3 Formidable Letters

I don't recall if I've yet shared here on NJW my new 4-year plan.   It includes the letters: P, H, and D.  In that order.  As I prep this evening for an upcoming retreat in which I should present a few possible research questions, the magnitude of this decision is looming overhead.

Four years is a long time to spend on a project.  Okay, so if I'm going to do this whole PhD thing, I'm going to do it right. Basically, I have huge expectations. You might call me naive, insane. But I'm not looking for a passable research question that will earn me a title so I can, I don't know, earn a higher salary or something.

I'm looking for a real game changer. A big question. I want to do something that changes the way we see some part of the world.  Something that has potential to be applied in a way that yields real impact for real people.

So..
Exploration and development of scientific methods: yes.
Theoretical contribution: yes.
Become an expert in a field: yes.
But I'm adding another criteria: do something really big. That's just how I roll.

Relocating, and Other Stories from Public Transportation

Many of my most memorable experiences did not take place at a destination.  It's always the getting there, the journey, that incurs the most fun.  Well, at least what I call fun.  You might call it hell.  It's all a matter of perspective.

The first time I visited Finland, I traveled by ferry boat from St. Petersburg, Russia to Helsinki.  Having hopped off at the ferry terminal and walked just a few blocks to the Russian Embassy to renew my visa, I distinctly remember hauling my luggage back out of the consular office, down a tree-lined street, sitting down in the sun on some giant moss-covered rocks, looking out over the Baltic sea on the horizon and the Helsinki city skyline, and deciding right then and there:  I'm going to live here someday.  I had been there only four hours when my heart - not my rational brain - seemed to commit itself to a pursuit of residence in Finland.  

That was in April 2010.  I wouldn't actually move to Helsinki to start my master degree until September 2012, but when I finally arrived I wasn't all that surprised to be back.  It just seemed right.  I struggled financially as a student there, working and studying 16-18 hours a day for the first year and still barely making ends meet.  But nevertheless I was genuinely happy.  I was exactly where I dreamed of being, in an incredibly beautiful city built around forest and sea and archipelago.  My school offered amazing facilities and opportunities at the low cost of free tuition, and my classmates were creative and inspiring.  And during that first year and a half I grew more in my personal life than I had since my first international move to Belgium six years prior: amid my intense lack of resources, I learned to rely on God completely for provision and in the process grew more spiritually than I ever had before.  It was in Helsinki, walking each evening along the seashore or riding a city bus across bridges connecting islands, that I found a quiet place -- not only externally but somewhere inside my own heart and mind. As I began to avail myself of those moments in solitude, I developed a habit of praying through everything that was going on in my life, laying it all out there in conversation with God.  And for the first time in my life, in that quiet place my ears became attuned to God's voice, to what he was saying, doing, and teaching.  I began to see my prayers answered in incredible ways, far beyond what I had requested.  I thought to myself, God will never take me away from Finland; this is my sanctuary. 

Sniffing Around Nepal

I just found this diary entry from my first week in Nepal. Already, just six months since I moved away, the daily sights and smells of the country are fading.  Past reflections like this are such a treasure!

I'm certain that what I will remember most about Nepal is its smells and the sensory overload which assaulted my nose upon stepping out of the safe haven of my home and into the street. 

The "welcome smell" as Emma dubs it - the overpowering scent of urine that penetrates every vehicle entering the city.

The hostel kitchen which smells of propane gas mixed with layers of grime - the type of grime that is a result of fairly frequent wipe-ups but never gets a good scrub-down or deep clean. 

The smell of daal bhaat, made over and over with the same spices which have become all too familiar. 

The smell of roadside butcher stands: meat covered in so many flies that you can't even tell it's meat, growing bacteria in the sun and collecting dust churned up by the busy street.

The smell of death. Literally. I'll never forget my visit to Pashupati Mandir in Kathmandu, one of the city's biggest Hindu temples, where bodies of the recently deceased were burned in bonfires  on pires in the open air, just over the river laden with litter where their ashes would be disposed, as onlookers - not mourners, but just anyone walking by - stood or sat and watched, chatting among themselves. I pulled the collar of my tunic up to cover my mouth and nose as I walked by - down wind - over the bridge no more than 50 feet away and was assaulted by a barrage of ash and the unmistakable scent of death.

Welcome to Aalto University

While this isn't quite how I thought the first week at Finland's elite business school would go, I'm shirking off my preconceived notions and going with the flow.  I ended up making some great friends this week with both Finnish and other foreign master's students, and quite a lot of friends in bachelor programs as well, since the two are usually combined into one 5-year program in which some master's courses can be taken before the bachelor is even completed. Also, since the Strategy program is a joint program between the School of Business and the School of Engineering, we have the unique opportunity to take any course offered at either campus (regardless of whether it counts toward our degree), which allows us to network, study alongside, and get to know students in both schools.

I've come to learn that the student union and student guilds are to be taken seriously.

daily walk by the sea

sunset over the harbor

Pema Choling

The monastery is incredible.  I wake up to the sound of the monk chanting in the room above mine and splash my face with water on the way to the kitchen to start the day with a cup of hot milk tea. 

Lopon La Nawang Ladop came to Pema Choling a year ago and started the monastic school.  There are now 20 boys between the ages of 7 and 12. They say even the smallest one, Pemba, is seven years old, but I'm certain that he's closer to 5.  In the Sherpa community boys (I don't know about girls) are named after the day of the week on which they were born.  The up side of this is that you really only have to learn about seven names in this new language, but the down side is trying to keep track of who is who.  Among the 20 boys, five are named Pasang (Friday), two are named Pemba (Saturday), and at least one is named Dawa (Tuesday -- you read about the Dawa mix up in my last post).  Some of them, like Chimi, Toshi, Kogi, and Pemerin are not from Sherpa families and so have other Nepali names.

The young monks have a total of four hours of class per day. From 6:30-8 AM they practice chanting.  A big gong rings out and the boys come running from their rooms, red shawls thrown over a shoulder and prayer books in hand. They kick off their shoes hastily and rush through the curtain that is the doorway to the monastery, leaving a pile of forty identical black sandals outside. After bowing before the giant Buddha in his glass museum-style encasement (surely erected to keep out the dust), they file onto low cushy benches lining the interior walls of the room. Each boy has a prayer book consisting of long 4" x 10" sheets of loose leaf paper filled with Tibetan script. The older ones have the entire thing more or less memorized and help the younger ones, some of whom are still learning to read. Nawang leads the chant in his low voice, and I smile as the younger boys enthusiastically pipe in with their higher pitched sing-song voices, mimicking Nawang's every intonation. This morning, out of curiosity, Joanna, Nate and I asked to join them, and a long carpet was rolled out for us to sit on cross-legged in the middle of the room.  I really enjoyed sitting there with the crisp morning mountain air ruffling the curtain behind me, studying the statues, prayer flags and ornate decor in the monastery, and watching the sun come up over snow-capped peaks while sipping a bottomless mug of milk tea, surrounded by a chorus of happy, chanting little boys. 

After about an hour the curtain was pulled back and I heard 10-year-old Pasang call "Net! Sita! Sapana! Breakfast!"
"We're being summoned," Nate said, as I remembered to listen for my Nepali name - Sita - which means "queen". There is no "SH" sound in the Nepali language, so it's practically impossible for most of them to pronounce my name correctly. Some of the other volunteers were having this problem, too. So my language teacher back in Kathmandu gave us all Nepali names. 

Breakfast was a huge pot (I'm talking 10 gallons) of instant noodles - a sort of Top Ramen Curry Chicken Flavor.  So I had chicken broth and milk tea; it certainly wasn't gluten free but I'm lucky not to have had too bad a reaction to the wheat. I think my stomach is so busy trying to figure out the spice situation - i.e. why it's being saturated with curry and such three times a day - that it has better things to worry about than a little gluten contamination.

After breakfast the boys have one hour of class, then an hour break, then one more hour of class before lunch. Meanwhile, the other volunteers and I have mornings off while Nawang teaches. Besides memorizing scripture, the boys learn the Buddhist teachings about morality and how to read and write in the Tibetan language.  Outside of the classroom they speak a mixture of Sherpa and Nepali, but classes are given in Tibetan, which is, naturally, the lingua franca of Tibetan Buddhism. Nawang has a Ph.D. in Philosophy (a 12-year degree) from one of the top monastic universities in India and speaks at least seven languages himself: Nepali, Sherpa, Tibetan, Bhutanese, Hindi, and two different types of what he called Sikhanese - the latter being spoken in a few regions of India.

Lunch is at 12, and then at 1 PM we ring the bell to start English class.  We teach Monday - Thursday from 1-2, except for Tuesday, which is "Rubbish Day." This means that the after-lunch class is only one half hour, and the second half hour is spent picking up any bits of litter around the grounds while reciting a chant that starts with "Rubbish is bad..."  So basically my obligations at the monastery total 3.5 hours per week.  The rest is vacation time in the most breathtaking place on earth.  Not a bad deal. 

It's not a bad deal for the kids, either, because since we live here we hang out with them between their classes and get to "teach" them English in fun ways, just through joking, talking, and playing. Some of them pick it up like little sponges and they're all really eager to learn.  Since today was a Tuesday our first class was only a half hour. Joanna (Sapana) and I taught the lower-level group together, which was 14 boys.  After introductions we reviewed numbers and then learned some new words and sentences revolving around farm animals - things like "The horse eats hay. The cow eats grass. The sheep eats grass."  Then we got to dogs. Joanna and I looked at each other and wondered, what do dogs eat here?  So we asked the kids in Nepali... Baloo ke khanne? (That one week of Nepali language class continues to pay dividends!)
We started cracking up when the kids responded, Baloo daal bhaat khanne! Baloo (the monastery dog) eats daal bhaat!  Daal bhaat seems to be Nepal's national dish - rice with lentils - some form of which you will eat at every meal.  Whereas in America we feed our dogs dog food, the dogs here just get left overs from the kitchen, which is, inevitably, daal bhaat. So the boys were correct - in Nepal dogs eat daal bhaat.  We ended our first English lesson with the sentence, "The dog eats rice."  A little unorthodox, but I guess you have to allow for cultural adaptation. 

We're treated like kings and queens by the little monks.  We're always the first to be served at meal time, and the servings are enormous.  They scurry to clean up afterwards, collecting our dishes and washing them before we can even move to do it ourselves.  Since the cook left five days ago with several of the other monks who went to Namche and then to Lukla for two different festivals, the boys have taken over the kitchen. They cook like pros - everything from Sherpa stew to steamed rice, fried rice, noodle soup, daal bhaat, timos (boiled dough rolls), tea...and that about exhausts the culinary repertoire of the region, I think. While we were leaving the dining room tonight Nate said, "Being here is like staying at a hotel run by little kids."  I couldn't have said it better!

Tiktik, one of the four monastery dogs, is sleeping under my bed now. The alpha male, Baloo (which means bear - like Baloo the Bear in The Jungle Book) accompanied us today all the way down the mountain to a little farming village during our afternoon hike. He seems to know that we belong here now. And I do, too.  It feels homey here.  I love the boys, the community, the peace and quiet, and this feeling of being at the very top of the world.  It's been a day and a half now, but I still find myself in awe every time I look up and out at the towering Himalayan peaks surrounding us and the enormous valley below. 

Arriving

It was warm when I stepped off the plane. Like most Asian airports at night, the Kathmandu terminal was dimly lit and sparsely populated.  I filled out a visa application and watched as it, along with my passport and receipt for $100 visa fee, was passed down the line from one immigration officer to the next.  They joked and laughed among themselves, largely disregarding me, and plopped my passport down at the end of the counter without so much as looking up.

Having collected my checked pack from the baggage claim, I walked out to the taxi waiting area to look for a driver with my name on a plaque.  I doubled back 2 or 3 times to make sure I hadn't missed him, all the while politely declining a long list of services offered to me by other drivers.  I finally stopped walking, not quite sure what to do next since my driver was nowhere to be seen, and I was suddenly surrounded by no less than 12 Nepali men eager to help, all talking at once in a mixture of English and Nepali. Four of them were policemen and all were shorter than me.  I hesitated, but since I didn't have a cell phone that worked yet, I finally acquiesced and pulled out my list of contact numbers for the policeman who offered his cell phone.  He held it up and the rest of the men gathered around behind him, all studying my paper.  I learned long ago not to expect any level of privacy in Asia, and was somewhat thankful that neither my passport no., social security number or bank account were printed on that sheet. 

I was the center of intense curiosity as I tried to get in touch with Hom. But the connection was so bad, I couldn't even understand when he finally answered.  Four times I started to talk before the call was dropped almost immediately.

They kept asking me what hotel or tour company I was with, and though I imagined it might help find my driver, I was hesitant to respond because I'd just come in with a tourist visa, under which volunteer work is strictly prohibited.  I finally confided in one young man, who persistently asked me to identify some kind of company or individual.  "I don't know what the company is called in Nepal, but in the U.S. it's called IFRE - they planned the whole trip for me."
"Oh! IFRE! You're a volunteer! I know your driver, his name is Mr. Bhagwan and he's my friend. I'll call him now."
When the call was made & Mr. Bhagwan's location confirmed, I was glad I took the risk of accepting help from a stranger.

Once in the micro-van with Mr. Bhagwan, I was surprised to find that they drive on the left side of the road in Nepal, like in India.  Though it was dark, I could make out lots of trash alongside the roads.  As we emerged from the outskirts of the city and made our way into the city, an overpowering smell of urine penetrated the vehicle.  We dodged various trucks, cars, and motorcycles, nearly missing two cows that were laying, totally relaxed, in the middle of what we'd call a highway in the U.S.

Traffic started to build behind one car up ahead. It stood out because it was a nice, full size Jeep - not a miniature vehicle like all the rest.  As we passed it, I noticed the red diplomatic plates and had a flashback to being picked up from the airport in Russia just last February.  Of course traffic was building behind that car. I know from experience that diplomatic cars are the only ones who even attempt to respect traffic laws. Arriving in Nepal as a diplomat would include a certain sense of security; the scene of my airport pickup in St. Petersburg was literally me stepping away from the customs desk, taking one step into the arrival hall, being approached immediately by a consulate representative, and whisked away immediately into an atmosphere where everyone spoke English and everything about the American way of life was understood and appreciated. I didn't really even have the opportunity to get outside my comfort zone that first day.  How different my experience in Nepal has been already!  I'll always remember the response I got when I said to the policeman who tried to help me, "Okay sir, thank you so much for your offer to help, but I really don't have any money. I couldn't pay for your services."
"Don't worry, Ma'am, don't worry! This is Nepal!  You are safe in Nepal and the people are very friendly. No need to pay. Never pay police, never pay. We here to help you."

And that they did.

Guatemala - Part II: "Esperanza"

Her name means hope. Esperanza is seven years old and studies in the third grade. She lives with her mother and sisters in Chajul -- a community of 3000 people in the highlands of central Quiche -- and speaks Ixil, one of 22 languages spoken by 22 distinct ethnic groups in Guatemala.

The Ixil [ "ee-sheel"] people are descendants of the Mayans.  A visit to their remote villages scattered throughout the valleys and steep mountainsides of Quiche reveals women in traditional red woven skirts and whipils ["whee-peels"] which take the women on average two and half months to hand weave on homemade looms.

It's a complex process, I learn, as I make my first attempt under the supervision of Esperanza and her family.  At seven, Esperanza has already mastered the basics of weaving. As I struggle to keep track of the many wooden tools involved, her mother, Maria Asicona, smiles over me and adroitly adjusts my errors.  Esperanza studies my blonde hair and foreign features as she stands nearby, transferring a spool of thread to another tool with nonchalant expertise. Her eyes bear a quiet confidence beyond her years.

A walk through Beurs in Rotterdam

A promenade through Brussels' downtown café district

Follow me for a short walk through the tourist-saturated back alley ways of downtown Brussels, only a few blocks from le Grand Place.  I can't remember a more beautiful, sunny day in Belgium!

Mémoire

Je viens de trouver ce petit essaie que j'ai écrit au but de mon séjour à Bruxelles.  C'est incroyable que ça fait déjà presque 5 ans que j'ai quitté la Belgique, mais j'ai eu la bonne chance de rendre visite déjà une fois - l'année passée - et j'y rentre dans deux semaines!

Cela est un bon reflection sur le temps passé là-bas; je pense que c'est évident que c'est voyage à été pendant une période tellement important pour le développement personnel et confiance en soi.

« Je descends de l’avion avec tous les autres. Je suis prête avec mon passeport et mon visa. Après plus de vingt heures sur l’avion il me semblait que le moment n’arriverait jamais. Mais voilà, je suis là. Fatiguée, même épuisée, j’essaie de garder un esprit d’aventure. 

Sortant du bureau de la douane, je rentre dans une salle pleine de gens qui semblent parler mille langues différentes, dont je ne connais aucune. Un groupe m’approche, ils me rattrapent, ils m’embrassent chacun à son tour. Je suis surprise, étonnée : pourquoi sont-ils aussi intimes ? Je ne les jamais vus auparavant ! Je compte huit personnes, ce doit être ma nouvelle famille. Ils semblent sympas, mais je ne comprends qu’un ou deux mots de chaque phrase. Après quelques minutes je les suis dehors. Dans le parking je suis perdue. Je vois des milliers de voitures, toutes tellement petites qu’elles paraissent appartenir à une maison de poupée, à un monde de poupée. C’est quoi ces marques ? J’ai l’impression d’être sur une autre planète. 

En voiture je me retrouve coincée entre deux sièges d’enfant. Les petits s’énervent quand je ne réponds pas aux deux cents questions qu’ils me lancent toutes à la fois. J’essaie de réciter quelque chose, n’importe quoi suffirait à ce point, mais ils s’ennuient et commencent à se chamailler. Cela fait 35 heures que je n’ai pas dormi, et ma maison, ma famille, ma vie semblent être à l’autre bout du monde. »

Jackie Evancho

Everyone knows I have a soft spot for child prodigies.  The raw talent of these individuals blows my mind on a regular basis.  This little girl simply takes my breathe away!

Miniature opera sensation Jackie Evancho was discovered on America's Got Talent a few years ago. Here's her latest performance - at the Wall Street Journal's Christmas Party. Here's the catch: She's 11 years old!

Want to see more?  Google "Jackie Evancho" - and prepare to be amazed :)

Fathoming Amazon - an infographic

When Michael Hyatt blogged about the Amazon Empire earlier this week, I was flabbergasted.  I certainly love my Kindle, whom I've affectionately named Oscar, and get so excited about buying books and having them magically appear in Oscar's table of contents literally within seconds, but my personal satisfaction with this one product line is about as far as my ponderings on the company went.

Apparently a lot of people are big fans of Amazon just like me.
This infographic, compiled by FrugalDad, (and yes, "infographic" is a word), speaks for itself...

Source: Frugaldad.com

So, are you impressed?  Intimidated?  Do you think the Amazon Empire can last?

As someone who best absorbs and processes ideas, and conceptualizes new ones via graphic representations, I get so excited about quality infographics.  Here's an article on 3 Trends That Will Define the Future of Infographics.  I'm especially looking forward to the applications for real-time data visualization!

Lexington & the UK PhD in Management

This weekend I enjoyed a trip to Lexington, Kentucky, where I had the chance to learn more about a PhD program at the University of Kentucky's Gatton School of Management. My specific area of interest is in social network analysis, and Gatton has some of the world's leading researchers in this field; it was such a treat to spend the day getting to know them, hearing about their current projects, and sitting in on an afternoon seminar with other students currently in the program.

In my continuing survey of PhD programs I found this website on online PhD programs being offered by several US colleges. Even though it doesn't seem like something for me, I found it interesting to learn that there are opportunities to complete a doctorate without having to regularly attend campus. While online education is emerging as a viable and cost-beneficial way to complete a degree, most colleges are still focusing on traditional campus based education and the benefits that arise from in-person interaction between students and professors.

The drive to Lexington was beautiful, especially on Friday morning as I drove east toward the sunrise. Lexington itself is a quaint little town compared to Nashville, and it's set in rolling green hills neatly partitioned by the white picket fences of the horse farms for which the city has earned itself global renown. Navigating the campus of a huge state school was much different from Belmont; luckily the folk were friendly and, apparently not trusting my internal positioning system, always insisted on walking me to my destination instead of leaving me with even detailed directions.

UK's Patterson Tower - view from the walking bridge

Culture Shock - Southern Style

On my many walks through campus today, on this first day of fall classes at Belmont, I realized (for the fourth or fifth time in my life) how much more intensely I feel the culture shock when re-entering my own culture than when  initially leaving it for another.  As I strolled up the newly repaved paths from my apartment in Belmont Commons to the Massey Business Center at the top of the hill, I was puzzled by the happy faces making eye contact with me as I passed and even - gasp! - smiling!?  I kept thinking, "What's going on? What do these people want from me?"  

I learned very quickly in Russia - and was reminded during that first month in Western Europe - that making eye contact isn't the proper way to conduct oneself while walking on a city street.  And smiling is simply out of the question; socially acceptable only as a kid or teenage girl, and even then - only when greeting very close friends or family. To smile at a stranger is downright provocative.

(No wonder I had a perpetual trail of Russian guys behind me those first few weeks in St. Petersburg...)

There are other things I'm still getting used to, too.  Like driving.  Everywhere.  It was nice to rediscover my personal vehicle upon my arrival in Nashville, and even nicer that I could profit from its use while moving into a new apartment. But I'm still in the habit of forecasting the day's mileage every morning when getting dressed and selecting footwear from my closet, and frankly I'd rather be out in the fresh air, using the legs God gave me - than scrunched up lethargically in a car. 

Yesterday I ran across this long-abandoned journal entry on my desktop, dated February 17th, the anniversary of my second week in St. Petersburg.  It seems that adjusting to life in Russia, though much different, wasn't that hard after all. 

February 17, 2011 

It’s amazing how quickly you can adapt to a new place and a new way of life – even a new mindset. I’ve noticed this week that I’m really getting the hang of things around here.
I don’t cringe anymore when I turn on the faucet and a stream of rust-colored water pours out. I expertly navigate sidewalks and street crossings and can spot black ice several meters away. I can pile on seven extra layers and be ready to go out in about 30 seconds flat. And I’ve learned that when I find a product from the States that I like, or think I might need in the next few weeks, I need to buy it on the spot – there’s usually only one or two on the shelf and when those are gone there’s no telling when, if ever, they might reappear.   

A prime example of the black ice of which I speak...
This photo was taken at about -18 Celcius. See the water frozen in the pipe?

Oh look! Lucky Charms!! What a find!

And they can be yours for the low price of only 
FIFTEEN US DOLLARS :)
Thank you, Russia. My grocery bill
(for one rather small person) in St. Pete was
often $80 per week - and that's just cooking at home!

"Kracks" - one example of the many foreign knock-offs
available in Russia. Usually found on the shelf alongside
their more expensive American equivalents, these knock-off
brands in their almost perfectly identical packaging can fool
some consumers. But don't be mistaken - companies like
 "Kracks" cut corners wherever possible and quality is
sacrificed in favor of bringing something to market that is
actually affordable for the middle class. 

On the positive side of culture shock, I stopped by the offices of many of my current and former professors today, and was completely overjoyed and delighted to remember how supportive and caring are the faculty at Belmont. Some have stopped me in the hall, welcomed me back, and said they loved traveling with me via my blog; others welcomed me and encouraged me to continue writing and traveling and studying. I couldn't imagine a nicer homecoming. In contrast, most of the professors that I met in Russia (and the two that now follow my blog are certainly the exception) - when I explained my research project and asked for their assistance - weren't quite so enthusiastic about helping in any way.  Only one of them really thought my project was "cool."  When I did manage to elicit any sort of support (i.e. the promise of assistance in recruiting students to complete my research survey), it was quickly squelched when the professor realized they would have to put out any effort to participate in my research...namely, reserving a half hour time slot for their students to take my online survey in the computer lab.  Honestly, it's hard to hold it against them. Things just work differently in Russia, and for all I know it could be a bureaucratic nightmare to reserve any room in any academic building.  The piles of paperwork I had to do (including a tuberculosis test, HIV test, and x-ray of my lungs) just to live in a public dorm in St. Petersburg is enough to deter me from ever pursuing such a living arrangement again.  And if you could have seen the place!  View some of the photos of my room in this blog post.

I do miss my friends in Russia, and even many aspects of life there.  But I'm certainly glad to be back at my home in Belmont, and - once I get used to it again - I'm certain the South will suit me just fine for the next few months.

My Dutch roommates, Debbie & Marlou, and myself, enjoying zakuzki (midnight snack) hosted by the friendly
Russian and Turkish guys in the adjacent room.
Sergei and Pasha (in the green jacket and white tee, respectively) were such interesting people - very curious
about our countries and lifestyles - and patient with our Russian! Even though they spoke no English whatsoever,
and at that time my Russian was pretty poor, we still communicated a lot of different ideas and became great friends.

Moldova: Who/What Are You? A country in the midst of a major identity crisis

**Written July 24, 2011.  Published August 15, 2011.

The road to Moldova...Sunflowers for as far as the eye can see!

Last Thursday night I was thinking about the weekend ahead and decided spontaneously to make a trip to Chisinau, the capital of Moldova.  Two of my friends from Belmont - Stas and Eugen - are international students and are back visiting their family in Moldova this summer.  (In fact, Stas just graduated this spring and got married this weekend -- a big congratulations to him and his new wife, Mariana!!)
Stas and Eugen have told me a lot about their country during the past few years at Belmont, and I always told them one day I would visit them in Moldova.  Now, living just 180 km away, I couldn't pass up the opportunity!  So on Thursday evening I walked into the kitchen where Anna, my Austrian roommate, was eating a buterbrod, and said, "Hey Anna, I think I'm going to Moldova this weekend.  Do you wanna come?"
When I pulled my water bottle out of the fridge and turned around she was just staring at me.
"Are you serious?" she asked?
"Yeah, of course.  Let's just go for the weekend; spend one night; see the city a little; and come back by Sunday afternoon -- we'll still have enough time to do our homework and take a nap!"

Where Children Sleep

Every so often a book comes along that really captures the soul of its subject.  James Mollison's Where Children Sleep does just that, and in an unconventional way -- by photographing the bedrooms of children around the world.

I read this NYTimes article about Mollison's new book, and, after browsing through the sneak peek photo gallery, look forward to purchasing a hard copy of the tome.

P.S.....I hear the cover's glow-in-the-dark.  All the more reason to add it to your library!!

Ukrainian Summer

One day, a few months ago, I turned on my camera to snap a shot of something interesting and accidentally flipped it to the video dial.  Later, while uploading and reviewing my photos on my computer, I ran across this video clip and was so happy about the mistake -- seeing the 15-second clip really brought back to life the memory and the experience of that day.

And so here and there, whenever I remember, I try to catch little clips of the day - both the exciting once-in-a-lifetime moments and the everyday routines.  Things like riding the tram, grocery shopping, and hanging out with friends at the pub are so easily forgotten in the hustle and bustle of continuing life in yet another new city.  I wanted something dynamic to remind me of my summer in Odessa. While sitting in Kiev's Borispol Airport this weekend I compiled my clips from the last few months in Ukraine and voilà...

Privoz Market

Privoz is Odessa's biggest and oldest open air market. It occupies three huge warehouses, an awning the size of a football field, and tons of semi-permanent and completely temporary stalls.  People sell their goods off of anything.  Some just squat around the perimeter of the market and display their garden herbs on a piece of cardboard. You can buy anything at Privoz - from homegrown veggies to knock-off coach bags, plucked chickens that are so fresh they're practically still moving, to freshly-squeezed juice, q-tips, and screwdrivers. And it's open 24 hours. At about 6.30 pm the consumer-oriented day-sellers go home and the bulk goods vendors quickly file in.

For the mixer we hosted at our flat last night, my house-mate Adrien and I went on a wild shopping adventure at Privoz. We quickly learned some survival methods...

Phonetics and Russian Poetry

Russians love poetry. Especially St. Petersburgians.  I've never met a group of people so well-versed in poetry and literature. Not only do they burst into spontaneous poetry recitation in daily conversation (usually when the topic of discussion reminds them of a good poem), they also highly revere the persona of Russian writers and can provide extensive information about their lives, their families, where and when they wrote, and the symbolism and meaning of their works.  It's also interesting to note that this love of literature is not class specific.  I've heard professors, office workers, students, museum guides, a slightly-not-all-there guy on the street, and even a babushka selling flowers (what some would call a "bag lady") reciting poetry.

The Cyrillic Alphabet

This week I've been taking advantage of my private lessons to work a lot on phonetics, so I've been paying extra attention to intonation, stress, timbre, and rhythm.  And, following the advice of my professor, I've been reading aloud to myself to practice all of these things and to increase my reading speed. (Since Russian is written using the Cyrillic alphabet, learning to read in Russian is quite literally like going back to Kindergarten. It takes time to learn to sight read - to recognize new and ever-bigger words without having to sound them out.)  After running across a short poem in my new Russian textbook a few days ago, and then reflecting on Russians' love of poetry, I decided that reading and memorizing a few poems could give me some interesting conversation material when I'm making new Ukrainian friends, and could also really help убирать ("remove") my accent, as they say in Russian. The word is pronounced "oobeeROT" but spelled "ubirat" and for some reason it always makes me think of the English word "obliterate."  It's funny how our brains make such connections, often subconsciously. Bottom line: I'd really like to obliterate my accent.

Odessa: Ultimate Eastern European Vacation Destination

I've been in Odessa for less than 48 hours, and already I've explored downtown on foot, eaten at some delicious local restaurants, refreshed my wardrobe with attire appropriate for the 95F (35C) weather, attended a spectacular performance of Madame Butterfly at the world-famous Odessa Opera House, spent a morning sunning on the beach (during which I fell asleep in the sun and will continue to pay for that nap as my sunburn becomes more and more painful), swam in the Black Sea, and made Ukrainian friends at the Irish pub next door to my apartment.