot is a terribly bad idea. So, I had to cancel the whole dive trip. This project seems fated to end in the way it began: with false starts, crappy weather, and a dearth of treefish.

I remember the first collection we did to Palos Verdes. SFSU's 19' whaler (that's a boat) was in the shop because someone had broken the prop and filled the motor with mud while doing work in the delta. We arranged to borrow a boat owned by Occidental College, and arrived in LA to howling Santa Ana winds and an ocean that closely resembled the contents of a washing machine. The following day was calm enough to get out, though big swells kept the bitterly cold water full of particulate matter and the visibility to about 12 feet. The big swells also kept me heaving over the side of the boat - and let me tell you, the only thing worse than feeling sea sick is throwing up in front of your advisor and colleagues on your first trip together. At the end of a day, we had four treefish to show for our trouble. Four! That's a tad shy of the 70 we were hoping for.

And that's how the project began. Every time I would come really close to calling the whole thing off, we would have a productive dive trip, returning with enough fish to think the project was a go. The trip after that would either be blown out or we wouldn't have a van or we couldn't find any fish. And so it went, alternating useful expeditions with futile ones. And somehow I have been dumb enough to stick it out and make it work. Finally, after almost two years on this project, I can say that it has worked. I have 316 fish to show for my trouble, a little short of the standard 400. But I got what I got, and boy am I ready to be done.

My most recent trip was to Santa Cruz Island in November. We had aimed for a window between two storms, driving to Santa Barbara in the pouring rain. Thursday night's marine forecast confirmed that Friday would be calm. While stopped in a strip mall to get ice and coffee on Friday morning, my companions turned on the boat radio and tuned into the weather. The NOAA announcer has a lot of area to cover, so it's easy to tune out and miss the forecast you're listening for. Nevertheless, someone thought they heard something about 15 knot winds in the channel. That's pretty darn strong. As I walked back to the boat with the ice, I noticed some trash being whipped around the parking lot and the eucalyptus tops tossing about. It was not yet 7:00am; this was a bad sign. We drove down to the harbor anyway to have a look-see. Sure enough, the water was more white than blue. One of us managed to get a call through to a friend out in a boat who reported that the channel buoys were measuring gusts up to 25 knots. So, we turned around and drove home. By Friday night, I had spent 24 of 36 hours in a car. Given this disaster, I thought that I was due for a break and that my next trip would be smooth as buttah.

But, it was not to be. With Lisa and I sick, there's no way we can dive. We're now planning a fish-lab mad-dash mission: tow the boat to LA on Monday; arrive in Torrance at about 11pm after spending several hours negotiating hellish traffic and lovely LA drivers while towing a behemoth of a boat; get up at 5:00 for breakfast; launch the boat at 7:00am from Redondo; motor the hour or so to Catalina; dive until the sun is almost down; eat; sleep too little; eat; launch at 6:00; dive until 3:00; pack; motor back to the mainland; eat; drive home. We should be back by 4:00am on Thursday. I just hope that we get a decent return for our efforts; it would be really nice to end this two-year fiasco with a no-worries, she'll-be-right-mate dive trip.

After speaking to my fellow divers this morning and calling off the dive trip, I took Kaya on a much-needed walk up to kite hill. It is so much steeper with goop-filled sinuses. I got home only to realize that I had forgotten to take my keys with me. Yep, I was locked out. I spent an hour sitting on Market Street, waiting for Z to come home on his lunch break to let me in.

I will now crawl back into bed and wake up to a different and better day.

Three Things

ONE:
According to a November CBS poll, nearly two thirds of Americans - yes, two thirds - believe that students should be taught creationism along with evolution. I am dumbfounded, literally. What is there to say? Who are these people who take Genesis so literally? People who are so willing to toss out piles and piles and piles of evidence supporting a theory that so far explains everything pretty damn well in favor of a nonsensical story? Oh, you have a problem with the word, "theory"? Well, gravity is a theory, too, folks. I personally don't see questioning that as a good use of anyone's time.

TWO:
The nasty cold has been reborn. Z and I both have sore throats (again), body aches (again), and coughs (again). Perhaps it is in response to me shunning the Word of the Lord. If that's the case, I request an exorcism.

THREE:
Tomorrow, I leave for Catalina Island on the last of my fish collection trips. I've been undertaking dive trips to Southern California since April 2003 - seems like an awful long time ago. In 2004, I made 68 dives despite the fact that I took three months off. All this is coming to a close. I am both sad and relieved: I'm not looking forward to spending the next six months in a lab devoid of sun and dolphins and garibaldi; I am relieved to not spend days at a time alternating between shivering underwater and shivering in a boat. I'm happy in a sad kind of way to complete this adventure at Catalina, which remains the most beautiful place I've ever been diving. Like with so many things in my life at the moment, I'm turning a page, simultaneously closing one chapter and opening another.

Stay Away

I am in a royal mood today, but only if royalty are royal pains in the ass. I'm pissed off, snappy, grumpy and likely to throw a tantrum over nothing. I bet you're upset that you don't get to hang out with me. If you really want to, Zack might be convinced to trade places with you. You would need to sign a waiver, though:

I _____(Name)______ will not hold against Bartlebee anything that she says or does; I will never, ever mention anything that happens on this day; I will not utter the letters P, M or S.

Last night, we went to an improv show to see our friends Corey and Jenny perform. As we left, we walked through a group of teenagers hanging out by the door, dressed in their best imitation of the 80's (shudder). As we passed them, I realized that from their perspective, we are old.

Old?!?! When the fuck did that happen???

Afterwards, we went to the Elbo Room, which Jenny's sister and friends had rented out for a four or five person (Jenny said five but held up four fingers) 30th birthday party. The drinks were strong and, because we only knew two people there, Zack and I got a little crazy, a little stoopid, on the dance floor. It was fun for a time - at least an hour. Then I realized that I didn't fit in for several reasons:

1. I wasn't ragingly drunk (can you say, designated driver?)
2. I wasn't dressed in a lingerie-like top, jeans and heels
3. I obviously wasn't single
4. A particular finger on my left hand wasn't ring-free

When you're part of a couple, it's like you don't exist to the other sex. There wasn't anyone there that I found particularly attractive, but it would have been nice if even one person to whom I'm not betrothed had made an effort to flirt with me. Perhaps this is why couples tend not to stay out as long as singles: it's not that they prefer each other's company, but that they feel a bit out of the loop, no longer part of the in-crowd. Maybe it's just me. And maybe no-one flirted with me because they sensed the impending doom of my mood and sensibly stayed away...

... Like Zack, who just muttered something from a safe distance and ran out the door. Right before he left he asked if I was safe to hug. He looked genuinely scared, and righfully so. Even I don't want to hang out with myself today.

Anyone would lose weight on this diet

http://www.candyboots.com/wwcards.html

This may be the funniest thing ever.

(Thanks Lev!)

Talent

Last night, Zack and I went to the San Francisco symphony’s celebration of MTT’s 60^th birthday. It was an eclectic mix of musical pieces, from Broadway tunes to Tchaikovsky classics. One of the highlights was listening to Renée Fleming perform an aria by Richard Strauss (I think it’s called “Morgen”) that was soft and lilting and sweet. The notes she sang were pure musical tone, pure sound. It was a short piece, and at the end I heard a gentleman behind me utter a “Wow” as solemn as an “Amen. It was truly breathtaking; one of the most beautiful things I have heard in quite some time.

We had front row seats; I could see the soloists spit and follow along the violinists’ sheet music. When the Brazilian dancers came out in sequined brassieres, scarf-covered g-strings and huge feathered hats they stood right in front of us. We both got thwacked in the face with feathers, a small price to pay for the pleasure of watching them shake their thangs from three feet.

Yes, it was an unusual night at the symphony.

Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about talent. What does it mean to be talented? Has someone like Renée Fleming always had an amazing voice? Or did she “just” work really hard?

There’s someone in my marine biology graduate program who isn’t all that bright, but who will end up with a master’s degree just like the rest of us. S/he isn’t talented in an academic sense, but is talented when it comes to stubborn persistence. Or should stubborn persistence not be categorized as talent?

When it comes to drawing, I believe myself to be lacking in the talent department. But perhaps I could learn to draw and, if I worked hard enough at it, develop a lot of skill and go on to be a contemporary Monet, color blindness and all. Would this be called talent? Or without a basic level of skillfulness, could I never achieve artistic renown?

Is it just a matter of working hard? Can everyone achieve anything if they put their minds to it and are given enough encouragement? Or do the really talented folks start out with a level of competency that far exceeds the regular folks?

Feel free to chime in with your talented opinion at any time, folks.

Oops, Version II

So I had another strange dream last night: I decided to marry an Indian man instead of Zack.

I got dressed in a beautiful red and gold sari. The ceremony began with the applicaton of bindis and three stripes of ash to our foreheads. Then we rang a tiny, porcelain bell and arranged some tacky, empty photo frames. When it came time for us to feed eachother, I realized that the groom hadn't done a damn thing to prepare for the cermony; his mother, at the altar with us, was doing it all. I received the food his mother passed to him, biting into the braised, sweet green onion and realized that after the wedding, he was going to turn into an abusive, good-for-nothing husband. I freaked. Seeing an out, I asked the mother if it would be okay if I went to the bathroom. On my way out of the room, I got Zack's attention and with subtle head gestures and grunts indicated that he should follow me. We walked down the hallway into Zay's old bedroom at the Liberty Penthouse. It was so easy to talk to Zack, so comfortable. I started to cry because I realized that I was marrying the wrong man. I told Zack that he made me laugh like no-one else, and that I wanted to marry him. He responded, "No no no no nope. You are the ex-wife that I love". His tone was full of cold finality, and I realized that I'd missed my chance. I woke up crying. For once it was a relief to hear him snoring beside me.

That makes for the second dream I've had about marrying the wrong person.

And now all you married people can reassure me by telling me that you had similar dreams before your big date (or dates in the case of hmc and e) and that they won't plague me for the next eight months. Don't be shy now. Make me feel better!

Got Balls?

Despite the freezing weather (and you Mainers can say what you like; it’s damn cold here today), I took Kaya to the beach again today. Seeing how much she loved the piece of tennis ball she found on the beach last week, I thought I’d give her a treat by bringing along a whole tennis ball in good condition. The tide was high leaving only about 20 yards between the lick of the waves and the cliffs of Fort Funston. There were several new (small) landslides which fanned their yellow rubble onto the black sand of the beach. Kaya loves to climb and jump and so was excited to clamber up the landslides, stopping to poop in a precariously steep spot halfway up the cliff.

I gave Kaya a few minutes to tear around and then brought out the treat. I asked, “Ball? Ball?” She responded by eagerly looking at me, her muscles tensed ready to send her speeding across the sand. I tossed the ball; she flew after it, picked it up and … ran up the damn cliff with it! She dropped it at the top and returned to the beach. I contemplated going after it, but was stopped by imaginary headlines: Woman Crushed to Death by Sand While Trying to Rescue Dog’s Ball. Make that: Stupid Woman Crushed to Death by Sand.

Several minutes later, I found a ball on the beach. It was pink and rubbery, and the effects of salt water and sand had crinkled its surface into playa-like cracks. Once again, Kaya got all excited. I kicked it down the beach and she went pelting after it. She picked it up and – you guessed it, ran up a cliff with it, depositing it somewhere out of reach of a bipod like me. I had no idea that today was “Run Up a Cliff with a Ball” day.

Almost back to the car, I found another ball. This one was probably a tennis ball at some earlier point in its career, though had since become bald and a little shrunken. I kicked it for Kaya, wondering how long it would take her to deposit it somewhere out of reach. She brought it back. I kicked it again … and again … and again. She never tired of it and never ran away with it. In fact, I kicked it once and she lost it. Despite the fact that I had started walking toward the car, she remained on the beach, anxiously trotting haphazard search patterns through the sand.

I really do wonder what the hell is going through that head of hers. She and I clearly evaluate the world around us using very different criteria: what’s gross to me is delicious to her, and what’s delicious to me is, well, usually delicious to her. I would like to be able to spend some time in her head, seeing the world through her eyes and nose, just to get a sense of what it’s like. I’d also like to know what she thinks of me and the other humans around her. Does she derive comfort and pleasure from my company in much the same way that I do from hers? Or are we simply another source of food? Does she find my preference for a whole tennis ball as mystifying as I find her appetite for jellyfish?

As she ran up the cliff with the ball, perhaps she was thinking, I can't believe she brought a tennis ball the beach. How embarrassing. I better hide it before that hot lab notices.