TED.com

So, if you haven't ever heard of TED.com, go there NOW. Unless you're at work. Or somewhere else where you can't watch videos/don't have sound on your computer. TED is a series of conferences that hosts experts in range of fields to give engaging lectures on important discoveries, inventions, and ideas. Tickets to these conferences cost a pretty penny, but the good people at TED are kind enough to post'em all online for FREE!

Here are a few new ones worth checking out:

Bart Weetjens: How I taught rats to sniff out land minds: The title kind of says it all. He also taught rats to detect tuberculosis in a matter of seconds using a basic reward system with the over-sized rodents.

Marcel Dicke: Why not eat insects?: Don't be grossed out! He gives a very compelling argument about why we should start considering incorporating insects into our diet. A few of the highlights, we already eat about 500g of insects every year unknowingly in our food, production of animal meat requires 10kg of resources to produce 1 kg of meat while with insects it will yield 9 kg of food, the health benefits of eating insects are essentially the same as eating meat, and locusts are "the shrimp of the land."

I would highly suggest that the next time you have 20 minutes to kill and you find yourself on Facebook or YouTube why not check out a Ted Talk instead?

My Cheesy Title Explained!

So, my old blog title Live. Learn. Hope. Repeat was easily the corniest thing I've ever come up with in my life, but I had good intentions! I swear. I got it from a quote from Mr. Albert Einstein that I particularly enjoy:

"Learn from yesterday. Live for today. And hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning."

Like any short quote, it probably means as many different things as there are people who have read it, but here's what it means to me.

Learn from yesterday. Looking back on my life, I know I've done some silly, stupid, and - occasionally - psychotic things, including but not limited to regrettable middle school jokes, horribly handled breakups, and eating street food in Central America. Am I supposed to look back on my mistakes in shame, block them from my memory, and try to prolong this illusion that I'm not a flawed human being like everyone else? Fuck no. To me, making a mistake is 1) human and 2) a damn good way to learn. Wishing things turned out differently is futile and can only lead you down a path of denial, delusion and depression. The past can't be changed, but the future holds infinite potential. Our past failures are there so we know what not to do in the future. The most regrettable decision we could make is to look at these mistakes as anything but learning experiences.

Live for today. Life gives us no guarantees and it is impartial to and unconcerned with your plans for the future. Any moment can be your last, so why not make the most of each that you can. Every waking moment can be used to improve yourself and the lives of those around you. Bored? Learn to juggle. Or shuffle cards. Feeling more ambitious? Learn an instrument. Or how to dance. Look up a place where you can volunteer and tutor kids. Or better yet, go help your little sister with her homework. Do something to make today worthwhile, and if you're lucky enough to wake up tomorrow, do it again.

Hope for tomorrow. Some people might look at what I'm saying and say, "What's the point if you're just going to die in the end?" That's obviously not how I see things. We are flawed creatures that will always be incomplete, yet the thought of us being complete puts a sour taste in my mouth. Without the chance of ever being "finished," we have infinite room for growth. Tomorrow we can be better than we were today. And, as long as we're alive, we always have that choice. Our futures won't be perfect, but they can be pretty. They'll have mistakes, but ones that we can learn from. Life is a state of mind. Whether is hope-filled or hopeless is your call.

Never stop questioning. Never stop questioning. Einstein believed the universe will always be an infinite mystery, but one that we - with our finite and puny intellects - can understand and appreciate. I would extend that mystery to include ourselves as well. There is always, always, ALWAYS more that we can learn about ourselves, about each other, about our society, about the world, a tree, a squirrel... about everything. The second we think, "Ah-ha! There... I have the answer!" is the second that we are doomed ultimately to be wrong. Our picture about everything and everyone will always be incomplete. All we can do is fill ourselves with a good healthy dose of humility to fight the urge to prove ourselves "right" and instead find the courage to ask, "Hm. What more can I know?"

Happiness: A Choice?

Coming out of college, my biggest goal in life was to be happy. I don't mean happy in the "let's go prancing through the prairie" sense or a constant, never-ending state of elation. I mean I wanted to be satisfied with myself and whatever I was doing, regardless of my situation. If I wanted to extend it a bit, I could say that I wanted to always be bettering myself while helping others better themselves. The rest - a job, a family, friends - would take care of themselves so long as I kept this perspective. Sounds simple enough, no?

Coming out of college, it started off smoothly enough. I got a sweet teaching gig in the summer that made me realize how much I enjoyed teaching and then I headed off to Central America which was obviously an important experience to me.

The months since returning home, however, have been a different story. Suddenly my optimistic outlook was up against the nitty gritty details of everyday life. I wanted to better myself, but most people seemed to be ok with staying stagnant. I wanted to appreciate the little things in life, but others seemed content with complaining about them instead. The job search went to shit and I settled. My mood changed seemingly beyond my control. One day I could feel happy and satisfied and the next I could find myself questioning and doubting the most fundamental parts of who I was (I call these swings my "man-period"). Suddenly, happiness felt less like a choice and more like a fickle emotion that dropped in whenever it pleased. I felt subject to my surroundings and my emotions. Was my "happiness is a persective" idea just a bunch of bullshit?

It's easy to argue that yes, my idea is bullshit. There is so much beyond our control: where we were born and who we were born to, what genes we inherited and how our brains are wired. I look at someone like my grandma, someone who has been crazy for as long as I have known her. When I was a kid, it used to seem funny to me. I used to ask her if she was pregnant because I knew she was insecure about her weight. It seemed so obvious to me that she wasn't fat that I thought it was harmless. I used to think she was being thoughtful when she would extravagantly wrap our Christmas gifts in such well-decorated packages that you felt guilty tearing apart her creation. Being somewhat grown up now, I'm beginning to see how much a need for attention and the shallow desire to always be young and pretty has influenced her life and taken her down paths that no remotely rational human being would go down. She doesn't have a job, but she goes on 36 hour shopping binges. She asks me to help her with a yard sale on a late November weekend that she doesn't try to organize until 3pm on Sunday afternoon, roughly an hour before sunset. Worst of all, she is able to manipulate the deep desire we have to help her. She'll twist the guilt knobs and make you feel like the most ungrateful person in the world until you cave and do her bidding.

Mostly, I look at her and I wonder, Did she ever have a choice? Could she have avoided this road?

I know, despite my deepest wishes, I'll never have an answer to those questions and I fear that it is possible to reach a point beyond saving.

I don't know if happiness is a choice that we'll always be able to make, and it seems that it is naturally easier for some than others to find. For the sake of ourselves and the sake of those we care about, I believe that if the choice is ours to make, we have the obligation to do so. It is not an easy path to follow. It involves a painful honesty - one that breaks down the consoling lies we tell ourselves and recognizing ourselves for who we really are - and a lifelong commitment to questioning . After all, we'll never fully conquer ourselves. Only once we understand who we are - our biases, our emotional flaws and what we find genuinely fulfilling - can we start living in a way that is truly satisfying. The choice is ours to make, and it may not always be there.

Science and Religion

So I've been meaning to write something on religion and science for a while. My few attempts have been, well, pretty pathetic. In place of my writing, I'm going to quote an essay by Einstein here which I think is the most reasonable approach to the debate I've ever read.

Religion and Science: Irreconcilable?

Does there truly exist an insuperable contradiction between religion and science? Can religion be superseded by science? The answers to these questions have, for centuries, given rise to considerable dispute and, indeed, bitter fighting. Yet, in my own mind there can be no doubt that in both cases a dispassionate consideration can only lead to a negative answer. What complicates the solution, however, is the fact that while most people readily agree on what is meant by "science," they are likely to differ on the meaning of "religion."

As to science, we may well define it for our purpose as "methodical thinking directed toward finding regulative connections between our sensual experiences." Science, in the immediate, produces knowledge and, indirectly, means of action. It leads to methodical action if definite goals are set up in advance. For the function of setting up goals and passing statements of value transcends its domain. While it is true that science, to the extent of its grasp of causative connections, may reach important conclusions as to the compatibility and incompatibility of goals and evaluations, the independent and fundamental definitions regarding goals and values remain beyond science's reach.

As regards religion, on the other hand, one is generally agreed that it deals with goals andevaluations and, in general, with the emotional foundation of human thinking and acting, as far as these are not predetermined by the inalterable hereditary disposition of the human species. Religion is concerned with man's attitude toward nature at large, with the establishing of ideals for the individual and communal life, and with mutual human relationship. These ideals religion attempts to attain by exerting an educational influence on tradition and through the development and promulgation of certain easily accessible thoughts and narratives (epics and myths) which are apt to influence evaluation and action along the lines of the accepted ideals.

It is this mythical, or rather this symbolic, content of the religious traditions which is likely to come into conflict with science. This occurs whenever this religious stock of ideas contains dogmatically fixed statements on subjects which belong in the domain of science. Thus, it is of vital importance for the preservation of true religion that such conflicts be avoided when they arise from subjects which, in fact, are not really essential for the pursuance of the religious aims.

When we consider the various existing religions as to their essential substance, that is, divested of their myths, they do not seem to me to differ as basically from each other as the proponents of the "relativistic" or conventional theory wish us to believe. And this is by no means surprising. For the moral attitudes of a people that is supported by religion need always aim at preserving and promoting the sanity and vitality of the community and its individuals, since otherwise this community is bound to perish. A people that were to honor falsehood, defamation, fraud, and murder would be unable, indeed, to subsist for very long.

When confronted with a specific case, however, it is no easy task to determine clearly what is desirable and what should be eschewed, just as we find it difficult to decide what exactly it is that makes good painting or good music. It is something that may be felt intuitively more easily than rationally comprehended. Likewise, the great moral teachers of humanity were, in a way, artistic geniuses in the art of living. In addition to the most elementary precepts directly motivated by the preservation of life and the sparing of unnecessary suffering, there are others to which, although they are apparently not quite commensurable to the basic precepts, we nevertheless attach considerable importance. Should truth, for instance, be sought unconditionally even where its attainment and its accessibility to all would entail heavy sacrifices in toil and happiness? There are many such questions which, from a rational vantage point, cannot easily be answered or cannot be answered at all. Yet, I do not think that the so-called "relativistic" viewpoint is correct, not even when dealing with the more subtle moral decisions.

When considering the actual living conditions of presentday civilized humanity from the standpoint of even the most elementary religious commands, one is bound to experience a feeling of deep and painful disappointment at what one sees. For while religion prescribes brotherly love in the relations among the individuals and groups, the actual spectacle more resembles a battlefield than an orchestra. Everywhere, in economic as well as in political life, the guiding principle is one of ruthless striving for success at the expense of one's fellow. men. This competitive spirit prevails even in school and, destroying all feelings of human fraternity and cooperation, conceives of achievement not as derived from the love for productive and thoughtful work, but as springing from personal ambition and fear of rejection.

There are pessimists who hold that such a state of affairs is necessarily inherent in human nature; it is those who propound such views that are the enemies of true religion, for they imply thereby that religious teachings are utopian ideals and unsuited to afford guidance in human affairs. The study of the social patterns in certain so-called primitive cultures, however, seems to have made it sufficiently evident that such a defeatist view is wholly unwarranted. Whoever is concerned with this problem, a crucial one in the study of religion as such, is advised to read the description of the Pueblo Indians in Ruth Benedict's book, Patterns of Culture. Under the hardest living conditions, this tribe has apparently accomplished the difficult task of delivering its people from the scourge of competitive spirit and of fostering in it a temperate, cooperative conduct of life, free of external pressure and without any curtailment of happiness.

The interpretation of religion, as here advanced, implies a dependence of science on the religious attitude, a relation which, in our predominantly materialistic age, is only too easily overlooked. While it is true that scientific results are entirely independent from religious or moral considerations, those individuals to whom we owe the great creative achievements of science were all of them imbuedwith the truly religious conviction that this universe of ours is something perfect and susceptible to the rational striving for knowledge. If this conviction had not been a strongly emotional one and if those searching for knowledge had not been inspired by Spinoza's Amor Dei Intellectualis, they wouid hardly have been capable of that untiring devotion which alone enables man to attain his greatest achievements.

Source: http://einsteinandreligion.com/irrec.html

The Many Faces of Me

A couple weeks ago in DC, I met up with my friend AJ - former McGuire Campus Ministry Intern, fellow thinker, and Mario Kart Jedi - for some brunch with a side of catching up. We talked about life, dreams (including his pitch for an Inception-based TV series), lady friends, the Rally to Restore Sanity, our thoughts on said Rally, being abroad. It was the kind of conversation that would happen multiple times a week at Villanova but never seems to happen back in Jersey. I felt refreshed after wrapping up our personal and intelligent (at least by my standards) talk and I rejoined my friends.

As I approached my group of friends, I could hear their conversation from several feet away, as I'm sure the marathon runners and spectators within a block radius could too. The topic: everyone's shits that morning. Size, density, texture - no details were spared. The morning before I probably would not have thought twice about such a convo, but after talking to AJ it seemed odd to me. But why?

I've realized more and more, that my context - who I'm with and where I am - has a much larger influence on my behavior than I am comfortable with. For example, since coming home earlier this year I've noticed myself becoming a vulgar smartass who can only display his affections through a neverending series of insults. Fuck, shit, and dick have made their way into my everyday vocabulary. I've talked more about boobs - not anyone's in particular but just about the general idea of boobs - more in the past month than I have about values.

This past weekend I headed out to Penn State with my old roomie Scott and our buddy's girlfriend. In the car, I said "fuck" a couple of times and felt like a horrible person and apologized each time. What the fuck is that about? Was it their reactions? Was it some subconscious part of me that just "knew" better than to use such base language around such sophisticated and well-mannered company?

It goes deeper than language, however. In that same car ride, we had some great conversations about Germany, my experiences in Latin America, Scott's experiences living around the country with Americorps. We talked about politics and the media. We spoke about ideas and "deep" topics. It all just happened naturally. Not once were boobs mentioned. Nor were farts.

Clearly, the person I was at 'Nova is different than the person I was at home growing up and in between school years. Or was I? In Germany, anyone who knew me before and after can tell you that I seemed different when I came home, but I'm obviously not the same person I was in Germany (unless I'm with my friends from Germany and then I revert). The same could be said for my time in Central America.

It seems that I am a different person in different places and when surrounded by different people. So my question is, "Who am I?" Am I inconsistent or adaptable? Does it even matter? Maybe I just have different ways of sharing myself with others depending on who they are and the context we find ourselves in. Is there anything wrong with that?

Regardless of the answer to these questions, I know one thing for certain. There is a "me" I want to be. As long as I focus on keeping that person in sight, I will learn more and more how to be the ideal me in whatever situation I find myself.

Wants and Needs

I ran to my car this morning in the cold rain, happy that at least I didn't have to deal with the frost this morning. I pulled out my iPod from the center console so I could practice my German lessons as I drove down the Turnpike. The iPod felt frigid in my hand and, after switching the hold button back and forth several times, I realized it was beyond resuscitation. "Damn it!" I cursed to myself, "Now I'm going to need a new iPod." The second statement sounded ridiculous to some part of me, and that more reasonable side responded, "Really, Tom? You need a new iPod?"

Instead of awkwardly talking to myself in German as I drove down the Turnpike,
this event sparked an interesting pseudo-Socratic dialogue in my head. "You don't really need a new iPod, Tom. You want one. Sure, it let you listen to music and German lessons whenever you wanted, it made your life slightly more convenient, but you never really needed it. In fact, you lived most of your life without an iPod and you hardly even used the one you broke."

And, of course, I was right. I didn't need it. But it led me on an interesting inward search. What else did I want but not truly need. It kind of went as follows:

Tom 1: My car. Without a doubt, I need my car, right?

Tom 2: Do you?

Tom 1: Of course. How else would I get to work?

Tom 2: Well, there's a train not far from your house that goes to New Brunswick and you have a bike.

Tom 1: Yeah, but that's just silly.

Tom 2: But it's a possibility, no?

Tom 1: I guess.

Tom 2: So, then your car isn't a necessity. It's a convenience. It facilitates your commute and gives you that much extra free time and money. Those are all good things, but you don't need them. You want them.

Tom 1: Hm... I guess you're right Tom 2. But what about something even more basic, like shelter, food and water? I wouldn't be able to live without those.

Tom 2: Well, why do you need those?

Tom 1: Because without them I would die!

Tom 2: So, you want to live?

Tom 1: Yes! Duh.

Tom 2: But do you need to live? I'll give you the answer: it's no. You want to live because living is enjoyable. When you live, you get to do things like make friends, accomplish goals, enjoy good food, have sex, cuddle afterwards, and so on. When you're dead, you most likely can't do any of these. You want to live because living can be very enjoyable and is probably more enjoyable than the alternative. You want to have shelter, to eat, and to drink so you can live.

So I'll stop my silly little dialogue there. My point is this. In our heads, we may tell ourselves we "need" this or that, but really it boils down to us "wanting" this or that. When we say the word "need," it's as if we are chained to that need and cannot possibly escape it. It's a lie, and if left unchecked, it can leave us feeling like prisoner's of circumstance.

My iPod broke and that sucks. I don't need a new one, and I'm not even really sure if I want one either. I know that what I want is to make the most of my life, regardless of the situation. I will do what it takes to do that, with or without an iPod.

Risk, Security and Life Decisions

After a day filled with hangovers, the sanest rally ever, hours of intense ping pong, and Chipotle burritos to prepare our bellies for the night, my friends and I cracked open a couple beers in my buddy's apartment in Arlington. A few deep, I said that a big part of me wants to leave my job, move out into/near NYC or DC, and use what little money I've saved to support myself while I find actual work.

As usual, Joe had a very strong opinion and told me that was about as foolish a thing as I could do. "You can't leave your job if you don't have another job lined up, especially not after working there only a few months." It wasn't a very controversial stance. I'm sure at least 85% of people would agree with him, as Mark did.

"But why?" I responded, trying to challenge the conventional wisdom.

They followed up with the usual reasons: it looks bad to switch jobs so frequently, what if things go wrong and I don't have health insurance or if I get into a car accident and I end up in the hole for $14,000.

"I don't think that way," I retorted.

"But you have to," both agreed. "You can't just be optimistic and expect that to get you by."

And so the conversation continued this way. It was one of the few passionate discussions about life I've ever shared with this group of friends. But - obviously since I am writing a post about it - it has stuck with me.

I would not disagree that you have to be aware of the worst that can happen to you, but to live your life trying to avoid any bad thing that can happen to you is futile and possibly harmful to you for several reasons.

1) Bad things are going to happen to you regardless your situation. My friend used his car accident as an example, but the irony of his comment is that the crash happened while he was living his "safe/smart" plan (the ""s aren't meant to be insulting; we just disagreed about the word "safe" and "smart"). You can't control what life throws at you; you can only control how you react, which brings me to point 2.

2) Life is a state of mind, and you will see what you want to. If you want to see each day as an opportunity to learn, grow, and help others do the same, life will be just that. If you choose to see each day as filled with potential perils, life will seem pretty dangerous. Living in a way that avoids pain, confrontation, accidents, and failure can trick your brain into convincing you that, should any of these things happen, there is no way you could deal with it.

3) Adaptability is a skill. Like any skill, some people are naturally better at it than others, but anyone can improve themselves tremendously with diligence, patience and determination. I have found that in situations of pain and discomfort I learn and grow the most. They force me to challenge what I thought up to that moment. They give me the choice to crumble or learn resilience and find a way to not only live through it, but to improve myself through it. In deaths, breakups, and my own failures I have learned much about myself. In putting myself in situations where I am uncomfortable - ranging from traveling Central America alone to stepping up to a Ping Pong table against someone who is much better than me - I learn how to adapt and how to deal with discomfort. In doing so, I gain a better understanding of myself and how I react to things. This allows me to put myself in new situations and not be afraid.

In the end, however, neither the risky side or the safer side is the right choice. Rather, as Aristotle says with his Golden Mean, we have to find a balance between the two and develop the ability to discern when it is proper to lean more one way or the other. Moving out so soon may turn out to be a move too impulsive even for me, and I definitely have to do some more reflecting on it before I decide what I'm going to do and when I'm going to do it. But if I do it, what's the worst that could happen? I think I could 1) die or 2) break my neck, both of which could happen at any time in my life. Less severe, I could get injured without being insured and leave myself in debt that would be with me for potentially most of my life. I could deal with that one, as big of a bitch as it might be. Even more benign, I could waste my money, not find a job, and have to move back home. Though it would be a shot to the ego for sure, it's hardly something I would call life shattering. And though it would be easy to point a finger in my face and say "We told you so," the lessons I'd learn would be invaluable. Plus, I'd rather risk and lose then never take a chance in the first place.

Focus

Focus.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

In everything that you do, focus.

If you're talking on the phone to a friend, focus. Make your mind and attention as present to that person as your voice is.

If you are filing at work, focus. Take that menial, mundane task and do it right.

If you are exercising, focus. Are you fatigued? Are you pushing yourself as hard as you can. Do you have proper form? Learn to recognize your body's signs and know its limitations. Only then can you improve.

If you are eating, focus. Savor the taste of the food and think about what it is doing for your body. Is it nourishing you or is it just a little snack? Should you keep eating or are you already satisfied?

If you are driving, focus.

If you are tying your shoe, focus.

If you are walking into a new room, focus.

If you are writing a blog entry that six people will read, focus.

If you are singing in the car alone, focus.

In everything that you do, focus.

When you focus on what you are doing, you become aware. When you are aware, you learn. When you learn, you gain control. When you have control, you can change yourself as you see fit.

If you do not focus on the little things, the big things will never change. We are what we do habitually and life is but a series of small seemingly insignificant moments. Squander one moment and you may squander a lifetime. Make the most of each, big and small.

All you have to do is focus.

Driving Games

Probably my least favorite thing about suburban life is the fact that I have to drive everywhere I go. Sure, when it's nice out I like to bike but 1) people are crazy, especially in cars, and you have to have some sort of secret death wish to pedal too far away from your driveway 2) you can't go more than a mile in any direction without running into a highway and 3) after three minutes of physical activity my body covers itself in a liquid that is somewhere between sweat and a frog's mucousy coating, not the most attractive mix. So between my car and the time I spend sitting in my office job, my body is usually bent into a couple 90 degree angles (also, check out this article on why that is a very, very bad thing: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/39523298/ns/health-mens_health/).

Driving around here, you realize that lots of other people are in the same predicament and you all usually spend a lot of time together on highways, usually not going very fast. When I'm stuck in the car for too long, my mind gets bored. When my mind gets bored, it likes to sleep. (People who know me well know that I can sleep on command). Sleeping at the wheel is not good, though I admit that I have come dangerously close.

The remedy, I have found, is to actually focus on driving. But how do you focus on something as monotonous and boring as lifting your foot on and off the brake pedal for hours on end. Easy. Make it fun.

For instance, when stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on a highway, I've been trying to crack the code of traffic patterns to determine which lane is the best to be in. In most cases, barring some construction and unexpected lane closures, the right lane is the way to go, only dipping over to the middle lane when stuck behind someone who brakes way too soon or when approaching an onramp. The left lane should rarely be used. The theory: most people think the left lane will move quickest and the only people exiting are on the right side. Makes sense. The hypothesis has not been thoroughly tested, however, and further investigation needs to conducted.

In my angstier, more self-righteous days, I used to play "Superhero," where I was an ordinary citizen whose duty was to protect my fellow drivers from the assholes of the road. You know who I'm talking about. The guys who cut you off without signaling, who ride up on your butt and then recklessly swerve around you, whose mufflers have been modified to make sure you know exactly how loud and obnoxious they are. I would see them cut someone off and then try to speed ahead through an impassable line of traffic. They would squeeze through, nearly causing a three car pileup in their wake. It was my duty to stop them. I would speed ahead of such a villain and then casually slow down to the speed limit. These people hate nothing more than someone going the speed limit. They would switch over to the right and try to speed ahead of me. I'd hit the gas and speed up just enough to align myself with another car, ensuring they could not pass and that they were safely boxed into between several speeding bodies of steel. They would always get away, probably angrier and more aggressive than before they ran into me. I wasn't a very good superhero.

A friend of mine told me that he plays "Shark Attack" sometimes. He'll pull up next to a car. And then change lanes in front of it. And then changes lanes to the opposite side of it. And then brake and get behind it. And then repeat that whole process. It sounded funny, but it's a lot more lane changing and braking than I prefer.

But lately, I've been playing what I refer to simply as "The Game." It's best played when there are moderate amounts of traffic that is steadily moving. The goal of the game: get through the traffic. The catch: you have to use your brakes as little as possible and drive like a somewhat courteous driver, i.e. use your signals, don't cut anyone off or tailgate unless necessary, and don't go too fast. Any asshole could drive a 100mph, then slam on the brakes, and then jerk his car over to the next lane forcing the little old lady in her Honda Accord to slam on her brakes. This game is more of a ballet than break dancing. It is about control, fluidity and efficiency. It's a puzzle at high speeds, except the pieces and the solutions are constantly changing. You anticipate, who is going where and when. It is a calculation based not on numbers, but by an instinct that must be developed over time. It is mentally enthralling.

More importantly, it keeps me awake.

Projects and Purpose

"Tommy, go look outside," my dad excitedly commanded while my little sister gave me the oh-my-goodness-I-can't-believe-what-daddy-just-did eyes. I walked outside and saw that was just hours before a ten foot high, fifteen foot wide bush was now reduced to a monstrous mound of discarded branches and two sad-looking stumps. "Call Paul," he told me, "We're starting today."

What I thought was only an overambitious dream to build a backyard pool bar thought up over the weekend - "the project" as we labeled it from the start - was now a plan officially laid into action. After a day of digging and pouring cement, a couple days of cutting and leveling foundation boards, and then a long afternoon of power-screwing down vinyl decking, we had something. We weren't quite sure what it was yet, other than a nicely laid trapezoidal deck. That week I came home from my 3 hour geometry class, changed, and worked my ass off for a solid 8 hours each day. I didn't feel tired; just the opposite. I was exhilarated. We were building something from nothing. No professional consultation, no 3-d images rendered, not even a little sketch - we were reshaping wood and vinyl to fit some vague vision my father had, and then reshaping the vision to fit what we were actually producing.

The next week the walls were erected. Suddenly, we were hoisting up beams for the roof and the skeleton was finished. Then we were hammering plywood, tacking in shingles, and siding.

The work became more sporadic from there and after Paul and I found full-time jobs we lost some of the zeal of the first month. Nevertheless, for better of for worse, it stands finished, powered, and with comfy seats.

Before we started the project, I found myself in a bit of a rut. My teaching gig was starting up and I loved that, but I still didn't have anything lined up after the class. Working on something I cared about, learning new skills, and sharing that sense of accomplishment with my best friend and my dad gave me a purpose and made me forget about my uncertain immediate future.

Since we finished the project, I've been working my new job, processing new applications and answering phone calls. It is not glamorous work, but it's also not grueling work that's going to break my back or lead to a severed limb. At worst, I'd say I become a bit more nearsighted. It's definitely not something I can find much purpose in, at least not like I did putting myself into the project. I don't know about everyone else, but I've realized that I need purpose in my life, something to work towards, something that helps me be better tomorrow than I am today.

That's Baloney!

"That's a bunch of baloney!" he shouted into the phone and I could practically feel the spit through the receiver. "I never changed my password!" With my company's website (well, the company I work for), you are allowed three mess-ups before the site blocks your account and tells you to call Client Services (that's me). "Are you sure you have the correct User ID, sir?" I asked. "Yes! I've used it the same one for years! It's a bunch of baloney! Someone changed my password!" he spewed. "I can assure you, sir, that it is not baloney," I might have said, "Can you confirm your User ID for me?" He read off the ID he was using. "Sir, that doesn't match the ID we have on record here. It looks like you still have your default ID." "Oh, you mean the (Insert default ID here) one?" he responded, a bit more calmly. "Yes sir," I responded (I've become quite liberal with the use of the word "sir" these days). "Welp... that did the trick. Thank you!" and he was gone.

I hung up and chuckled to myself. This guy's immediate assumption was that we somehow messed up his account when he forgot his user name. How many people actually believe that something they did wrong was someone else's fault. It happens all the time, right? But you and I never do it, do we?

At my current job, when I'm not pushing buttons and waiting for the printer to respond, I'm usually dealing with customers on the phone who want to know how to put money in their account. Usually the customers that call are elderly and may or may not be able to see the computer screen. It's painfully monotonous.

My two least favorite moments are when my boss and my more experience co-worker will say to me, "Tom, what's the deal with this account (or something along those lines)." It'll either be missing paperwork, or I'll have forgotten to send an e-mail. "That's a bunch of baloney!" I'll say to myself, "I know I printed/e-mailed that." Then I'll remember customers like the gent from the first paragraph. I'll whisper to myself, "Damn," and then go fetch the papers.

Tantrums

She screamed upstairs. What's going on? I jolted from my couch, confused about what day or time it was. She screamed again, until she had no more breath, and then she screamed one more time. Is the house burning? Did she break a leg? Is she being beaten? The way she was screaming, she should have been stabbed. Then I heard my middle sister yell at her. Then my dad shouted. Whew. It was just Angie, my eleven-year-old sister unwinding from a long day. She does this quite a bit. She'll have a long day, usually filled with bike riding, swimming and watching way too much Nickelodeon with friends. Everything is sunshine and gumdrops, or so it seems. Then she comes home, and she crashes from her perch atop the clouds and she crashes hard. That's when the demons take over. Then she becomes a minefield, waiting for someone to make one false step. As soon as you do, BOOM! The tears start flowing and everything, regardless of how calm or reasonable it might be, merits a "SHUUUUUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" These little tropical storms of pre-teen hormones and sugar crashes happen about twice a week. I usually get frustrated with her and I started to last night, but then I realized, Hey, I'm pretty sure I did the same thing she's doing last week.

Two weeks prior was probably the best six day span that I've had in recent memory. It started off with a softball doubleheader in the rain and a free Spoon concert later that night and it ended with a fan-freakin-tastic 2+ hour Cake concert in New Haven with my lady friend. In between, the week was filled with jam sessions, stress-free work days, studying German and working on my Fulbright Application. I was living large... as least large in my standards.

Waking up in New Haven on Sunday, however, I felt tired. I felt drained. And worst, I felt cranky. Sitting in traffic on the way home was almost enraging. At work the next day, an overturned 18-wheeler at the toll plaza made me 30 seconds late for work, an arrival that earned me a week's worth of showing up at 8:45. The next day I went to play guitar at my friend's place and blew out my front-right tire as I parked in front of his house. My week was filled with little mental miscalculations like this one. My head felt heavy. I felt slow and incompetent. I started getting down on myself. It almost felt impossible to be happy or laugh. God Tom, you suck at EVERYTHING. Why do you even play guitar? Why are you even applying for a Fulbright? Yes, these were actual thoughts.

Then Thursday, I felt exceptionally crappy. The computer screen seemed to burn my eyes moreso than normal. My head hurt. I felt weak and tired. I tried going for a run after work to see if exercise would make me feel any better. Within the first 200 feet my face and sinuses felt like they were going to explode. And then, Ah ha! I wasn't depressed or suddenly incompetent at everything, I was just sick.

By Saturday, I was back to being my obnoxiously optimistic self with my irrational emotions safely corralled. But I guess even at 23, I'm not immune to reverting back to an eleven-year old girl.

The Culprit behind America's Downfall

In this troubled time, the Great Recession, there has been ample finger-pointing and blame-gaming. "It's the GOP's fault," some chide, "for obstinately blocking everything Obama has tried to pass." Others counter, "You mean that Muslim reincarnation of Hitler? It's his fault for trying to turn this nation into the Soviet Union version 2.0." Still others shout, "No, it's Wall Street's fault for so consciously misleading us into our very own destruction. And what about big oil destroying our environment? And big business shipping our jobs overseas? And terrorism! How could you forget terrorism?"

But, America, none of this rabble-rabble-rabbling is correct. The chaos has spread enough and it's time you all knew the truth. I'll tell you who's to blame for America's downfall: me.

I'm to blame for the healthcare crisis. I know I need to exercise. I know I shouldn't eat artery-clogging fast food. And, believe me, I know that I don't need a 32 oz. soda with my Big Mac. These actions will put me in the hospital again and again for reasons that could have been easily prevented and we'll all see health care prices driven up. Despite all this, I've been too lazy to change.

I'm to blame for the financial meltdown. I exchanged a good work ethic and a prudent budget for get-rich-quick dreams. Time and time again I spent money I didn't have on things I didn't really need (or want, for that matter). I bought a house with a mortgage that was too good to be true and filled it with furniture and electronics bought on credit. I never questioned why the rates were so low; I guess I just thought the banks and credit cards companies knew how good of a guy I was.

I'm to blame for the little BP mishap, too. Not directly, of course, but I drive my car. A lot. I drive it to work. I drive it to the mall. Heck, I even drive it to my kids' bus stop five houses up the block. I just love driving. One thing I don't love though: high gas prices. I flat out hate them. I guess if I walked my kids down the block or biked to places in town I could've cut fuel expenses, but I just didn't think of it. Instead, I unwittingly put pressure on BP and other companies to cut costs and corners so I could keep on driving as much as possible, for as cheap as possible.

You can blame me for all the environmental problems we're facing as well. I like leaving lights and the TV on, even when I'm not in the room. It makes me feel safe. I like long showers and rinsing my dishes before I put them in the dishwasher as well. You can never get those things too clean as far as I'm concerned. I like my house cold in the summer and hot in the winter, too. I guess I just never really thought about where all that energy needed was coming from, or where the waste products went.

I'm also to blame for the religious intolerance that's surfacing these days. I always thought that what "religion" you were meant what kind of "Christian" you were, at least in this country. I never thought that people could have sincere beliefs in religions like Hinduism and Islam. Heck, I don't even really understand my own creed; how could you expect me to understand theirs?

So I'll say it again: you can blame me, America. But before you get too riled up, hear me out. I want to change. I don't want to let my country down anymore. I want to stop being lazy and unhealthy. I want to be fit and active. I want to eat foods that will take care of my body so down the road a doctor won't have to. I want to stop making needless, impetuous purchases, save more and find ways to be content with what I already have. I want to drive less and use less energy, not so much because I'm an environmentalist, but I now see that efficiency is something to value in and of itself. And finally, I want to be more tolerant, reaching out to those who are different than me and instead of polarizing our groups, embracing them as fellow countrymen who bring their own distinct flavor to this one-of-a-kind melting pot.

I implore you, my fellow citizens, to join me in this moment of critical introspection. This country was once great and we can make it great again. We need to stick our thumbs to our sternum, look in the mirror and say, "I'm to blame, America, but not anymore."

Fat AND Stupid? Hmmmm....

Check out this article: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/09/15/phys-ed-can-exercise-make-kids-smarter/?src=me&ref=general.

Maybe Phys Ed shouldn't be cut out of schools...

Emotions: Who's in Control?

So tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of my departure to Guatemala. I've been back home for six months now and I must say, emotionally speaking, it's been one hell of a ride. Despite my best efforts to be happy, love-the-hell-out-of-life Tom, it has not been so easy.

I've found myself angrier than I've ever been at times, internally lashing out at those around me (I've managed to keep my mouth shut thankfully). Drivers I deemed dumb, friends, my family, co-workers - literally anybody could have been an alleged "cause" to my frustration. I'd blame New Jersey, it's plethora of stipmalls, suburbs, highways and hair gel. I've even gone on several "Damn I hate this country," rants; those are never rational and always a tell-tale sign that angry Tom is behind the driver's seat.

Other moments I've been carefree, letting myself get lost in whatever I am doing: playing guitar, working, reading, drinking beer with friends, etc. In those times I've been happiest. No thought of tomorrow, no thoughts of yesterday - just genuinely enjoying what life iss giving me at the time.

Those moments have usually been followed by periods of intense anxiety. Doubt inundates my brain, leaving it flailing for any kind of solution amidst the sea of unanswerable questions, questions like: Did I make a mistake going abroad? Did my philosophy major forever seal my fate as an unskilled, bottom-of-the-barrel worker? Will I ever leave my parents' basement? Obviously, these are ridiculous questions. Yet every now and then I find myself in the throes of my anxiety, giving these absurdities way too much weight.

Then there are my favorite moments: my dreamer moments. In these oft delusional moments, I revel in the thought of doing things: biking cross-country, doing stand-up comedy, making my own beer, going back to Germany. I lose myself in thoughts of what could be. They're my favorite moments for two reasons: 1) lots of times they are pretty good ideas to work towards, 2) they are utterly ridiculous (some are maybe just ridiculous).

Now, through all of these moods, I have always tried to be the same me... positive, happy and trying to make the most out of life. Yet, despite my best efforts, I've been tossed around like a beach ball at a rock concert. My moods have dictated what I believed; not vice versa. So, how much control do I really have? Do I have any power at all? I want to believe yes and that all these years of riding this roller coaster will teach me how to ride it properly. In the mean time I'm strapped in, my hands thrown into the air.

Meh... I've already seen it on TV

This weekend, in the middle of my normally boring chunk of New Jersey, the Union County Music Fest was in town shaking things up and definitely keeping the neighbors awake. The normally expansive and green fields of Oak Ridge Park in Clark, NJ - a converted golf course - were filled with booming stages, carnival rides, greasy foods and more teens and middle-aged women dancing together than you'll ever see again.

After catching the last chunk of Keeping Riley (a surprisingly good local band... moreso live than their recordings) and OK Go, my buddy and I wandered over to the Hell on Wheels BMX section. A modest crowd gathered to watch two guys do some sweet jumps... and possibly contort their bodies in unthinkable ways in an unplanned crash landing. From the trailer, a mulleted man did his best to charge up the crowd, promising that we'd be stupefied and electrified, that these young men would defy death and risk serious personal injury to entertain us like we'd never been entertained before.

The bassline from the Propellerhead's Spybreak! (you know, the song playing in the Matrix when Neo shoots up the lobby and does some sweet slow-mo cartwheels) kicks in and picks up our pulses. We all wait, anxious to see a man fly. He pedals. He speeds up. He hits the ramp, jumps through the air, spinning his body and machine a perfect 360 degrees, and lands. He nails it! The crowd is... completely unimpressed? Huh?

No one - including myself - was impressed. This young daredevil just pushed the boundaries of what a human body is capable of right before our very eyes, yet we were unmoved. We halfheartedly clapped in between hiding our yawns. After five or six tricks, the show was over and the small throng of spectators dispersed, presumably to watch Train's set, but hopefully to do something better with their lives.

As I walked away, I could help but think, That should have been really impressive. I mean, that guy was like twenty feet in the air and even jumped over his own father's head. Why wasn't I amazed? Why was the crowd not dazzled and starry-eyed by this spectacle? I realized why almost immediately: we had all seen it already. Even though this was my first time seeing professional BMX trickers in person, my years of watching the X-games as a kid had ruined the punch line for me.

Now what if I had never seen that before on TV? Imagine if there was no TV. What if the highest I'd ever seen someone take a bicycle was my friend Paul doing a three inch bunny hop, an impressive feat for a layperson? I would have shat myself. Sure, I would have heard stories about these crazy people who throw their bodies around on two-wheeled pedal-powered vehicles and I may have even seen a photo or two; but to be fifteen feet from a man who dared to so blatantly defy physical limitations surely would have left me with a hefty load of fear/excitement infused shite in my manties.

I don't want to say technology is bad; it's not. In fact, it is @#$!ing awesome. But, we human beings are not always the wisest, most prudent creatures. I saw about 18 kids walking with their faces buried into their phones; I was tempted to trip every one of them and then blame them for not looking where they were going. My dad says, "Why go to a baseball game when I can watch it here on my flatscreen HD TV?" I know we like having things and having these things NOW - especially when these things are the newest, high-tech goodies that promise to enrich our lives - but maybe we don't deserve such instant gratification. Maybe all this access to information and entertainment, when overused, leaves us numbed and unable to be impressed, even when we're watching a man fly.

I'm back

For any of you out there that are actually clicking this link and saying, "Well, maaaaaaaybe he updated it this time," I am back. After several months of sinking into a mental malaise, I've decided to dive back into the narcissistic and egocentric world of blog writing. I'd love to hear your thoughts or comments, maybe make some of these posts more like discussions. If you want to tell me that I'm spewing too much mindless, self-indulgent word doodoo, that'd be appreciated as well.

Grandma Bev, a Guatemalan, and Breaking my Routine

I got a call from my Grandma Bev yesterday afternoon. For the first time in longer than I can remember, she seemed upbeat, maybe even happy. She ran through stories of her last couple days like a teenage girl who just got asked out by her big crush. Before hanging up, she invited me out to dinner last night at a sandwich/coffee shop because the guy who gave her the $5 special was Guatemalan and apparently wanted to meet me. Happy to hear my Grandma so elated and with literally nothing to do, I agreed to meet up at 5:30.

Around 6 o'clock, I found myself with my Grandma and her friend walking through cute downtown Metuchen and following them into an empty coffee shop. Behind the glass display case of parfaits and overpriced desserts stood a short Latino in his early to mid thirties. "Pedro!" my Grandma exclaimed in her still shaky voice, "This is my grandson. The one I told you about." He gave me a polite, yet slightly confused smile. "My grandson wants to learn Spanish," added my grandmother.

"Puedes entender?" he asked me, testing my abilities. I said yes, and we talked a bit about my time in Guatemala. The connection between the Spanish speaking part of my brain and my mouth felt rusted and worn from lack of use as I threw out a "se" when there should've been a "te." My tongue stumbled and faltered on sounds I hadn't produced in over a month. He spoke slowly so I could understand. I told him I could help him with English if he would speak Spanish with me. He seemed surprised, but eager. I gave him my number.

I sat down with my Grandma and her friend at our table. My Grandma Bev leaned in with that old, anxious look in her eye, "Oh my God, Tommy, I hope I didn't get you into something that will hurt you. He's from Plainfield. I don't want you going there. It's very dangerous. Do you trust him?" "Grandma Bev," I interjected, "I just spent six months in Central America. Don't worry. He seems nice and I won't do anything that'll make me uncomfortable," I reassured her, but she seemed lost in her own worries. Her friend laughed and got what I was saying.

The truth was, however, that I did feel uncomfortable. But it didn't have anything to do with him being from Plainfield or him seeming sketchy. He didn't at all. Thoughts of where we would meet up bothered me. My house? His? In Metuchen? At my Grandma's? What would my family think of this? I can't bring him home. They wouldn't want a stranger in their house. These thoughts, barely breaching the surface of consciousness, rattled around in my head.

Then I thought back to the days, not so long ago, when I would hop on a bus not really sure if I was going in the right direction. I had no problem reaching out to people then. I thought about a couple of the truly random relationships I had made in my travels - Sergio and his bull testicle eating brother, the Rodas family. Why was this spontaneity so natural then and why did it feel so utterly alien now?

Then I realized that some of my greatest fears about my return home were coming true. I was falling into a routine, into old habits that I don't like but continue because they're easy and familiar. Staying up and watching TV when I'd be better off sleeping, jerking off when I could just as easily play guitar or read a book. With nothing to wake up early for, I don't, regardless of how early I go to bed. Monday feels like Friday, and Saturday like Wednesday. I might exercise for an hour or so a day, but the remaining hours are spent pretty immobile. What happened to reading in Spanish? What happened to keeping the salsa alive at home? To waking up early, exercising, eating healthy, and keeping my mind active and engaged?

After I finished eating, I walked up to the counter and continued our conversation. I asked him when he came here, where he was from, what his family was up to. He gave me his number as well. He said we can practice over the phone or in person and I said we'd meet up and practice English in person.

We shook hands and parted ways. I folded the receipt put it in my pocket, wondering, hoping, that I'd use the number written on it. Sitting in my kitchen, however, writing this entry, I feel those voices telling me to be complacent and comfortable, to stay put and not try new things. I hope I don't listen to them.

Stuck Sitting: Cars and Suburbs

One of the Spanish volunteers in Nicaragua, Pablo, had visited the US and didn't leave in love with the place. After a couple months in the Northeast, he complained that big cars guzzled too much gas, people had houses that were much bigger than necessary, and that everything was too spread out. As much as I hated conceding anything to him, I couldn't disagree with the last point.

While in Central America, if I wasn't taking a bus on a long distance trip I went where I was going on foot, unless I had a bike or it was dark. I walked to class, to the markets, to the city center. After only a couple months, I found myself down 15-20 lbs, with an increased metabolism, and much more alert and attentive while I was awake.

Now that I'm home, in safe, secluded suburbia, walking anywhere worth going to is a dangerous multi-hour trek. With most major roads around me carrying speed limit signs between 35 and 45 mph and straddled by shoddy, if any, sidewalks, even biking isn't all that viable of an option. Unless you have a lot of time to kill and no fear of death, you need a car.

And already, after only a couple weeks of limited physical activity, I feel lethargic and slow, both physically and mentally. I forget things like street names and what time it is even though I just looked at my clock. I can't finish a page of a book without having to snap myself out of daydreaming. I sleep 9 hours and wake up tired, spend the whole day half-awake only to fall asleep and repeat the whole process. My mind needs my body to do something, anything, to keep the blood flowing, to keep it sharp and awake. The problem is it's just so easy to sit. And sit. And sit some more. Walking or riding a bike are simple solutions, but not practical ones. I don't want to be a product of my environment, but do I have a choice? I'm hoping the answer is yes, but we'll see.

Don't Believe the TV

Monday night, "the fam" came over to celebrate my and my Grandma's birthdays. Nothing too crazy; just some pizza and chocolate cake. As usual, my Great Aunt Evey dominated the conversation with hilarious stories of trips to the "doggy park" and her "Schatzki ring" induced burps (at least she stopped talking about the colitis). Her husband, Uncle Joe, corrected her every now and then while my Grandma Bev avoided the conversation as she paced the kitchen. Aunt Dawn threw in her jokes and her warm laugh while Uncle Rob was unusually un-cynical. And the matriarch Grams, my great grandmother, sat at the head of the table, stoic as ever.

The conversation turned to a special my Aunt Evey saw on a kidnapping in Mexico. "Are you gonna go back, Tawm (how she pronounces my name)?" she nervously asked. "You won't go to Mexico will you?" I said maybe. "Oh my heart! It's horrible there! Do you know what they did to this poor family? Kidnapped and tortured for seven months! It's too dangerous there." Uncle Joe affirmed her statement and so did Uncle Rob with a nod and a "yup."

Now, I love when my family is around - they crack me up and they are warm, genuinely loving people - but I realized on Monday that I'll always be Little Tommy and me and my low, lost-in-the-background voice will never command much attention with this group. When I tried telling them about the countless people I met who traveled through Mexico and loved it, they didn't listen. When I tried telling them that I heard Mexico is much more developed than the countries I went to, that only made them more anxious about where I had been. There was no winning.

Saying that I shouldn't go to Mexico because it's dangerous is akin to saying I shouldn't go to the Northeast of the United States. It's absurd. For instance, we all know that if you don't have to be in Camden, NJ, you probably should not go there. The same holds true in other countries, at least in the four I went to on this trip. Xela is a relatively quiet city, but you know that you do not set foot in Zona 7 day or night. Simple as that.

It's as if the television holds more weight than do my real life experiences. The incident with my family is only one example. I've had friends and friends of my parents tell me how Guatemala is falling apart according to the papers and that the gangs are taking over. Is the country in bad economic shape? Yes... so are we. Are gangs a problem? Yes, in areas. Are they taking over the country? No. But so far, it seems like what I say, instead of changing people's minds and making them think, "Hm, maybe I've got the wrong idea," has only made them think that I am foolish and crazy. Maybe I am.

Unconscious Consumption

After dinner Saturday night, my little sister Gina was helping out by washing the dishes. The faucet ran full blast as she took her time washing individual forks. She held the rinsed fork in the air, far from the rushing water, as she talked with my mom before putting it in the dishwasher. The sound of the wasted water irritated me and I said, "Gi, turn off the water." "Why?" she shouted back with some Jersey girl attitude. "Because you're wasting water." "WhatdoyoumeanI'mwastingwater. Whydon'tyoudothedishes. We'renotinGuatemalaorwhereeveryouwere. I'mnotgonnaturnoffthewatereverytwoseconds," she spat back. I backed down, realizing I was foolish for picking this little fight and that a talk about overconsumption was probably best saved for another time. What scared me, though, was how unconsciously she did it, how set it was in her modus operandi, and how it points to a larger societal ill.

A common critique of Americans is that we overconsume. We drive cars with poor gas mileage back and forth from homes that are too big where we use more water per day than anyone else in the world.

We've all heard, either from our parents or someone else's, "Finish your food. There are children starving in Africa." If you were a little smartass like me, you would've responded, "Yeah, but they wouldn't eat this food either way." For me, as with all things in life, it's about awareness and gratitude. We have enough food and water that we can literally throw them both away and our lives will go on smoothly. What does that say about us? What does that say that my little sister leaves the water running? That we have so much and do not demonstrate the least bit of awareness nor gratitude for these blessings? It says that we don't give a shit. And why don't we give a shit? Apathy? Insecurity? Are we too lazy to care or too scared? I know, it seems like I'm too hung up on something as trivial as an open faucet, but it's the trivial, little moments all strung together that comprise our lives. They are what matters, and if we treat them like leftovers to be thrown away, well, we'll find our lives in that over-stuffed Glad bag along with them.

Home Sweet Home

So after six months of living and traveling in Central America of walking in the shadows of volcanoes and casting shadows on 90% of the people around me - six months filled with chicken buses, pick-up rides, micro-buses and other forms of public transport that would never set rubber on US asphalt, trying to speak, listen, read and think in a language that was not my own and trying to live and understand a lifestyle that was not my own - I am back home in Suburbia, NJ, far away from Mayan women in colorful dresses handlessly carrying impossible loads on their heads and even further away from the "verga" and "maricon" jokes of the La Prusia guys. I'm back in my basement on my couch hiding from the unrelenting rain clouds, listening to the tireless churning of our sub-pump as my skin wishes it was still being toasted by the brutal Nicaraguan sun. I sit here with my mind not quite sure what to call reality, as if I'm stuck between dreams. Everything seems big - my house, the roads, the cars, the food, the people (height and girth).

It's good to be home, though. My friends greeted me at the airport with my "America Reacclimation Kit," complete with a mini-American flag, King James Bible, and an ESL beginner's book, before taking me out for some chocolate chip pancakes covered in syrup, whipped cream, strawberries and bananas. I surprised Julie (well, kinda) on her birthday and got to spend the night with her and her friends playing ping pong, drinking cheap Pabst cans and Korean vodka, grooving to a soul/gospel band, and even squeezing in some salsa-ing between bands. And I'm already all caught up on the Lost and South Park episodes I missed in my absence.

There are so many things I want to remember - walking through chaotic Guatemalan markets with women and their produce sprawled out on the ground, hearing a tree calling my name and looking up to see a 10 year old boy chilling in its branches twenty feet off the ground and calmly smiling, watching in awe as the Nicaraguan sky metamorphised every night as the sun buried itself. Mostly I want to remember the al suave mindset, the laidback and flexible mindset that I think has evolved Latin America out of necessity. But will I be able to? As time goes on my memories will fade, and all I'll have left will be my photos and words, but hopefully the feelings will survive, somewhere, if only subconsciously.

Now I find myself back in the States, for the first time in my life without a next step. Throughout my trip, I told people that I think my biggest lessons from this trip will become apparent when I'm back at home, when however I've changed in the way I live clashes with the norms and expectations of the place I've called home my entire life. I'm looking forward to this uncertainty, though. It's scary, yet exciting; with no guarantees but so much potential. I'm looking forward to the conflict, the discomfort, and the lessons that will ultimately surface. I can already feel old habits tugging at me - laziness, late-night-rerun-watching marathons - but we'll see if I can bring back the ideals and passion that were so easy to maintain in the warm air of Central America.

Copan Ruinas

After bidding Maron and Tegus farewell, we got an early start to make it all the way to the western border of the country where we would visit the Mayan ruins of Copan. They say that Tikal is impressive because of its towering temples reaching above the jungle tree line. Copan won't wow you with any skyscraping temples, but what it lacks in height it makes up for with its intricate sculptures of kings and gods adorning its temples.

After eight or so hours on buses, we set foot in the town of Copan Ruinas. Before I could even finish pissing on parking lot wall, we were being offered a room for $4 a night. Julio kept chatting with the guy while James and I finished watering the grass. I don't like people being so aggressive and pushy, but we followed him up the cobblestone hill. On the next corner a young guy ran up shouting his offer. The two of them argued while we sat, ignoring them for a couple and enjoying space and the cool mountain air.

The newcomer, Freddy, said he had a triple room with cable TV, hot water, and free internet for $4 for the night. We followed him. He left us for two minutes to go deal some American guy pot. He came running back to us and we followed him. The hotel Marjenny dining room was filled with Hondurans munching down some typical fried chicken plates, but the rest of the hotel was empty. We followed Freddy upstairs, walking past the hanging plants, luxury sized hammocks, and well painted walls. He showed us our room and there were three spacious and comfy beds, air conditioning, TV, and a bathroom with hot water, all as promised. It seemed too good to be true. We were suspicious. We had visions of waking up gagged and bound, kidney-less, and on our way to losing more organs.

After checking out a couple of other not-so-appealing options, we went back to Marjenny. We felt better when we saw the manager's face drop that Freddy told us we could have the room for $4. It seemed like she'd be the one getting screwed and not us. After eating some baleadas(eggs, beans, cheese, and cream stuffed into a giant tortilla and then toasted), we kicked back in the hotel watching Goodfellas (Julio had never seen it in English! The Spanish dub everything.). We slept and woke up the next morning with all our organs intact and where we left them.

We took our time getting to the ruins the next day. We started in the museum and I was already blown away. In the center was a replica of the giant underground tomb that was inaccessable on Friday. Walking around and seeing the sculptures of kings, altars with stories carved into the sides, and random animal faces, I was already blown away. All was made more impressive by knowing that these sculptures were all made using rocks because the Mayans lacked metal tools.

The site itself was much more impressive than I had anticipated. My pictures will do it all much more jutsice than my words, so check them out here.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. We treated ourselves to a delicious steak dinner and a few beers, but called it a relatively early night so we'd wake up on time for our 6am bus to Antigua. That didn't stop us from watching another movie and enjoying another hot shower. Old habits die hard.

Tegucigalpa

On Wednesday morning, I found myself seated in a Dunkin' Donuts. I checked my e-mail using their WiFi as I sipped on my coffee and listened to Jason Mraz's I'm Yours over the speakers. I was surrounded by students, nurses, and doctors dressed in sterile white. I could've been anywhere in the States, and for a few minutes I thought I was. Then I saw the armed guard wielding a shotgun at the front door and remembered I was in Tegucigalpa.

After too many hours on the-little-microbus-that-couldn't, we finally made it up the hills surrounding the Honduran capital. The countryside was filled with pine trees and green fields, a big change from Nicaragua. The landscape was sparsely populated until, suddenly, there were houses stacked on top of each other and taking root along the steep walls of the mountains. In the valley below, there was only Central American urbanization.

We stayed with a Couchsurfing host, Marlon, and it turned out to be a great experience. His apartment was small, but had tile flooring, paper lanterns, a well-stocked kitchen, a futon, and bookshelves crowded with political science essays, biology textbooks, and even English novels. He just finished his studies to be a dentist and he spoke English better than I speak it.

Tired and dizzy from the hours of travel, we decided to take a trip downtown with Marlon. He showed us around, pointing out churches, banks, the local burger joint of choice, and then took us to the Honduran People's History Museum. Downtown was nice. People filled the central park and the streets surrounding it, some going to work, some coming from, others going for coffee, some dressed well, some not so much, and some screaming the word of God into a microphone.

We went to Marlon's coffee shop of choice and sat around chatting. We talked about travel, Couchsurfing, politics in Honduras, politics abroad, his family in the States, and he told us how he loves the States but he could never trade the easy-going Latin American lifestyle for the 9-5 hustle.

That was Tuesday. After Dunkin' Donuts, we went to watch Honduras lose to Turkey in a World Cup exhibition match at a bar an earshot from the president's house. Later on, Julio, James, and I went to El Picacho to see the Giant Jesus and an unbeatable view of "Tegus." We got there and the Jesus was closed, but we still had time for a quick stroll through the nice garden and for a photoshoot of dumb poses - including stretch-armstrong Jesus - overlooking the city.

After standing on microbus, heads bowed and necks touching the ceiling, we made our way into the center for a cup of coffee and then caught a colectivo back to Marlon's. For dinner, we went to the mall food court where we ate a bucket of KFC and watched telenovelas on panel TVs. It was nicer than Woodbridge mall. Not Menlo, though. Afterwards, we walked around the block from Marlon's house and shot some pool, learning a new game from the business-casual guys next to us. We called it an early night.

The next morning, we bid farewell to Marlon as we headed west to the Copan Ruins. We had seen the capital through the eyes of a guy who is either middle class or upper-middle class, and life didn't seem any different than the one I've known. As we got to the bus station, we were immediately harassed by guys bumming cigs and booze money and vendors selling stools and newspapers. I liked the Honduras that I saw, but maybe because that Honduras was a lot like home.

Northern Nicaragua: Esteli and Somoto

After Leon, we were northbound toward the mountain city of Esteli in Nicaragua's tobacco region. We waited in the bus station until our microbus was filled to capacity before leaving. The further north we went, the more rural the country became. Cows, horses, and dogs strolled about on the Pan-American highway, taking their time as they made space for our honking van. The flat, yellow landscape of West-Central Nicaragua steady became more jagged and green. The blistering sun of Leon and Granada lost its force to the crisp mountain air.

We got dumped off in a bus station off the Pan-American in Esteli. We chowed down in a little comedor in the parking lot, got some friendly advice from our server, and debated our options for the next couple days. Neither Julio nor I were much in the traveling mood. We both felt ready to go home. We hopped in a taxi and went to the suggested hotelito. It was a tiny, run-down house in the middle of a sketchy looking street. The taxista suggested we go somewhere else. We agreed. He showed us a couple more, but we just told him to drop us off at the central park. He charged us double for his surprise hotel tour.

We wandered the city for a bit, and I got a good vibe. It seemed laid back, friendly, and did not have its Nicaraguan-ness corrupted by tourists yet. We ate some dinner, drank a little coffee, and chilled out reminiscing about La Prusia.

Monday morning we decided to skip the Reserva Miraflores and take a tour of the Segovia cigar factory. We saw how they made the cedar, flavor-preserving boxes, how they dried the leaves and selected the best ones. We watched them get rolled and immediately after we got to try out a couple flavors.


Dizzy from the strong cigars, we hopped back in our cab, got to our hotel, grabbed our bags, and hit the road for Somoto. With our obnoxious backpacks, we squeezed in the bus, James hanging out the door. The ride went smoothly until we were bumrushed by thirty middle-schoolers who filled in whatever spaced remained on our bus.

We pulled into the dirt bus station lot and tried to locate ourselves in our not-so-trusty Lonely Planet guide. Just two blocks away, we spotted a little hotel on the road. The owner showed us his triple - a closet with three rock-hard beds. We took it for $3.50, agreeing that it'd be an experience.

We hurried out of there, shoveling down a quick lunch and running to catch a bus to Somoto Canyon. The bus wasn't leaving for some time, so we got a cab instead. We walked down the rock path in our bathing suits, crossing the river once, walking down more rocky paths, and then hopping stones across the river once again. We met our guides hanging out under a tree. We only had enough money for the shorter tour, but it turned out to be enough. We hopped in a row boat and were paddle upstream as the rock walls leaned closer together and reached higher for the sky. The canyon sides were at places square and cubic, and at others smooth and round. We got out of our rowboat and opted to swim upstream without any tubes. It was gorgeous and empty. We all stared upward in awe as we struggled to doggy-paddle up stream. Our guide took us to a 10m jumping point. We climbed up the rocks and one by one, took the plunge. It was my first time jumping off a cliff of any sort. It was exhilirating, but make sure you keep your hands pinned to your side. Mine were flailed out, and insides of my arms felt the pain.


We got back into town and our spirits were suddenly much higher after a great day. We chilled out on the internet for a bit, called our couchsurfing host to confirm our plans, and marveled at the Nicaraguan sunset.



That night, we went to bed early in anticipation of a long travel morning. My travel high suddenly took a plunge as my stomach twisted and I knew that I was about to shit myself. I ran to the tiny bathroom down the hall and my colon opened like a fire hydrant. I fell back asleep, thinking/hoping the worst was past, but I woke up every hour to a similar episode. It was easily the longest night of my life. But eventually my body got rid of whatever it did not want inside and the sun came up. It was Tuesday and we were Honduras-bound.

Leon, Nicaragua

After a long morning/early afternoon of goodbyes, Julio, James, Christina and I hopped into a taxi outside of our barbed wire gate. I don’t know if I was just grumpy, lonely, homesick, or actually had good reason to feel frustrated, but my last couple weeks in La Prusia were not the best that I’ve had in my trip. Saying goodbye to the project was easier than I thought it’d be, but saying goodbye to the Nicas was tougher. I would miss Andres, our jefe on the worksite, and his constant sexual jokes – me being his mujer, asking me if I liked the sexo rudo, and eye-fucking every single female volunteer that set foot on the site. I would miss Mula, Aleman, and Ale. Through all the verga and maricon jokes I realized that you couldn’t say these guys weren’t genuine and good-natured.

The rest of Friday was pretty laid back. Our microbus rides were typical – dangerously fast and weaving the whole way – and we got a cheap cab ride to our hostel. To me, Granada always seemed desperate. There were the vacationing foreigners living large on the weak Cordoba while beggars lined the street and children tried to trade palm leave grasshoppers for greasy enchiladas. If you were a tourist, you were a dollar sign. Leon seemed more developed. The streets weren’t as dirty. There were banks, Radioshacks, a large, modern grocery store, a university.

After an hour or so of putzing around in the room, we left our backpacker paradise and started weaving our way through the nearby streets. There were a couple women working a charcoal grill stacked with meat, tacos, enchiladas, papa rellenas, and plaintains. We inhaled our plates, washed it down with some delicious Central American Coca-Cola (they use actual sugar here and it makes a HUGE difference). Around the corner, a motionless mariachi band filled the central square as the full moon shined on the cathedral. Aside from that, we called it an early night and slept off the hangovers we all still had from our despedida the night before.

We took our time getting up the next morning. We scrapped the beach plan and opted for a day at the museums. First up, Museo de los Heroes de la Revolucion. Our smiling guide David ushered us in to a tall room sparsely lined with photos of key revolutionary figures – the original revolutionary Sandino, a few others I can’t recall, Che Guevara and Castro, and a “Vote for Daniel Ortega” poster, Nicaragua’s “next president,” according to David. The normal gallery was off-limits today as the group was giving free eye exams in the normal photo gallery. Upstairs, David proudly told us stories of how the revolutionaries took this building, how within these walls and on these surrounding streets they fought thousands of Somoza’s men. On the roof, overlooking the city-turned-battlefield-turned-city-again, David, still wearing his plastic, politician smile, told us that the revolution couldn’t be stopped because the people were fighting for love.

As we left, it was obvious that Julio was enamored by the idea of the revolution. His eyes glimmered as he retold stories he had read of 11 year-old heroes and teenage soldiers taking up arms at their own will to fight the dictatorship. For me, my mind traveled to the years just after the revolution, when the FSLN shot themselves and Nicaragua in the foot time and time again trying to impose their ideals. The Contra War was funded by the US to destabilize the revolutionary government, but the Sandinistas’ abuses of indigenous communities, censoring of the press, control of farm production and bad relations with the Catholic Church drove more and more of their population to the Contra side. From what I read, most people just wanted to go on with their lives. The way David spoke of these things made it all too simple, too one-side and too storybook. They took out the tyrant, but Nicaragua still seems far from a happy ending.

We stopped at Ruben Dario’s house, a museum dedicated to the life of Nicaragua’s most famed poets and one of the most influential men ever on the Spanish language (so they tell me). Afterwards, we wandered away from the colonial structures typical to Leon to the indigenous barrio of the Sutiaba. There, houses were made of brick and Spanish wasn’t the first language spoken. We found the 600 year old tamarind tree and next door we found a sign that said “Sopa de Res.” We were ushered into a dirt backyard where we ordered the soup. Our plastic table and chairs were brought out and we were seated in the shade. Our bowls of soup were more like mixing bowls and we used ladles to scoop out the broth, plantains, potatoes, yucca, and the generous bones of meat. Not a bad deal for $1.25.

Back at our hostel, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade distracted us from our game of pool. It was the first time I had watched TV in two months. Someone flipped the channel to FoxNews where the reporters were waiting in Hawaii for the 8 ft tsunami waves to touch shore. It was a good thing we chose not to head to the beach that day. I heard someone say, “Oh no. They’re going to forget about Haiti now.”

After a nap and some internet, I decided it was time we tried some Nacatamales – super-sized tamales stuffed with meat, rice, cheese, a couple veggies, and God knows what else. As I paid for my internet, I asked the heavyset, glasses wearing worker where I could find a Nacatamal. He told me it was a twelve block walk, but that he could take me on his motorcycle. I said ok.

I didn’t speak on the way there. Leon’s normally hot air felt cool as it rushed by my face. My hands felt like they’d slip off at any moment as Ernesto changed speeds and avoided traffic on all sides. We passed a few signs that said “Nacatamales de venta,” and I wondered why we didn’t stop. We parked in front of a house with a tall iron gate where people were casually entering and leaving. We walked into the backyard and there was a line of people waiting to quickly place their order, get their steaming, stuffed banana leaves, and get the hell out of there. Ernesto told me these were famed to be the best Nacatamales in town.

After ordering, we were back on the bike. The bag was too hot to put on my lap, so I had to dangle it on the side. I asked Ernesto if this was something he did all the time. He said no. He told me he was a lawyer, but in Nicaragua you have to make money any way you can. That includes taking a gringo for a fifteen minute motorbike ride halfway across town to get some indigenous Nicaraguan food.

I made it back safely, stuffed myself with the tamal, we shared a few beers talking about La Prusia and what the hell we were actually going to do in the coming week. We still don’t really know.