three exchanges I have with everyone I meet in Montreal

1: person - Where are you from?
     me - Albany.
     person - Oh... your bus station really sucks/is gross/is scary.
     me - Thank you.

2: person - How long have you been with your boyfriend?
     me - Six and a half years.
     person - Wow! Why aren't you married yet?
     me - I'm only 24. (also, none of your business)

3: person - You don't speak French? Not even a little?
     me - Nope. I tried but it didn't stick.
    person - huh...
    me - I'm American.
    person - Oh, OK then.

i'm like a bird

i dont know where my soul is.
i dont know where my home is.

I am entering into a period of transition. I suck at transition. And this time, it will last about a year.

I've finished my coursework towards my M.S.W. and now have a relatively easy summer semester filled with a self-guided project and paper. That means I have lots of free time to enjoy the weather and squeeze in some travel, but also lots of time to worry about what's coming.

I'm moving back to the US at the end of August. I am applying for a fellowship that I'm really stoked about but it doesn't start until January. I can't even apply for full time jobs, because if I get the fellowship I'll have to quit after just a few months which isn't fair to clients or employers. That means I'll have to apply for 1 or more (probably more) part time jobs to fill my time and replenish (hah!) my bank account. Oh yeah and pay back all those student loans. Then I can quit the jobs at the end of December and do the 6 month fellowship.. and then reevaluate my life again and begin applying for those full time salaried jobs I've been told I'm qualified for.

This is not a solid plan. I have to get more than one job that I probably won't like (menial office work, the mall... I thought I was done with you!), coordinate schedules for more than one employer, go without benefits, and cross my fingers that I make enough money to pay all my bills. Yes, I would rather do this than move back home. AND this nonsense is all for the sake of doing the fellowship - which I haven't been accepted into yet. So, of course, this could all be a big waste of time, specifically five months that I could have used to find full time employment that uses my fancy new degree. Let's hope I get into the fellowship, then, eh?

On top of that, I'm struggling with the idea of where I want to be in the first place. I honestly like living in Montréal very much, but I don't belong here. I'm reminded of that every time I get an email from a prof in French (oops!), have to laugh though (another) joke about fat, dumb Americans, or am clueless about what's going on in pop culture because American websites don't effing work in Canada!!!! (this I find especially frustrating).

But I don't belong in Albany, either. I have some friends there, I know the area, I know I can afford to live there, and most importantly my boyfriend is there, but I don't like it. I was excited to leave Albany and I've really loved the excitement and growth that has come through living in NYC and Montreal. I love living in bigger cities, with the vibrant cultures, beautiful buildings, delicious and diverse food... and Albany just doesn't have that. It has suburbs, parking lots, white trash, lots of drunk college kids, and maybe one good food place in a few ethnic categories. It's not a terrible place, but at this point in my life it's just not for me. But alas, I am going back there and starting over again.

Let the next year of soul crushing doubt, insecurity, anger, anxiety, poverty, and hopefully some more personal growth begin!

I'm not turning 30, but I'm still thinking about it...

How To Live Alone: Turning 30 Is Easier If You've Learned To Exist On Your Own

When I was a kid, the only woman I knew who lived alone was my aunt Margie. Although Margie was nice enough in a peppermint-scented, pilly-sweatered kind of way, I figured she lived alone because she had no other choice: She wasn’t pretty enough to get a husband or cool enough to have friends or lucky enough to be a mom. Living alone might be better than being dead, I thought, but just barely.

I had no desire to ever live alone myself, and I didn’t think I’d ever have to. I moved from my parents’ house to a college dorm room, and from my dorm to an apartment with my first husband, and when my teenage marriage broke up, I moved in with a group of friends.

Eventually, though, I found myself too old to keep labeling my cheese but not ready to move in with my adorable but oh-so-tenuous new boyfriend. And so at twenty-three I signed a lease on my first solo apartment. I was thrilled to finally be embarking on a phase that was defined by nothing more than my own moods, schedule, and agenda. But I also dreaded discovering that, alone with my own soul, I’d find nothing very compelling. What if even I didn’t want to be with me?

It was one of the first pedestrian chores of having my own place that ended up banishing my worry: I had to paint the walls, a job that clearly fell to me alone. But at the same time, I realized, no one else had any right to decide what color I painted those walls, or at what hour, or how I configured the rest of the space around them.

I remember so vividly what a thrill it was to transform the room that I can still see the gorgeous color I chose, the palest shell pink, spreading like a blush of excitement across those walls. There was an important revelation in that moment: Living alone meant pleasing nobody, not even for one second, but myself.

Of course, there were lonely moments too, and those filled with terror: As keenly as I remember the pleasure of blasting “Desperado” for five days running after a painful breakup, I remember how desolate I felt lying alone on the floor crying over him. I recall how horrible I felt upon discovering a mouse swimming desperately in my toilet. (If you must know, I shut my eyes and -- yes, shoot me -- I flushed.) How terrifying it was to wake up from a nightmare at 3 a.m. and feel there was no one on earth I had a right to call at that hour to comfort me.

There was also a sense that I was doing this until something better -- i.e., a permanent man -- came along. But while I was waiting, I was also amassing important life skills available only to those who live alone. How to single-handedly haul a dresser up five flights of stairs, say, or how not to eat all the ice cream in your freezer. Where to fortify a door so no one can get in, and when to kick that guy in your bed out.

When it’s only you within those pink walls, on the peaceful sunny days as well as the fretful nights, you get to know yourself in a way you don’t, you just can’t, in any other situation. There’s no one else to blame the mess on, to absorb the anxiety, to break the silence. You’re forced to confront your own weaknesses as well as your strengths, to figure out exactly what you want out of living with a lover or a friend (if you end up wanting that at all), and why being alone may be just perfect.

Due to love or money or some combination of the two, I moved into and out of my own apartments throughout my twenties, finally getting remarried and having my first child in the whirlwind eighteen months before my thirtieth birthday. Except for a week or two when I’ve been traveling, I haven’t lived alone since.

But here’s the important thing: I know that I could. I know that -- undoubtedly like my aunt Margie -- I’d like it. I even know what color I’d paint the walls.



by Pamela Redmond Satran from
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/04/24/how-to-live-alone-turning-30_n_1447304.html?ref=women

sometimes its hard to be optimistic

Italy booty

4 scarves, 1 outfit, some leather goods, 3 bottles of alcohol, pounds of pasta and risotto, bottles and bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, plus some jewelry and tacky souvenirs. not bad.

Italian toilets

I think looking at the toilets in different countries is really interesting. I have seen poop shelf toilets in Germany,  holes in the ground in Tanzania, and now, bidets in Italy.

I think Italians must have the cleanest bums in the world. in my hotel there is a toilet, a toilet shower head, and a bidet, plus with the free shampoo and crap hotels give out there are two packets of clear liquid called "intimate cleanser." WOW. Italians must think Americans have dirty bums. I don't even want to know what they think about Tanzanian toilets.

Last Day in Rome

Monday: Day 4

My last day in Rome! A chance to see the random quick stops (tourist traps) I haven't seen yet and buy gifts for friends.

I started the day with a bit of shopping, starting at the hostel's local grocery store. I love grocery stores in other countries - you never know what kind of crazy stuff, or crazily familiar stuff - you'll find. So after wandering the store for at least half an hour I came away with what I hope are some authentic staples: olive oil, balsamic vinegar, wine, pasta, pesto, etc. It's not homemade, but it was all made in Italy which makes it cool, right? ...right? no? ok then.

After wondering how everything would make it home in my luggage while lugging everything back to the hostel I made my way to the tomb of the unknown solider. I had walked by it a bunch of times in my lost wanderings, but this time I went in and took the elevator to the top. It is a HUGE building, close to the ruins, with thousands of intricate statues and carvings. It was really pretty and had a great view. It's interesting that Rome, like so many cities, doesn't have a skyline. The view is instead punctured by what must be hundreds of churches in every direction.

After leaving the temple I walked along the river to visit a few synagogs and have lunch in the Jewish ghetto. I knew, of course, about Italy's role in WWII, but to see damaged synagogs and hear about the ongoing hate crimes perpetrated against Jews and their buildings is raw and hard. One of the synagogues had a museum and at the other I took a tour. At that one I got yelled at for wearing a shirt with short sleeves (possibly a tank top, I forget, but it definitely was not revealing!) and had to wrap my scarf around my shoulders/arms for the tour. After the tours I ate a Nonna Betta, a highly reviewed Kosher restaurant in the ghetto. Delish.

After eating I strolled around the neighborhood. It looked like much of Rome, but everything was tight. There were allies instead of roads, and it made everything dark. The whole neighborhood was practically in a shadow of itself. I can't imagine how horrible it would have been to be overcrowded and confined there. Presently, though, it is charming with cute little businesses and families, and the tour guide said that the neighborhood is making a revival. Cool.

I then crossed the river to visit the Rome's oldest Catholic church. Just like every other church I saw in Rome it was old, intricate, ornate, and stunningly beautiful, decorated with tons of gold. It was very near to where I had gone for dinner with the other kids in the hostel, but never the less I got super lost trying to get back to the other side of the river. Apparently I wandered into a university area, because I found some American college kids who were pretty nice about sending me back on my way.

After making it back to the city proper I finally found the Baboon Statue, which I was pretty excited about. It's a fountain statue of a half man half goat, but I wanted to see it because it's one of Rome's "talking statues." Beginning in the 16th century some areas around statues were painted with political commentary in protest, and the tradition continues in some places. The graffiti is periodically painted over back to white, but the protests continue to be painted and, of course, change with the times. The Babuino statue is particularly known for Anti-American writings which I thought would be fun to see given our current military campaigns, but there was nothing there :(

Then I checked out the cats at Argentina (underwhelming) and squeezed in a quick tour of the Pantheon before they kicked everyone out for mass. Exhausted, I  had my last Roman meal and packed for Brindisi. I'm excited to see another city, but kinda bummed that my first private international vacation is over.