Despite my most diligent efforts to the contrary, when traveling alone I appear friendly, gentle, kind-hearted, and eager to converse and perhaps make long-term plans with whoever targets me for small talk. This could be because I look like an unaccompanied minor. It could be because I carry a Petal Pink Vera Bradley duffel bag, which, outside of the Southeast, must scream, "Hey! I'm sociable! Let's chat!" Maybe it's a combination of the two, which perhaps gives strangers the impression I'm running away from home.
According to what I'm sure is sound scientific research, if a man approaches a woman and asks her for directions, she is more likely to talk to him. Oh, the pretense! I felt like a saint recently when a confused gentleman asked me if I knew when the next train was due at the NJ Transit New Brunswick station. "8:15!" I replied charitably, and assured him he was indeed on the New York-bound platform. Then, sensing the impending Talk With A Stranger, I turned away and commenced all the faux phone-checking, ticket-shuffling, eyebrow-furrowing avoidance tactics. But, queen of misleading signals that I apparently am, he took my behavior as an invitation to sit next to me and chat.
After a brief version of this conversation, and with no prompting on my part, he told me his entire educational background which involved lots of engineering, computer science, several countries, and an oil rig. And now he is the Venezuelan ambassador to the US. And also a banker. In the banking-oil company. Well, maybe, maybe not, I thought. One thing I ascertained for damn sure was that he did NOT need my helpful directions; he takes the same train every week night! As I attempted to move towards the approaching train, he managed to work in his theory of how "time... it isn't actually REAL!"
I thought, here is where I'm supposed to connect with an interesting stranger whose experiences and points of view are worlds different from my own. I could hear every acting teacher ever harping in my head about the vitality of people-watching, urging me to observe this man's dialect and mannerisms to reprise in a character some day. I'm sure I stood to learn a life lesson at the very least. But I did not wish to. At all. Is it wrong to desire a peaceful train ride? Perhaps my complete disinterest in his life story and bullshit theory was standoffish, but his assumption that I wanted to hear it all in the first place was presumptuous. I don't need to hear crazy from passing strangers; that's what talking to my relatives is for. For true stories of demons, recovered homosexuals, the socialist state of China and the like, I need only have lunch with my grandparents.
I always prefer eavesdropping on strangers instead of interacting with them. Which is exactly what I was doing at the Philadelphia airport when an Auntie Anne's employee approached me, having just finished his shift, and asked where I worked. I answered:
ME- I'm a student. (Defaulted to above-mentioned avoidance behavior.)
HIM- You do not work at airport?
ME- No. (HOW did Vera not tip him off?)
HIM- Where you are from? (Ok, limited English. Good sign. I figured he wanted to practice the few phrases he knew, and that's cool with me. Also, it guaranteed a quick and content-less interchange.)
ME- South Carolina.
HIM- Are you married?
What? And these odd, unsolicited encounters are not limited to public transport hubs in seedy Northeast cities. Once while waiting on an oil change* (before my social reticence set in), a fellow patron and I critically discussed every advertisement in that day's Greenville News. When we landed on Fred Astaire Dance Studio's Discount Ballroom Dancing Lessons, he earnestly suggested we take a class together! Is committing to a six-week course the next step after a harmless conversation about newspaper ads, even if the one proposing it is three times your age? I don't know. I don't know!
Remarkably, my recent twelve-hour stint on a China Town bus from NYC to Greenville, SC, resulted in no such perplexing interactions. The only English I heard during the entire trip was "TEN MINUTES," bellowed by the driver upon careening off I-95 somewhere in Virginia. Groggily I bolted into what I hoped was one of those fancy gas stations with a beer cave. Instead I gazed through bloodshot eyes at a truck stop. Truck stops are part general store, part diner, part strip joint, and part locker room. The only women's bathroom stall was locked and for once I thought better of just popping into the men's. In that moment, however fleeting, I wished for an ally to exchange bewildered glances and forgettable comments with. Instead, I vowed to hold my bladder until the next morning and made a beeline for the bus with four minutes to spare. The man sitting behind me had just purchased a bucket of fried chicken, and the smell reminded me of home.
*Not the oil change when they carded me to settle a bet with the boys in the back, who thought I looked too young to drive.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Who Really Knows What a Communications Major Actually Entails?
I suppose all early 20-somethings are used to having the same conversation over and over with perfect strangers regarding their educational choices and future career plans. These perfect strangers (referred to hereafter as PS) include, but are not limited to, doctors, dentists, receptionists, bank tellers, parents' friends and co-workers, and distant relatives. My version of this conversation invariably goes like this:
PS- So what are you studying way up there in the North?
ME- Acting.
PS- Ooooooooh! How exciting! Following your dreams! That's just great!
ME- Thank you! I really enjoy it.
PS- Now, I didn't realize acting was something you had to go to school for. I thought if you were good at it you just went on and did it.
ME- Well, there's actually a lot to learn and a lot to get better at.
PS- Huh. I never would have guessed. How do I know you're not acting now!?
ME- I'm not. Haha.
PS- Hey, do you know [random high school student whom PS knows peripherally through church]?
ME- No, I'm sorry, that name doesn't ring any bells.
PS- Are you sure? Because [said random high school student] does a bunch of drama and acting. S/he's REAL talented. I bet you know him/her.
ME- Hmmm.
PS- You're planning on teaching, then?
ME- No, I'm planning on acting. You know, in plays and stuff, and possibly films and commercials, depending on what I get cast in. Although I enjoy teaching and will probably do that at some point, too.
PS- Oooooh. Now, when you graduate from this program of yours, are you guaranteed a job?
ME- Hahahahaha!
Then I realize the PS is asking a serious question, not demonstrating a malicious but welcome sense of humor and wit for the first time since we began speaking.
ME- Oh. No, of course not. No one is guaranteed a job when they graduate these days. Unless they get recruited by the NFL, I guess, but I gave up on that a long time ago.
PS- Haha! Hey, do you know [alas, another random young person to whom I have no connection]? He's REAL good at playing football. We're all thinking he'll go pro. You ever seen him play?
ME- No. Um, I mean, yeah, maybe I have!
At this point I am terribly relieved the focus has shifted from my career ambitions to high school football, a safe subject which, like the weather, is always acceptable and interesting to discuss!
ME- You know, my sister's a cheerleader!
PS- Oh, that's just great! Now, when you start this acting business, will you make a bunch of money?
I'm thinking yet again how funny such a remark would be if it was made in jest, but sadly I understand that it, too, is a sincere albeit ludicrous question.
ME- No, almost certainly not. It's an extremely competitive industry and the popularity of live theater continues to decline. Not to mention that I'll work from job to job- getting cast in one show and immediately scrambling to land the next thing. Which is why I want to join or maybe start an independent theater company.
PS- Well, I'm sure you'll be rich and famous. And one day, when you're on TV accepting your big award, you'll have to remember little me, who gave you your first __________ [teeth x-ray, flu shot, pelvic exam, checking account, etc.]!
Since these conversations inevitably occur while I'm undergoing a medical procedure or at the very least while I'm running an errand, sometimes I lie when asked about my field of study and say "elementary education," which is met with a knowing smile and an approving nod. Not because the perfect stranger in question understands any more about the trials and tribulations of a professional educator than they do about those of a professional actor, but because elementary education is a college major that seems to make sense for a girl like me. It doesn't raise any questions and it doesn't sound suspicious, the very things people wish to avoid when making small talk. Oddly, I get the same response when I lie and say I'm a communications major. As if that's a lucid discipline that obviously translates to a 9-5 job upon graduation. I mean, what?
Fortunately for my peace of mind and for perfect strangers everywhere, I've outgrown my righteous indignation phase where theater is concerned (I AM IN CLASS AND REHEARSAL 14 HOURS A DAY, 6 DAYS A WEEK! THIS DISCIPLINE DEMANDS INHUMAN PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL FITNESS! I AM A CREATIVE ARTIST SHEDDING LIGHT ON THE HUMAN CONDITION!), because everyone works hard and no one likes listening to mission statements. Instead of indignant, when I find myself having the above conversation, I simply feel baffled at the bizarre assumptions of those kind or curious enough to ask me what I'm all about.
It could be worse. Like Shawn, I could graduate with a degree in philosophy*. Then I'd have to grin and bear it as perfect strangers unloaded their unsolicited "philosophies" on me, confusing a few generic world views with a critical, systematic method.
The point is, I wish just as much as any normal person that my professional aspirations fit into a familiar category. Namely, the category known as "Easily Explainable, Even During a Teeth Cleaning." I wish my career had a steady path and a certain outcome. I wish I could count on health insurance and an income large enough to repay my student loans and cover rent. While I'm at it, I wish success in the entertainment industry hinged more on skill and less on networking, and that Art would always triumph over Commercialism. Hahaha!
But I refuse to let the bleakness of my professional future get me down. If theater doesn't work out, I'll likely take up goat herding. I'll homeschool my children and employ them like elves to help me spin and dye yarn and produce award-winning chevre. I'll regale them at bedtime with stories of my Drama School days, imparting the same paramount Life Lesson every time: "Major in business, children. Major in business."
*Shawn wishes it to be known, however, that with his BA in philosophy he intends to pursue a perfectly acceptable and legitimate career in law. Because philosophers are no fun at parties.
PS- So what are you studying way up there in the North?
ME- Acting.
PS- Ooooooooh! How exciting! Following your dreams! That's just great!
ME- Thank you! I really enjoy it.
PS- Now, I didn't realize acting was something you had to go to school for. I thought if you were good at it you just went on and did it.
ME- Well, there's actually a lot to learn and a lot to get better at.
PS- Huh. I never would have guessed. How do I know you're not acting now!?
ME- I'm not. Haha.
PS- Hey, do you know [random high school student whom PS knows peripherally through church]?
ME- No, I'm sorry, that name doesn't ring any bells.
PS- Are you sure? Because [said random high school student] does a bunch of drama and acting. S/he's REAL talented. I bet you know him/her.
ME- Hmmm.
PS- You're planning on teaching, then?
ME- No, I'm planning on acting. You know, in plays and stuff, and possibly films and commercials, depending on what I get cast in. Although I enjoy teaching and will probably do that at some point, too.
PS- Oooooh. Now, when you graduate from this program of yours, are you guaranteed a job?
ME- Hahahahaha!
Then I realize the PS is asking a serious question, not demonstrating a malicious but welcome sense of humor and wit for the first time since we began speaking.
ME- Oh. No, of course not. No one is guaranteed a job when they graduate these days. Unless they get recruited by the NFL, I guess, but I gave up on that a long time ago.
PS- Haha! Hey, do you know [alas, another random young person to whom I have no connection]? He's REAL good at playing football. We're all thinking he'll go pro. You ever seen him play?
ME- No. Um, I mean, yeah, maybe I have!
At this point I am terribly relieved the focus has shifted from my career ambitions to high school football, a safe subject which, like the weather, is always acceptable and interesting to discuss!
ME- You know, my sister's a cheerleader!
PS- Oh, that's just great! Now, when you start this acting business, will you make a bunch of money?
I'm thinking yet again how funny such a remark would be if it was made in jest, but sadly I understand that it, too, is a sincere albeit ludicrous question.
ME- No, almost certainly not. It's an extremely competitive industry and the popularity of live theater continues to decline. Not to mention that I'll work from job to job- getting cast in one show and immediately scrambling to land the next thing. Which is why I want to join or maybe start an independent theater company.
PS- Well, I'm sure you'll be rich and famous. And one day, when you're on TV accepting your big award, you'll have to remember little me, who gave you your first __________ [teeth x-ray, flu shot, pelvic exam, checking account, etc.]!
Since these conversations inevitably occur while I'm undergoing a medical procedure or at the very least while I'm running an errand, sometimes I lie when asked about my field of study and say "elementary education," which is met with a knowing smile and an approving nod. Not because the perfect stranger in question understands any more about the trials and tribulations of a professional educator than they do about those of a professional actor, but because elementary education is a college major that seems to make sense for a girl like me. It doesn't raise any questions and it doesn't sound suspicious, the very things people wish to avoid when making small talk. Oddly, I get the same response when I lie and say I'm a communications major. As if that's a lucid discipline that obviously translates to a 9-5 job upon graduation. I mean, what?
Fortunately for my peace of mind and for perfect strangers everywhere, I've outgrown my righteous indignation phase where theater is concerned (I AM IN CLASS AND REHEARSAL 14 HOURS A DAY, 6 DAYS A WEEK! THIS DISCIPLINE DEMANDS INHUMAN PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL FITNESS! I AM A CREATIVE ARTIST SHEDDING LIGHT ON THE HUMAN CONDITION!), because everyone works hard and no one likes listening to mission statements. Instead of indignant, when I find myself having the above conversation, I simply feel baffled at the bizarre assumptions of those kind or curious enough to ask me what I'm all about.
It could be worse. Like Shawn, I could graduate with a degree in philosophy*. Then I'd have to grin and bear it as perfect strangers unloaded their unsolicited "philosophies" on me, confusing a few generic world views with a critical, systematic method.
The point is, I wish just as much as any normal person that my professional aspirations fit into a familiar category. Namely, the category known as "Easily Explainable, Even During a Teeth Cleaning." I wish my career had a steady path and a certain outcome. I wish I could count on health insurance and an income large enough to repay my student loans and cover rent. While I'm at it, I wish success in the entertainment industry hinged more on skill and less on networking, and that Art would always triumph over Commercialism. Hahaha!
But I refuse to let the bleakness of my professional future get me down. If theater doesn't work out, I'll likely take up goat herding. I'll homeschool my children and employ them like elves to help me spin and dye yarn and produce award-winning chevre. I'll regale them at bedtime with stories of my Drama School days, imparting the same paramount Life Lesson every time: "Major in business, children. Major in business."
*Shawn wishes it to be known, however, that with his BA in philosophy he intends to pursue a perfectly acceptable and legitimate career in law. Because philosophers are no fun at parties.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Needle in a Hairstack
My first occupational goal wasn't actually paleontology. At least two aspirations of similar fervor preceded my dinosaurs obsession. They were a hair dresser and a country singer, respectively. I don't remember when or why my country singer dream dissipated- I certainly viewed myself as a young Dolly Parton for at least my first seven years. But I renounced hair dressing for good one Saturday morning in front of the television. My eyes glued to Tom and Jerry. My mouth chattering away about my future salon. My hands leafing through the brides' and débutantes' pictures in the Greenville News. My parents informed me that sometimes hair dressers have to WORK on Saturday mornings and can't watch cartoons. Appalled, I abandoned that plan and never looked back.
If only I could have made such a clean break. I nearly swore off haircuts myself, maintaining a 12-inch mane and primly insisting "just a trim" each time I found myself at Cut Ups (or the Hair Cuttery, or Cost Cutters) until I was 18. Not only did I swear off haircuts, I swore off style, too (albeit unintentionally and unwittingly). As soon as pink foam-roller curls, huge barrettes, and French braids went out of fashion (which is universally fourth grade), I was done. Now I have short-ish hair, because that way it's less noticeable when I don't dry it or brush it. It's hard for me to even articulate the kind of haircut I want when I do get one, so I always take a magazine clipping of a supermodel and hand it to Kiki*, my stylist. Then we have the same conversation we've had twice a year for the past five years:
KIKI- This would look good on you. But you can't just wake up and have it look like that. You have to use product you know, for the bangs, or they will fall in your eyes.
ME- Yeah, I can do that!
When actually I'm thinking, "I'll just wear my glasses and like a shield, they will keep my bangs from falling in my eyes."
KIKI- Ok, look at this picture of my son!
All of this is glaring evidence I am not meant to be trusted with styling my own hair, much less anybody else's, much less with actual scissors. Which is why it baffles me that I frequently find myself in situations with someone insisting I cut his or her hair.
Soon after I learned to use scissors on paper and stuffed animals, my mom would "let" me trim her hair each time she got angry at it (hence the numerous photos from my childhood in which my mom sports an uneven bob with varying degrees of volume and layers on top of her head). This became more and more of a habit. One Sunday morning as we should have been walking out the door for church (in order to arrive reasonably late instead of cause-a-scene late), she beckoned me to the bathroom. All dressed and ready, brandishing the tiny sewing scissors at me. "I need a trim! We can't leave until you trim my hair! Hurry up, it's just a trim!"
Similarly, Shawn has asked me twice to cut his hair. The first time it was on the assumption that I was skilled at it because his ex-girlfriend was. Unlike my mother, Shawn could break up with me if he didn't like the results. Instead, he just buzzed his hair after I'd finished with it. This instance apparantly faded from his memory, and a year and a half later Shawn asked me again to help cut his hair. At least this time it was only to "help." Armed with the fine-motor coordination and attention span of a golden retriever, I did some haphazard snipping punctuated by checking my email and roasting a chicken. And Shawn looked fabulous afterwards!**
One day I will work up the skills to maintain to Good Hair, or work up the courage to shave it all off. Until then, I'm thinking I'll pick up a Jazzy Jewelry kit and make myself some nice big shiny barettes.
*Kiki is Greek and her son was my boyfriend in second grade. We go way back.
**FULL DISCLOSURE: Shawn cut most of his hair himself this time.
If only I could have made such a clean break. I nearly swore off haircuts myself, maintaining a 12-inch mane and primly insisting "just a trim" each time I found myself at Cut Ups (or the Hair Cuttery, or Cost Cutters) until I was 18. Not only did I swear off haircuts, I swore off style, too (albeit unintentionally and unwittingly). As soon as pink foam-roller curls, huge barrettes, and French braids went out of fashion (which is universally fourth grade), I was done. Now I have short-ish hair, because that way it's less noticeable when I don't dry it or brush it. It's hard for me to even articulate the kind of haircut I want when I do get one, so I always take a magazine clipping of a supermodel and hand it to Kiki*, my stylist. Then we have the same conversation we've had twice a year for the past five years:
KIKI- This would look good on you. But you can't just wake up and have it look like that. You have to use product you know, for the bangs, or they will fall in your eyes.
ME- Yeah, I can do that!
When actually I'm thinking, "I'll just wear my glasses and like a shield, they will keep my bangs from falling in my eyes."
KIKI- Ok, look at this picture of my son!
All of this is glaring evidence I am not meant to be trusted with styling my own hair, much less anybody else's, much less with actual scissors. Which is why it baffles me that I frequently find myself in situations with someone insisting I cut his or her hair.
Soon after I learned to use scissors on paper and stuffed animals, my mom would "let" me trim her hair each time she got angry at it (hence the numerous photos from my childhood in which my mom sports an uneven bob with varying degrees of volume and layers on top of her head). This became more and more of a habit. One Sunday morning as we should have been walking out the door for church (in order to arrive reasonably late instead of cause-a-scene late), she beckoned me to the bathroom. All dressed and ready, brandishing the tiny sewing scissors at me. "I need a trim! We can't leave until you trim my hair! Hurry up, it's just a trim!"
Similarly, Shawn has asked me twice to cut his hair. The first time it was on the assumption that I was skilled at it because his ex-girlfriend was. Unlike my mother, Shawn could break up with me if he didn't like the results. Instead, he just buzzed his hair after I'd finished with it. This instance apparantly faded from his memory, and a year and a half later Shawn asked me again to help cut his hair. At least this time it was only to "help." Armed with the fine-motor coordination and attention span of a golden retriever, I did some haphazard snipping punctuated by checking my email and roasting a chicken. And Shawn looked fabulous afterwards!**
One day I will work up the skills to maintain to Good Hair, or work up the courage to shave it all off. Until then, I'm thinking I'll pick up a Jazzy Jewelry kit and make myself some nice big shiny barettes.
*Kiki is Greek and her son was my boyfriend in second grade. We go way back.
**FULL DISCLOSURE: Shawn cut most of his hair himself this time.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Frugal Alcohol Consumption in Foreign Countries
At any given moment, you can bet that 60% of the UK is drunk. If it's after 8:00pm, that percentage doubles. Out of all the Anglo/American cultural differences*, Alcohol as an English Institution is by far the awesomest. Wine at every school or professional function. Pints cheaper than soft drinks. Store-brand gin. Cider sold in two-liter plastic bottles, presumably for serving at 7-year-olds' birthday parties just like the similarly packaged Fanta. Come Christmas, mulled wine and whiskey hot chocolate for sale in street markets and on street corners. Once my friends and I went to an American-themed diner/bowling alley, and there were alcoholic milkshakes!
I jumped right on this cultural bandwagon (can one fall off the wagon and concurrently jump on a bandwagon?). Idiom confusion notwithstanding, my only fear of embracing this English tradition was the cost. Financially-speaking, not liver damage-speaking. Despite worldwide economic crisis, Great Britain is doing JUST FINE, in my humble American opinion, with a ruthless currency exchange rate of £1.00 = $1.70. I resolved to test the hospitality of this Christian nation and only drink when someone else was picking up the tab.
The months that followed were a shameless shitshow of crashing staff parties (PITCHERS! DANCING!), lingering at wine and cheese receptions (EXAGGERATED INTEREST IN THEATER-RELATED ACADEMIA!), befriending barmen at local pubs (FREE AND FREE-POUR! AND SOMETIMES FREE CHEESECAKE!), and sneaking home as many Globe Education wine bottles as I could fit in my bookbag (REASON #87897 NOT TO CARRY A TINY PURSE!).
Of course I broke my own rule pretty frequently, me being a sucker for supermarket 3 bottles of wine for £10 sales and all. On more than one occasion I walked into a bar or pub carrying my own drinks for the night in the deep pockets of my Lands End Kids coat, having just finished one off on the walk over (NO OPEN CONTAINER LAWS!). The only time this got me in trouble was when I set down my off-brand cider so I could dance with my friends, and a surly bartender snatched it right up and confronted me:
SURLY BARTENDER- Is this yours?
ME- Nope! I've never seen that before!
SURLY BARTENDER- How come I saw you drinking it?
ME- Oh, I'll drink anything!
Surlily, he confiscated my drink-not-purchased-on-the-premises. It was fine, there were only a couple of swallows left. Although I should have answered his first question with "I don't know, let me taste it and see." The moral of this story is, for safety reasons, just hang on to your drink when dancing.
Ever the desperate spendthrift, when I traveled abroad I couchsurfed. This meant I got in touch with people via internet who agreed to let me crash at their places during my visits to their cities. My mom still thinks couchsurfing is a school-sponsored study-abroad organization. When I emailed her from Berlin, she responded with hopes that I was "having fun and that my teachers were nice." The point is, although England can drink any EU country under the table, I had some equally memorable alcoholic experiences on the Continent.
On a horse farm in Tuscany, I bottled the local wine my host, Nicola, purchased in tanks for about €2 a liter. He took it for granted that I, like all Italians, drink half a bottle of wine with every meal, and I didn't have the heart to prove him wrong. Nicola also introduced me to grappa and, on the opposite end of the adult beverage spectrum, Italian coffee.
When Mom, Jaci (my delightful 16-year-old sister) and I visited Rome together**, we shared the most fantastic bottle of chianti at a small, gaudy little restaurant whose décor is best described as "stone archways, Christmas lights, and a roaming Nigerian immigrant selling African handicrafts". Our kind of place! I say "we" because our waiter served Jaci without batting an eye. That act alone made her a little drunk. When she bravely brought the wine to her lips, her whole face immediately turned red as a Roma tomato. Hahahaha! Mom and I split her glass. We all scored a free limoncello for dessert, Mom taking care of Jaci's because she'd sworn off alcohol by then.
I had Guinness in Ireland, Leffe in France (it's actually Belgian, I KNOW), and Becks and Helles in Germany, all enjoyed with generous couchsurfing hosts. But my favorite beverage (and drinking experience) during my seven-month stint across the pond was in fact English: Brothers toffee apple cider. I discovered this candy apple gem of a drink at this knitting shop my friend Maura and I frequented. They had community knit-and-drink nights!!!
I bet by now you're thinking, "Breanna, how on earth are you holding up back in the US? You and your freeloading skills seem so well-suited to life abroad!" Oh, don't worry about me. I've been successfully reacclimating myself with the one thing available in the US and nowhere else (outside of North and South America, that is): delicious, cheap Mexican food.
*Fries are chips and chips are crisps, underwear is pants and pants are trousers, bumming a fag is acceptable in polite conversation but DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES jump the queue. Or order an 'Irish Car Bomb'. Just, don't.
**We did not couchsurf. We did stay in a dive-y motel. But il Colosseo, la Basilica di San Pietro, and this dinner totally made up for it.
I jumped right on this cultural bandwagon (can one fall off the wagon and concurrently jump on a bandwagon?). Idiom confusion notwithstanding, my only fear of embracing this English tradition was the cost. Financially-speaking, not liver damage-speaking. Despite worldwide economic crisis, Great Britain is doing JUST FINE, in my humble American opinion, with a ruthless currency exchange rate of £1.00 = $1.70. I resolved to test the hospitality of this Christian nation and only drink when someone else was picking up the tab.
The months that followed were a shameless shitshow of crashing staff parties (PITCHERS! DANCING!), lingering at wine and cheese receptions (EXAGGERATED INTEREST IN THEATER-RELATED ACADEMIA!), befriending barmen at local pubs (FREE AND FREE-POUR! AND SOMETIMES FREE CHEESECAKE!), and sneaking home as many Globe Education wine bottles as I could fit in my bookbag (REASON #87897 NOT TO CARRY A TINY PURSE!).
Of course I broke my own rule pretty frequently, me being a sucker for supermarket 3 bottles of wine for £10 sales and all. On more than one occasion I walked into a bar or pub carrying my own drinks for the night in the deep pockets of my Lands End Kids coat, having just finished one off on the walk over (NO OPEN CONTAINER LAWS!). The only time this got me in trouble was when I set down my off-brand cider so I could dance with my friends, and a surly bartender snatched it right up and confronted me:
SURLY BARTENDER- Is this yours?
ME- Nope! I've never seen that before!
SURLY BARTENDER- How come I saw you drinking it?
ME- Oh, I'll drink anything!
Surlily, he confiscated my drink-not-purchased-on-the-premises. It was fine, there were only a couple of swallows left. Although I should have answered his first question with "I don't know, let me taste it and see." The moral of this story is, for safety reasons, just hang on to your drink when dancing.
Ever the desperate spendthrift, when I traveled abroad I couchsurfed. This meant I got in touch with people via internet who agreed to let me crash at their places during my visits to their cities. My mom still thinks couchsurfing is a school-sponsored study-abroad organization. When I emailed her from Berlin, she responded with hopes that I was "having fun and that my teachers were nice." The point is, although England can drink any EU country under the table, I had some equally memorable alcoholic experiences on the Continent.
On a horse farm in Tuscany, I bottled the local wine my host, Nicola, purchased in tanks for about €2 a liter. He took it for granted that I, like all Italians, drink half a bottle of wine with every meal, and I didn't have the heart to prove him wrong. Nicola also introduced me to grappa and, on the opposite end of the adult beverage spectrum, Italian coffee.
When Mom, Jaci (my delightful 16-year-old sister) and I visited Rome together**, we shared the most fantastic bottle of chianti at a small, gaudy little restaurant whose décor is best described as "stone archways, Christmas lights, and a roaming Nigerian immigrant selling African handicrafts". Our kind of place! I say "we" because our waiter served Jaci without batting an eye. That act alone made her a little drunk. When she bravely brought the wine to her lips, her whole face immediately turned red as a Roma tomato. Hahahaha! Mom and I split her glass. We all scored a free limoncello for dessert, Mom taking care of Jaci's because she'd sworn off alcohol by then.
I had Guinness in Ireland, Leffe in France (it's actually Belgian, I KNOW), and Becks and Helles in Germany, all enjoyed with generous couchsurfing hosts. But my favorite beverage (and drinking experience) during my seven-month stint across the pond was in fact English: Brothers toffee apple cider. I discovered this candy apple gem of a drink at this knitting shop my friend Maura and I frequented. They had community knit-and-drink nights!!!
I bet by now you're thinking, "Breanna, how on earth are you holding up back in the US? You and your freeloading skills seem so well-suited to life abroad!" Oh, don't worry about me. I've been successfully reacclimating myself with the one thing available in the US and nowhere else (outside of North and South America, that is): delicious, cheap Mexican food.
*Fries are chips and chips are crisps, underwear is pants and pants are trousers, bumming a fag is acceptable in polite conversation but DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES jump the queue. Or order an 'Irish Car Bomb'. Just, don't.
**We did not couchsurf. We did stay in a dive-y motel. But il Colosseo, la Basilica di San Pietro, and this dinner totally made up for it.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Things I Hate
My dear sweet fourth grade teacher greeted us, her class of little angels, every morning with a fun and interesting journal topic for us to respond to in the three ring binders she personalized for us with paint pens. Although I usually chose to ignore the prompts and make up my own (usually resulting in acrostic poems of my name), this one was too good to pass up:
"A pet peeve is a little something that annoys you, like faculty meetings, snotty noses, or when misbehaving kids sit at the teacher's table in the cafeteria. What are some of YOUR pet peeves?"
I responded with a list of all the boys in my class. Except Sam, of course. Now, however, I've decided to readdress this prompt from a broader, more adult perspective. THINGS I HATE:
astrology
mispronunciations
potato salad
email forwards*
Gwilym
the utilization of FAKE LARGE WORDS
detox products
Pat Robertson
the smell of Bath & Body Works
gauchos**
Given my penchant for comprehensive list making, you can look forward to these gripping pieces of work on Hungry Lion in the future, for your blog reading pleasure: my favorite childhood books, funny acapella group names, famous people I've seen, my favorite kitchen gadgets (with commentary), fun things to do when stuck at an airport, winning screen names, theme party ideas, and notable illnesses of my childhood!
*With the exception of that really useful one about how to unstick a zipper with a bar of soap. And the one informing me I'm a genius because I can raed wrdos lkie tihs, and the one with those amazing 3D chalk murals.
**These gauchos, not these gauchos.
"A pet peeve is a little something that annoys you, like faculty meetings, snotty noses, or when misbehaving kids sit at the teacher's table in the cafeteria. What are some of YOUR pet peeves?"
I responded with a list of all the boys in my class. Except Sam, of course. Now, however, I've decided to readdress this prompt from a broader, more adult perspective. THINGS I HATE:
astrology
mispronunciations
potato salad
email forwards*
Gwilym
the utilization of FAKE LARGE WORDS
detox products
Pat Robertson
the smell of Bath & Body Works
gauchos**
Given my penchant for comprehensive list making, you can look forward to these gripping pieces of work on Hungry Lion in the future, for your blog reading pleasure: my favorite childhood books, funny acapella group names, famous people I've seen, my favorite kitchen gadgets (with commentary), fun things to do when stuck at an airport, winning screen names, theme party ideas, and notable illnesses of my childhood!
*With the exception of that really useful one about how to unstick a zipper with a bar of soap. And the one informing me I'm a genius because I can raed wrdos lkie tihs, and the one with those amazing 3D chalk murals.
**These gauchos, not these gauchos.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Yeast
Most women who blog spend 78% of their entries chronicling their cats. Today I'll follow in that vein and write about a pet that is precious, keeps me company, craves my love and attention but can also survive without me for weeks: my sourdough starter.
A sourdough starter is a colony of live yeast that that live in a jar in the back left corner of your fridge. You use some of it in place of (or in addition to, YOU WIMP) commercial yeast when baking bread. Depending on how old your starter is, it gives your bread a distinctive sourdough flavor.
I bet you are still thinking about cats. Like a cat, you have to feed a sourdough starter every now and then. You feed it flour so the bacteria (lactobacilli) have something to munch on, and water so they have something to swim around and multiply in. Like sea monkeys, but with a much higher purpose. Unlike a cat, you can dehydrate your starter, grind it to a powder, and keep it in a Ziploc bag for easy storage and mobility, which is exactly what I did recently when I moved to London for several months. (My first exercise in starter transportation resulted in a yeasty pool in Shawn's floorboard during one hot, lengthy drive to SC. To this day I regret sopping it up with his copy of Green Mars. Darling, I'm so sorry.)
I'll spare you the details of how to start a starter, how to use it*, what to name it, etc., because there are multitudes of internet resources on these very topics, and I'd hate to cheat you out of that Google search. Though most instructions are incredibly specific and involve weighing your ingredients on a digital scale, resting your creation on the top shelf of your attic by the window, and stirring it counter-clockwise every nine hours, really all you need is flour and water. And your starter will consume pretty much whatever starchy matter you put in it, bubble up in satiated gratitude, and excrete a thick layer of grain alcohol for you. Just ask mine, who loves mashed potatoes and even disgusting whole-wheat flour. Next I plan to feed it crunched-up spaghetti noodles.
If you're wondering if the history of sourdough starters extends any farther back than the 70s when your aunt Judy kept one, it does. (My aunt Judy quit sourdough because the stuff was taking over her house, and it's safe to assume yours did the same.) According to online lore, sourdough was the earliest form of leavened bread, accidentally discovered by ancient Egyptians. Accomplished brewers, they were probably drunk when it happened. And (fast forwarding a bit) apparently it was a staple during the California Gold Rush. This raises the question, why wasn't "sourdough starter" one of the items you packed in your covered wagon along with bullets, wagon axles, and spare parts purchased at the General Store when playing Oregon Trail?
By the way, my sister's cat just had kittens so if you want something to cuddle while watching your starter activate, let me know. They are adorable and free for the taking.
*Though I will say sourdough starter makes a SUPERB onion ring batter. Just saying.
A sourdough starter is a colony of live yeast that that live in a jar in the back left corner of your fridge. You use some of it in place of (or in addition to, YOU WIMP) commercial yeast when baking bread. Depending on how old your starter is, it gives your bread a distinctive sourdough flavor.
I bet you are still thinking about cats. Like a cat, you have to feed a sourdough starter every now and then. You feed it flour so the bacteria (lactobacilli) have something to munch on, and water so they have something to swim around and multiply in. Like sea monkeys, but with a much higher purpose. Unlike a cat, you can dehydrate your starter, grind it to a powder, and keep it in a Ziploc bag for easy storage and mobility, which is exactly what I did recently when I moved to London for several months. (My first exercise in starter transportation resulted in a yeasty pool in Shawn's floorboard during one hot, lengthy drive to SC. To this day I regret sopping it up with his copy of Green Mars. Darling, I'm so sorry.)
I'll spare you the details of how to start a starter, how to use it*, what to name it, etc., because there are multitudes of internet resources on these very topics, and I'd hate to cheat you out of that Google search. Though most instructions are incredibly specific and involve weighing your ingredients on a digital scale, resting your creation on the top shelf of your attic by the window, and stirring it counter-clockwise every nine hours, really all you need is flour and water. And your starter will consume pretty much whatever starchy matter you put in it, bubble up in satiated gratitude, and excrete a thick layer of grain alcohol for you. Just ask mine, who loves mashed potatoes and even disgusting whole-wheat flour. Next I plan to feed it crunched-up spaghetti noodles.
If you're wondering if the history of sourdough starters extends any farther back than the 70s when your aunt Judy kept one, it does. (My aunt Judy quit sourdough because the stuff was taking over her house, and it's safe to assume yours did the same.) According to online lore, sourdough was the earliest form of leavened bread, accidentally discovered by ancient Egyptians. Accomplished brewers, they were probably drunk when it happened. And (fast forwarding a bit) apparently it was a staple during the California Gold Rush. This raises the question, why wasn't "sourdough starter" one of the items you packed in your covered wagon along with bullets, wagon axles, and spare parts purchased at the General Store when playing Oregon Trail?
By the way, my sister's cat just had kittens so if you want something to cuddle while watching your starter activate, let me know. They are adorable and free for the taking.
*Though I will say sourdough starter makes a SUPERB onion ring batter. Just saying.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Indian Hop
You might think I achieved this graceful, coordinated physique from a childhood and adolescence of playing organized sports, but you'd be wrong. Despite growing up in the South where college and high school football dominates the local news, children grow up thinking the four seasons are baseball, football, basketball, and golf (or, in my house, Nascar), and ALL the other kids in your neighborhood do either church basketball, Little League, or YMCA soccer, I have never played a legitimate team sport. I don't know why. I was a spaz (glad those days are over!), but I figure most kids are and that didn't stop them.
I took things quite literally as a child. Once I was at my cousins' (two boys who have since grown into stellar college athletes) house. My mother, aunt, and grandma carefully explained the rules of baseball to me so I could play with the boys in the yard:
"You have to keep your eye on the ball and when Stephen throws it at you, SWING THE BAT."
I should clarify that this, our version of the Great American Pastime, took place in the front yard. The swingset was located in the backyard. After I wrenched the baseball from Stephen's fingers and held it up against my eye (yes, that's how my four-year-old self interpreted "keep your eye on the ball"), when the poor kid was finally able to pitch it to me, I took off running to the backyard where I proceeded to "swing the bat" in one of those old rusty swings. I would rather have been swinging there myself, or floating in my cousins' new above-ground pool, not playing baseball. It had to have been 987498 degrees outside.
And thus began my absolutely bewildered relationship with baseball. Not understanding the game, I rarely understood baseball metaphors (and American English is FULL of them!). I didn't know what the "bases" meant, for example, until well after I grand slammed my way through them all.
I did do other normal kid stuff- Vacation Bible School, ice skating lessons, Zoo Camp, modern dance class, Space Camp, babysitting your sister, Church Camp. My fondest memories of forced participation in organized athletics (sparse though they are) take place at Church Camp, AKA The Middle of Nowhere. At Camp we had Olympics. My favorite part of the whole enterprise was decorating my team t-shirt in the arts'n'crafts cabin. But though I dreaded the games, this was the only time I ever remember when the rules of the "sports" we had to play were slightly skewed in favor of wiry, timid little kids like myself.
For example, baseball at Camp went like this: there was no limit to the number of people on the bases, no limit to the number of strikes you could get when batting, and best of all, you could hit the ball in any direction you wanted! I liked to bat into the woods, away from the field, so the other team would have to run through trees, briars, poison oak, and hornets' nests in order to retrieve the ball and carry on with the game. Hahahaha!
And I don't know if this counts, but I was particularly skilled at a game called Indian Hop. In Indian Hop, everyone had a balloon tied to one foot, and you had to hop on that foot with your other foot held high off the ground, and stomp on and pop the balloons on the opposing team's feet. I wonder if they've changed the name of Indian Hop in the past fifteen years. Come to think of it, I also wonder if they've changed the name of Kill the President, another terrific Camp game.
My moment of glory, as far as Olympics were concerned, was always during the epic relay race that ended the games. I would start in the cartwheel race, then bolt across the field in time for the wheelbarrow race, then dash to race's final segment where I would sit upon a twin mattress, clutching it for dear life with my sweaty little fingers as my teammates lifted me above their heads and shot full speed ahead towards the finish line, smirking at the other teams who had normal sized kids on top of their mattresses, not scrawny little midgets like me.
I remained a scrawny little midget right up through high school gym class, where I spent a good amount of time amusing my friends by fitting my whole self into a locker. And I was one of the most athletic girls in the class, unencumbered by pregnancy, a heart transplant, or a flat to refusal dress out.
The moral of this story is if you are a non-athletic child like I used to be, but still feel compelled to run around making a fool of yourself, do what I did. Go to drama school. There your physical education will be gruelling but will likely involve swords. I may be hopeless at shooting a lay-up, but if you attack me with a rapier and dagger (provided I'm also armed with a rapier and dagger), I WILL CUT YOU DOWN.
I took things quite literally as a child. Once I was at my cousins' (two boys who have since grown into stellar college athletes) house. My mother, aunt, and grandma carefully explained the rules of baseball to me so I could play with the boys in the yard:
"You have to keep your eye on the ball and when Stephen throws it at you, SWING THE BAT."
I should clarify that this, our version of the Great American Pastime, took place in the front yard. The swingset was located in the backyard. After I wrenched the baseball from Stephen's fingers and held it up against my eye (yes, that's how my four-year-old self interpreted "keep your eye on the ball"), when the poor kid was finally able to pitch it to me, I took off running to the backyard where I proceeded to "swing the bat" in one of those old rusty swings. I would rather have been swinging there myself, or floating in my cousins' new above-ground pool, not playing baseball. It had to have been 987498 degrees outside.
And thus began my absolutely bewildered relationship with baseball. Not understanding the game, I rarely understood baseball metaphors (and American English is FULL of them!). I didn't know what the "bases" meant, for example, until well after I grand slammed my way through them all.
I did do other normal kid stuff- Vacation Bible School, ice skating lessons, Zoo Camp, modern dance class, Space Camp, babysitting your sister, Church Camp. My fondest memories of forced participation in organized athletics (sparse though they are) take place at Church Camp, AKA The Middle of Nowhere. At Camp we had Olympics. My favorite part of the whole enterprise was decorating my team t-shirt in the arts'n'crafts cabin. But though I dreaded the games, this was the only time I ever remember when the rules of the "sports" we had to play were slightly skewed in favor of wiry, timid little kids like myself.
For example, baseball at Camp went like this: there was no limit to the number of people on the bases, no limit to the number of strikes you could get when batting, and best of all, you could hit the ball in any direction you wanted! I liked to bat into the woods, away from the field, so the other team would have to run through trees, briars, poison oak, and hornets' nests in order to retrieve the ball and carry on with the game. Hahahaha!
And I don't know if this counts, but I was particularly skilled at a game called Indian Hop. In Indian Hop, everyone had a balloon tied to one foot, and you had to hop on that foot with your other foot held high off the ground, and stomp on and pop the balloons on the opposing team's feet. I wonder if they've changed the name of Indian Hop in the past fifteen years. Come to think of it, I also wonder if they've changed the name of Kill the President, another terrific Camp game.
My moment of glory, as far as Olympics were concerned, was always during the epic relay race that ended the games. I would start in the cartwheel race, then bolt across the field in time for the wheelbarrow race, then dash to race's final segment where I would sit upon a twin mattress, clutching it for dear life with my sweaty little fingers as my teammates lifted me above their heads and shot full speed ahead towards the finish line, smirking at the other teams who had normal sized kids on top of their mattresses, not scrawny little midgets like me.
I remained a scrawny little midget right up through high school gym class, where I spent a good amount of time amusing my friends by fitting my whole self into a locker. And I was one of the most athletic girls in the class, unencumbered by pregnancy, a heart transplant, or a flat to refusal dress out.
The moral of this story is if you are a non-athletic child like I used to be, but still feel compelled to run around making a fool of yourself, do what I did. Go to drama school. There your physical education will be gruelling but will likely involve swords. I may be hopeless at shooting a lay-up, but if you attack me with a rapier and dagger (provided I'm also armed with a rapier and dagger), I WILL CUT YOU DOWN.
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