May 5, 2012

The Art of Packing (For Those of Us Who Keep Moving)

A week ago today, I was knee deep in “stuff,” attempting to pack for a two-part move while finishing chemistry homework and studying for a quiz. I’ve packed and moved so many times now (7 full-blown moves since graduating from college… so far) that perhaps I’ve learned a thing or two about the whole process.

Piled up crates. San Telmo, Buenos Aires.

In fact, this last move, I tried to combine every tidbit I had learned over the years in hopes that this poorly timed move could be as efficient, smooth, and stress-free (on me AND the movers) as possible. I must have done an ok job, because — midway through the move — the two movers told me I should write a book on “how to pack to make it easy on movers.” As the child of a super-organized, neat-freak mother (of five children in an apartment in New York City — let’s just say she needed to learn a few tricks to stay sane), this was a sweet, sweet victory. It aint no book, and I am no expert on the subject, but hey — I might as well share what I have learned.

It all begins with my secret weapon: The Container Store. Gone are the days of cardboard boxes, 20 randomly sized and assorted duffle bags or zipper-less sacks. It’s all about the reusable, durable, stackable, hard-shelled plastic storage bin (Ta-Da!). The beautiful thing about these bins is that you can fit all the oddly shaped things — kitchen knives, mugs, coffee pots, vases, shoes — in them, and end up with a very neatly packaged mish-mosh of stuff. Not only does it protect your stuff from getting crushed, but it also protects YOU from accidental pokes! These bins, which are called “sweater bins” by the Container Store, are also perfect for packing clothing; you can put a ton in them (folded neatly, of course), and you can easily see right into the transparent bin so you always know what’s inside. It also comes in handy when you want to find your very favorite pair of purple spandex shorts… Just sayin’. (I may or may not be speaking from experience here…)

Tiles. Argentina.

Not only are these bins perfect alternatives to lumpy duffle bags and fickle cardboard boxes, but they are great for storing off-season clothing throughout the year. That, and they stack really well, taking up almost no space when empty. They are the perfect size for carrying, so that each bin is never too heavy for one person to hold, and they utilize storage space efficiently and effectively. I can’t worship them any more than I already have, so I will stop there.

As much as I’d like to take credit for this idea, it’s all my Mom’s. She is the Queen of Packing, and she taught me everything she knows. I have taken her knowledge and applied it over and over again, developing my own techniques and working off of hers until maybe now I have become somewhat of a pro-packer in my own right. Or so I shall pretend, as mentioned, for just this one post… Humor me. (Just for the record: A friend asked me to write this post, believe it or not!)

Unfortunately, my move has been a two-part move, so I did what any slightly OCD (well, not really OCD, but I am neat and like to be organized! And now I’m getting defensive, so I will stop talking…) person would do: I color-coded with Post-Its. Ah yes, this is how you move from the level of a good packer to a GREAT one! After assembling all my things into their various plastic bins, I had one of two Post-It colors taped to the side of each bin: yellow or blue. Yellow  meant STORAGE. Blue meant HOME.

Neatly stacked logs at Estancia Dos Talas in Dolores, Argentina.

If anyone has ever used movers before, you know that they move quickly, so you’ve got to make it easy and obvious what they’re moving, and where it’s going. The plastic bins, while protecting your things, allow them to also see how heavy something might be, and — perhaps more importantly — how fragile! This works out for everyone in the end, trust me.

As the movers plowed through my neatly stacked assortment of plastic bins, I watched with slightly awkward gratification, (it’s weird to watch other people do manual labor when I secretly love doing it myself). I had a moment of happiness when they began communicating in terms of my Post-Its — “Is this is a yellow or a blue?” “That’s a yellow, yellow means storage, let’s put that in the truck last.” “OK, cool.” Yippy! (OK, you neat-freaks get it — all the rest of you, I can hear you making fun of me through the Internet, so shush!)

Neatly packed petals. Buenos Aires, Argentina.

When all seems to be going smoothly, there is one thing that gets me every time I move: the final odds and ends. This is officially the hardest “stuff” to pack, because the seemingly endless pile of things-you-don’t-need-but-don’t-want-to-throwout-because-you-paid-for-them always requires more bags than you estimate. Yes, ALWAYS, no matter how good of an estimator you are (and I used to be pretty good — I once estimated how many candy corns were in a giant jar in my high school and won the whole thing! I was off of 5,000-something by 11 CANDY CORNS! Yep, I remember, and I still feel pretty awesome about it, so just let me have my moment…).

So what else? Basically, when it comes to packing, you can either let the stuff decide how much you have, or you can let your bags and bins decide; I let the bags and bins decide. If I have too much, I donate the rest. There is a sort of Buddhist, cleansing aspect to moving. It always requires letting go of attachments, both materialistic and emotional, and hopefully some element of giving (away, to others). I used to have so much trouble letting go of things, but now I welcome it and look forward to it.

But before you start giving away your favorite pairs of argyle socks, when you think you’ve used all the space you have and it looks like a large duffle bag is completely full — think again! Start rolling clothing into a ball and filling all the air pockets you’ve created (you’d be amazed how much more you can fit this way!). Socks and workout clothes are great for filling in random gaps because you won’t care if they get wrinkled and usually they are the perfect fit for these spaces.

Also, I never ever pack anything that can spill without a ziplock bag. If you haven’t learned this lesson yet — you will. Especially when you fly and the air pressure starts messing with your fancy lotion. It’s easy, and makes toiletries really easy to find: just get a few large ziplock bags, cram as many bottles as you can into each one, and zip (-lock). Obviously, you don’t pack these bags in the “fancy clothes duffle,” which is for the stuff that must be removed as soon as you move and placed back on hangers. Duh.

Gaucho. Dolores, Argentina.

The bottom line is: MOVING IS STRESSFUL. Yes, every single time, for everyone. BUT, there are many ways to make it much less stressful, and that is my goal every single move. I’m still working on it, and unfortunately I anticipate much more practice over the next few years, but hopefully each time it will get easier until — some day — I actually stay put. Now there’s an intriguing idea…

No move is flawless, but with a few plastic bins — I’m telling you — the movers/your awesome friends who offer to help you will be MUCH happier, and so will you.

Finally, with that in mind, the perfect move should always end with a cocktail, a beer, or a glass of wine with a friend. This is a final touch that I can honestly say I have perfected. A special shout-out to all the friends/ex-boyfriends/family members who have helped me with my many moves, and to the ones who will (hopefully!) help me in the future: you make moving bearable, and I think I speak for everyone who’s had this sort of help when I say we appreciate it more than you know. [Now recruiting volunteers for part 2 of my move to Boston -- both for the move, and for the drinks afterwards!]

Alright. I have some final exams to study for and a good schvitz to squeeze into this drizzly spring morning. I hope there were some helpful hints in there, and if not — well, there’s always the next post. (Please feel free, as always, to contribute your own packing tips as a comment!)

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April 26, 2012

Shipping Up To…

…Boston?!

I guess I should explain myself.

As many of you know, I am currently enrolled in the NYU post-baccalaureate pre-health studies program (AKA the NYU post-bacc). Most post-bacc programs are designed to implant out-of-college students into all the pre-med pre-requisites for med school (bio I, bio II, chem I, chem II, phsyics I, physics II, calculus, English/expository writing, orgo I, orgo II, an advanced bio/chem, etc.). Unfortunately, as a pre-DPT (a rarity in the post-bacc program, but becoming more normal) I have slightly different pre-reqs than a pre-MD. This has created quite the headache, I must say. And this headache is what has indirectly led me to Boston.

ARE YOU BORED YET?! (Here’s a blue-footed boobie doing an awesome mating-dance move to lure you back!)

What, lists of pre-med pre-requisites aren’t fun to read?! Look, this has been my life for the past year (you’re lucky I’m keeping the colligative properties and earthworm anatomical features out of this post). It has not been very sexy to read about, I get it. There has been no sipping of pisco sours in the sparkling evening light of a colonial plaza, no deciding which bikini to pack for my next travel adventure, no plane rides, no tans, no dancing all night in the sand, and certainly no snorkeling with hammerhead sharks (already checked that off the list!).

Rather than the usual rainbow of adventures, this past year has been, well, a couple shades of grey (in terms of adventure — no I am NOT referring to that book!). I’ve traveled so little this past year that the idea of going to Boston is actually thrilling! But don’t you go thinking that I didn’t get something out of the past year…

Maybe wandering down exotic cobblestoned streets was replaced with a repetitive 15-minute walk to Washington Square Park. Trips to Argentina were replaced with trips… to the library. My world shrank from everywhere to a few drab science buildings on the NYU campus. Part of me spent the year in withrdrawal from my cold-turkey life change, and part of me was too busy to even catch my breath and miss anything.

The good news is, I’ve (almost) made it through year one! It’s unreal. The difference I feel now compared to those first few weeks in Biology and Chemistry with a bunch of (echem, 800 of them) AP Bio and Chem kids is amazing. To say I sat there and had absolutely NO idea what the professors were talking about that first week is a major understatement. I felt like I was taking pre-med classes in Swahili. And, this might be news to you, but I don’t actually speak Swahili…

I went from feeling like a complete impostor pretending to be one of “them” to being the first one to grab a knife, cut open a fetal pig’s thoracic cavity, and pull out its heart. This transition has been weird and awkward, like becoming a teenager all over again, but somewhere along the course of the year, I began to feel right at home in my lab coat and goggles.

Speaking of home, let’s get back to the whole Boston thing. Here is the bottom line: my lease is about to end (moving tomorrow, in fact… I should definitely be packing), NYU does not offer a few of the courses I need, nor does it have space in some classes for non-matriculated “special students” like me. For better or worse, the allied health profession courses (pre-vet, pre-physical therapy, pre-phsysician assistant, nursing) are overflowing, and there are a limited number of dead creatures to dissect, so you can’t just squeeze extra students in. That, in addition to the whole NYC thing…

OK, this is going to come as a shock to many of you because I am the girl who was born and raised here and loves NYC to its core but… something has changed and it’s not NYC; it’s me.

Do I still love NYC? ABSOLUTELY. I always will. But do I hate it a little right now too? … Yes.

Being a student in New York is much crueler than even I imagined it would be. The rents are so astronomical, it’s hard to explain them to non-New Yorkers, and hard to justify them to myself. And it’s not just that; the whole apartment-hunting process is a NIGHTMARE. You can’t even start looking at apartments until you’re one or two weeks away from losing yours, and then you have to visit a bunch of crapholes (ok — that is my case since I am a student… echem) with a check-book in hand, because if you don’t put the first month’s rent, last month’s rent, security deposit, application fee AND broker’s fee (usually a pretty terrifying total) up front within a couple hours, you will lose the apartment.

I can’t live like that! Not to mention, I have this inner domestic side that has come out and is screaming for mercy. I want more space, more peace and quiet, maybe even a porch! But, I can’t give up city living completely. NYC is a tough town in general, but add being a long-term student to the mix and it is like choosing to live in the shitty basement over a beautiful mansion. I don’t need a mansion, but I do need and want more space, and more bang for my very small buck. The reality sunk in this year: I just can’t afford to be a student in this town. I hate to leave my family, but I can barely enjoy all that NYC has to offer. Even if I leave NYU (a necessity given the fact that I can’t complete my pre-requisites here), the other NYC options — Brooklyn College, Hunter, CCNY, Pace — are also overwhelmed with students. Sure, a few of those are a bit cheaper, but they require an application, and then, once accepted, that would make me a non-matriculated, non-post-bacc student, which basically gives me the scraps of course availability. I’d be registering AFTER everyone else, and after talking with admissions/bursars office representatives from each and every one of these schools, it became clear that this means I probably would not get into the courses I need… And I’m not wasting any time here. Let’s get this ball rolling!

And then there is the Harvard Extension School. I thought about this place way at the beginning, but after just moving home from Quito, Ecuador, I didn’t want to be anywhere but NYC. Funny how things change in a year.

To wrap things up, let me just say that — after years of telling myself I had absolutely no interest in living in Boston — I am now SO looking forward to this move. My dad is from Dorchester. He’s a real Boston guy, from Boston Latin School to Harvard… He’s still got the accent and the sports loyalties… I definitely have a little New England swag in me. In a way, Boston already feels like home. But now I have to make it home. The hard work begins in JUNE!

OK — I have a TON to do today. Let’s just end by saying I’m ready to pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd. That said, you can take the girl out of NYC, but you can’t take the NYC out of the girl… I don’t actually have a cah, so I’ll have to do without. It is now your job to tell me about your favorite bars and restaurants in Boston so I can enjoy the heck out of Boston the only way I know how.

Life is crazy. Another whirlwind year, another apartment, another city… Time to roll with all the changes once again. And here’s to hoping there is a little more adventure in the next year… in any form that takes on because, as you can probably tell, I don’t “do” boring well.

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March 19, 2012

10 (ok 5) Things That Suck About Traveling: A Post To Make Tavel Feel Better

As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been doing a little sulking about my lack of traveling lately. Instead of changing the name of my blog and making too many people roll their eyes at me, I’ve decide to put together a list of reasons traveling sucks, purely to make me feel better. Travel isn’t all exotic encounters with locals, sipping Belgian beers under starlight, and horseback riding into the sunset. PSH! When we travel — like, really travel — we usually encounter some (many) bumps along the way. Sure, that’s half the fun, but what about the other half?! It SUCKS! Today, I shall focus on that half — take it or leave it, travel idealists.

1. Seasickness. So, yeah, maybe I got to spend five days, four nights on a luxurious out-of-my-league catamaran in the Galapagos Islands. Maybe I got my own bottle of champagne when I arrived, and maybe the food was the most delicious food I had eaten in months. But you want to know some other details about that trip? There were handle bars… in the shower… and I had to white-knuckle cling to those handlebars when I showered because the seas were so rough. I was almost thrown out of my bed one night (and I did physically fly out of it exorcism-style at least once — that is a fact). So yeah… Catamarans are awesome until you’re in the middle of the ocean sailing between islands that are literally DAYS apart. No amount of Dramamine or little weird bracelets and ear patches could save me from the nausea I felt that first night… but I never puked. That was my small victory. AND I’d take seasickness over altitude sickness any day (a true traveler has experienced both — or so I like to tell myself).

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2. Public bathrooms. With the exception of Japan, where a public toilet in a train station offers ambient ocean sounds, a heated seat, and air-freshner that sprays automatically when you move away from it… (take that Penn Station!), most public bathrooms I’ve encountered abroad — particularly in Central America, sorry ticos — are pretty scary. Kind of like the pile of used toiletpaper (etc… ick) that accumulates within a 3-foot radius of the garbage can because the plumbing can’t handle more than a #1, the garbage cans are toy-sized, and most Central Americans are used to using their feet rather than their hands to hit a target. I once took a 6 hour bus ride through some mountains in Costa Rica, during which the only bathroom break was at a roadside hut that sold coconuts (pro) right in front of a doorless-bathroom that lacked flushing capabilities and toilet paper (con). I met a lot of locals that day without every saying hello.

3. Long flights. I’d be lying if I told you that I have done a lot of domestic flying. Most of the time, when I book a flight, it involves a number of time zone crossings, at least 3 meals, and usually a really sorry attempt at sleep. Take, for example, my direct flight from NYC to Tokyo — the last time I ever purchased a window seat. Despite the in-flight yoga, which I definitely appreciated, I was locked in by 2 zonked-out Japanese businessmen sleeping on their tray tables while I — usually someone against taking any sort of sleep medication ever (and, now, ever again) — consumed my first and last Ambien. I never sleep on planes, but figured this was a good trip to try out the whole sleeping pill thing. After popping the Ambien, and waiting for it to kick in, I spent 8 of the 14 hours drooling in a perpetual half-awake state. Most of the time, I’d “wake-up” positive that I had finally fallen asleep, only to realize each time this happened that only a few minutes had gone by. This is how you torture Tavel.

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 4. Language barriers. Sure, this is an obvious one, but whether you’re in an emergency room being asked to do things no doctor has ever asked you to do, or lost on horseback in the middle of a foreign countryside, dehydrated and hours away from your group and your hostel, everything is a little trickier when you don’t speak the language. I remember my first day in Barcelona — it was my 20th birthday. My friend Lisa and I had no clue where we were or what we were doing, but by 7pm we knew that we were starving. Lisa and I began wandering the streets in search of food. There was not a single restaurant open until 9pm. After getting shut down by one Spaniard after another, we began to get desperate. Two hours later, Lisa and I were so hungry, so tired, and so disoriented (nobody spoke Spanish — it was all Catalan!) that at some point, we just sat on a stoop, hugged each other, and cried — me because I was so hungry I couldn’t function, Lisa because she felt bad she couldn’t make my birthday more special. We eventually drowned our sorrows in sangria, and never looked back. I’ve come a long way since that night, but boy do I remember that feeling!

5. Unidentifiable cuisine. Ok, so exotic cuisine might seem cool until the whole “adventure” thing wears off, and you find yourself fighting a parasite, really just wanting your comfort foods… but they are nowhere to be found. All that you encounter is cuy (spit-grilled whole guinea pig) and mysterious soups with everything-but-the-kitchen-sink thrown into them (this includes actual chicken feet and the occasional animal penis, and excludes — oh, I don’t know — real noodles).

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Confession: I was going to make this a list of 10 things that suck about travel, and then I realized I couldn’t come up with ten things. Darn it. The truth is, I actually enjoy many of the things that suck about travel. You can’t travel hoping for perfection every step of the way! You’ve got to go into a trip open to all the shit that might hit the fan before you go to bed (that is, if you’re lucky enough to have a fan at all!).

So, I will stop here. If you like me, you will add to this list by leaving a comment below about something that sucks about traveling (PLEASE DO!). Now here’s the bottom line:

Sure, there are many things that suck about traveling. But, while this post was intended to make me feel better, I will say that sometimes the absolute worst thing about traveling is that I can’t just fly away any time I want. That said, for a good amount of time, I could… and I did. So cheers to those days, and to a future full of more of those days, which I am now humbly working towards.

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February 29, 2012

The Story About The Book I Almost Wrote

This morning, I woke up with a song stuck in my head. I haven’t heard this song in a long time, I haven’t thought about this song ever (at least not consciously), and I haven’t woken up with any song in my head for a while. So, I thought it was odd when I found myself singing it as I got ready for class, but quickly forgot about the moment as I headed to my 8am lecture. It took me all day — a bizarre Leap Year Day, I might add — to realize that the singer (Davy Jones — a name I, admittedly, didn’t know) died today.

Life is weird. Sometimes I try to make sense of things that are not meant to make sense, and I look for meaning in meaningless accidents. I don’t do it because I’m bored or hopeless, I do it because I sincerely believe in learning from life, and sometimes I try to learn something at the wrong moments, over the wrong people, from the wrong lessons. It’s like I’m constantly working on one giant puzzle and I’m convinced there are pieces missing (you know that moment when you’re convinced it’s not you, it’s the puzzle that’s wrong!? Just me? OK then…), when really it’s a brand new box, and I just haven’t found some of the right ones yet. But, for what it’s worth (and let me tell ya — it’s worth a lot these days!), I’ve finally gotten most of the straight edges in place; everyone knows that’s the first step, then you fill it all in.

Crumbling Wall. Dolores, Argentina.

Last week, I found out that a book project I had been working on fell through. It’s strange, because I don’t feel sad at all. In a way, I feel really happy — maybe even relieved — and I am confused by this reaction. Most people are giving me the absolutely appropriate and kind words that I would think I’d need. But honestly, I feel good about this dream-crushing experience! I call it that because technically this was a life long dream-opportunity that arose out of the pure certainty in my heart/mind that it would somehow come true. When life actually matches up with the dreaming, I have trouble believing that it’s real. But, even after getting my golden ticket — the most unlikely happening at the most bizarre time — reality still sneaks up and wins.

For those who don’t know, by a stroke of serendipity, the moment I quit my writing/editing life and began volunteering as a physical therapy aide, I found myself tending to the sprained ankle of a new patient. As I set her up with ice and electric-stimulation (better known as e-stim, for anyone who’s ever found him/herself beneath its oddly buzzing patches), she asked me how I got into physical therapy. Without wanting her to know how truly inexperienced I “technically” was (going through a total of one year of physical therapy myself didn’t exactly count as “experience”), I told her I was actually a career-changer just getting into the field. She sounded interested and asked me what I did before? I love this question, because the last thing people expect is for me to say “I was a travel writer living in Ecuador.” But it’s true, and it makes me happy every time I say it!

This launched an interesting conversation, during which I announced that writing will always be my first love, but that I had also always secretly wanted to go into healthcare. When even a dream job in South America didn’t cover up this inner urge, which I had tried for years to cover up by adventures and disguised satisfaction, I realized it was time to bust a move (so to speak). In a way, I felt like the ship I was on (publishing) had just hit an iceberg, and I could either stay on and know my likely fate, or jump off the sinking ship while I still had enough fight in me to swim to a lifeboat. It took me several jobs to realize that I didn’t have to get paid to write; if I loved doing it, I could do it no matter what, and still have a different career. So, I took that knowledge and finally (after MUCH thought, and in a way, none at all) began to run with it.

Unfortunately, I have a lot of dreams. Dreams don’t just “come true” — lemme tell ya! You’ve got to work hard (in some cases, work your ASS off) for them, but these “dreams” don’t come with promises of any kind. To my delight, the woman with the sprained ankle asked me more questions, and I happily answered them. I explained how I was a bit adventured-out after getting sick in Ecuador, getting my heartbroken over too many over-the-top romances (including a couple unforgettable international ones… mmm mmm), and, frankly, I was out of money. But I mentioned that even though I was switching career paths, I had to write a book about all my adventures because they were too crazy, wonderful, and sometimes heartbreaking not to. I felt like the only one of my friends going through the wonderful mess of questions with only temporary answers that I was going through (which is probably not true at all, but I’m waiting for you all to blog about it!), but I knew there were plenty of other people out there who may have wanted to simply know they were not alone. She asked me, “what kind of adventures did you have?” So, as she had 20 minutes to go with her ice and e-stim, I began to tell her.

Walking along the peak of Pichincha Volcano. Quito, Ecuador. (15,500 feet high)

It wasn’t until the end of our conversation that I asked her to tell me about herself, and what she did for a living. Her response intantly sparked one of those magic moments in life when you just KNOW something crazy is about to happen in your life. She said, “Actually, I’m a literary agent…” I gulped, laughed, let the words blow up in my heart, and said: “OH.” I knew this was it. THIS was IT.

~Magic moment!! ~

Then she asked me the question I didn’t even know I had been ready to answer for years. She asked, “How serious are you about that book?” My response was immediate: “I am DEAD serious. I’ve already started writing it…” She gave me her card, told me to email her with a little more background on the story. I told her to watch out if she wasn’t serious, because she was going to get an email from me the next day. She laughed and said she was serious. Clearly, so was I.

In that moment, I knew this was going to happen. It was always going to happen. I always BELIEVED this was going to happen, but at this point — fresh off of me quitting the writing/editing world  and admittedly not brilliant– I just didn’t have a clue HOW.

A 30 page proposal and three sample chapters later (which I wrote in three weeks, mind you), I was signed with the agency. Within one week of signing, I started my post-baccalaureate pre-med program at NYU — my “new” life.

People often asked me how the hell I planned to both write a book and pursue one of the most intensely competitive/time-consuming academic endeavors I could possibly have chosen, and honestly, I had no idea what I was really getting myself into. I actually believed I could do both, because I had to! When a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity knocks on your door, you let that stud in.

As I studied my brains out, I realized how hard it was going to be to write at the same time (about REAL people – scary, to say the least), but I had to make it work. Around the holidays I got a call from my agent. It could have been any news, and she wanted me to call back immediately. I was suspicious.

Sure enough, after all these amazing dots lining up and a little “fairy dust” (as my friend calls it), she got a job offer in another part of the country, and had accepted. Just like that, I knew this was it. Even though my project got passed along to the president of the company, I knew I wouldn’t strike gold twice; not everyone is going to love my story enough to work their butt off for it, and I had found my golden ticket, the one person in the world who sincerely did, but I wouldn’t dream of getting two golden tickets. A couple months of edits and lingering hope later, the end of this opportunity became reality, and my dream book has been put back in the mental bookshelf for now, while my biology and chemistry textbooks remain open in my hands.

I am going to write this book. It is absolutely not “the end.” But frankly, I’m relieved that I don’t have to write it now. School is my absolute focus, above anything else right now. It is my new dream, my new passion. And while writing will always be there, and will always be incorporated into my continuously odd, bizarre, and (to me) exciting life, I’ve got some final touches to add to the ending of my twenty-something story.

This song that I woke up with today seems evermore fitting as I get myself ready for bed tonight. So, I leave you with it, and with this promise: I will write a book. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but I will. Until then, I’ve still got my trusty blog. So thank you for being a part of it, and my ever-changing, always unpredictable, sometimes incomplete yet deeply gratifying story… so far.

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February 4, 2012

Two Gals and a Cucaracha

There comes a time in every gal’s life when she finds herself face-to-face with a giant cockroach. In that moment, how she behaves is strictly instinctual, complicated only by her desire to maintain control and some remnant of composure. Usually, there is only one option: KILL. But for many of us, this is not as easy as it sounds.

It happened only once. I had somehow skirted ever seeing a single cockroach in my apartment and I knew it was just a matter of time. It was summer in the city, after all, and one can only dodge so many bullets before he/she gets hit.

I was in my room, sitting at my desk, texting my then-boyfriend who lived in Chicago when I heard a weird clicking sound. In my gut, I knew exactly what it was, but in that millisecond when my head popped up and began to twist in the direction of the noise to identify the specifics of the sound, I prayed it would not be what I thought it was – the unmistakeable clicking of an exoskeletal creature wandering around the room. And in that same millisecond, from the corner of my eye, I saw the dark body of my dreaded enemy moving ever-so-slowly across the edge of my bedroom floor.

An Ecuadorian woman holds out a giant beetle we found on my bed while visiting the cloud forest in the town of Mindo, Ecuador.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

I screamed. I’m telling you right now, I’m not a girl who screams, and I fuckin’ SCREAMED. Then, I jumped OUT of my chair, watched it freeze against the wall, and I ran the hell out of my room. My med-school roommate, J, popped out of her room down the hall and said “What’s wrong?! Are you OK?!” I told her I just saw the biggest cockroach I have ever seen in my life. We both went into an immediate, girly panic. I’m embarrassed to say that this is my only way of responding to such an event.

Look, I know it’s easy to exaggerate what the biggest roach you’ve ever seen looks like when it is creeping its way across your bedroom floor, but in this case, I am not lying: it was GIGANTIC. It was straight out of Jurassic Park or some horrible museum exhibit that I hope never to attend. This thing was a monster, and it was a monster in my bedroom. Something had to be done.

My heart started racing. J started freaking out with me. GAH! SHIT, WHAT DO WE DO!?! We both started screaming and laughing and squirming and being totally pathetic and helpless as the giant cockroach kept exploring the crevices of my wooden floor like it had just been dropped off on an exotic island by a cruise ship.

This was a HORRIBLE situation. “WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING! WHAT DO WE DO?!”  I blurted out. I was almost shaking with repulsion. J responded, “I don’t know, I don’t know!! We’ve gotta kill it Tavel! YOU CAN DO IT!!” I said “ME? J, I can’t kill it!! AH! I don’t know what to do!” We searched for roach spray, only to find we had none. J, being a great med school student, even though we were both totally disgusted and continuing to freak out just a little bit, collected herself and came up with an idea.

“OK. How about this? YOU stay HERE, I will go knock on all our neighbors’ doors. There has to be someone who has roach spray on our floor!”

I squirmed at the thought of staying put, alone in an apartment with the giant cockroach, who continued to explore my bedroom.

“OK! But HURRY!!!” I yelled.

“You’ve got this Tavel! WE’VE GOT THIS! I’ll get help!” J ran out our front door. I heard her knocking on doors. I overheard the two gay guys who lived across from us tell her they didn’t have any spray, one said “ew!” and we then realized they were just as squeamish about roaches as we were. None of the other neighbors were home, except for the two Columbia students — both girls — at the other end of the hallway. They apologized and didn’t have spray either. J came back into the room empty-handed. We were on our own. A few minutes had passed. My heart kept beating as chills made their way up and down my body every few seconds. It was time to come up with another plan — and FAST!

J: “OK, Tavel, don’t panic but nobody on our floor has roach spray!”

Me: “SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

Then J had a genius moment.

J: “Wait! What about that guy downstairs! The one with the pitbull?! He always liked us! He’d be a good neighbor and help two nice girls out, right?!”

She had a point. Honestly, I could care less who helped, I just knew I couldn’t stare at this bug much longer. I screamed: “YES, YES!!! GET HIM!!”

As soon as I said this, I realized how bizarrely we were behaving. Who behaved like this? What grown young lady spends this much time trying to figure out how to deal with a freakishly large, lone cockroach? We were not behaving normally, but that was beside the point.

J had thought of the guy on the first floor, Paul, who always flirted with us just a little and owned a large pitbull. He was a macho Puerto Rican guy who usually wore some sort of bandana over his bald white head, wore almost exclusively white worn-in wife beaters, a silver chain, and cargo shorts, and blasted reggaeton out of his windows every weekend. As much as he was a tough guy, he was always a gentleman towards us. This was our guy.

The plan was set: J would run down to the first floor (from our fourth floor apartment) while I stayed in the apartment and kept an eye on the cockroach. She would find Paul and ask him to come up with his pitbull to take care of our… err… problem. We were going to be FINE.

In the meantime, I was not to lose site of the roach. I had one of my gore-tex sneakers in my hand as I stood with my feet far apart in a sort of awkward half-squat, waiting for the roach to make a move. By now, it had crawled halfway up my dresser, and as long as I stared at it, it stayed still.

This was the absolute worst idea ever, because I can barely stand the site of a cockroach, and there I was barely blinking, staring into its eyes in a Tavel-Cockroach showdown. My body tingled with fear and horror, but I stayed in my spot, in ready-to-smush position, dreading the idea of wiping roach guts off of my beautiful dresser more than anyone can imagine.  The LAST thing I wanted to do was smash that mo-fo on my own furniture, because I knew exactly who would have clean it up, and eventually sleep in the same room as its ghost. This situation quickly became lose-lose, and I began praying to the exterminator gods that this Puerto Rican guy downstairs would be home.

The minutes kept piling up, and the tension mounted between me and the roach. Whenever it moved just a little bit, I raised my arm to fire and it would freeze again. Crushing it with my shoe was an absolute last-resort (the clean-up from these incidents is possibly the worst part). The clock was ticking and I was stuck in the hellish position of staring at the most repulsive creature on Earth as I waited and waited for J to come back with our man.

Of course, all I could do was text my then-boyfriend, who lived in Chicago, things like “AHHHHHH!!!! OH MY GOD. I AM STARING AT THE BIGGEST ROACH EVER!!!! THIS IS HORRIBLE!!” His response, of course, was laughing at me, telling me to just smash it and get it overwith, and asking me to take a picture of it first so he could see how big it was.

As I waited, I nervously raised my shaking Blackberry up to take the photo. My hands were getting clammy, but I did something I still regret to this day: I zoomed in. What I saw in that photo was awful. I still remember it. I can see it when I close my eyes. I got the shot, I hit send and I promptly deleted the image. For what it’s worth, my boyfriend was very impressed (not with me, obviously — with the cockroach). Where was help though?! I needed HELP.

Then, I heard J yelling “Tavel! Hang in there! I GOT HELP!”

Best. Sound. Ever.

The roach was still in its spot, hiding underneath the handle of my dresser drawer when in walked Paul, exactly how I remembered him, laughing at us in his wife-beater saying, “Don’t worry girls, I got this, I got this…”

After he entered the apartment, I screamed (again) and ran out of my bedroom saying “THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! YOU ARE MY HERO!!!”

Paul laughed and said “No worries. I brought my smashing shoe!”

Indeed, he was prepared. In one hand, he had a ratty old sneaker. In the other hand, he had a plastic bag and paper towel. His pitbull was nowhere to be found, but he seemed confident and manly, and I was grateful.

Paul came into my bedroom, asked me where the roach was, and I pointed with disgust to where it had perched itself. It was like a Great Dane that thought it was a mini-poodle, hiding itself behind a pillow a tenth its size.

“Holy shit, that’s a big one!” Paul said, as he approached the danger zone. Something inside me felt validated by this.

As J and I squirmed, giggled, screamed, jumped around, covered our eyes and mouths, trembling in the other room, we heard the sounds of victory: Whack! WHACK WHACK WHACK!!!!!

I screamed one more time, laughing with J at the ridiculousness of our situation. Then I asked, nervously: “DID YOU GET IT?”

To my relief, Paul yelled back from the other room, “OH yeah, I got it! DAMN that thing was big.” Before he walked out, he said “Do NOT go in there yet…”

He walked into the kitchen, where we were hiding, with his smashing-shoe in hand and said, “Uh, do you have any paper towels and some cleaning spray?” I jumped out with the paper towels and some Fantastic (the bottle spoke for me) and began to thank Paul profusely. My biggest concern now was what might be left behind of the cucaracha. Luckily, Paul — in all his exterior hardness, or exoskeleton of toughness, shall we say? — had the sense to clean it all up afterwards. He was quite the gentleman, afterall.

We couldn’t stop laughing and tried to thank Paul the Puerto Rican Roach-Killer as much as we could. To this day, I’m not sure if he knows how much he saved us. Not only did he kill the roach, but he then proceeded to clean it up until my dresser was absolutely spotless leaving behind no remnant of the crime scene. To add to his awesomeness, Paul threw out all the dirty paper towels, put them in our garbage can, and insisted on taking the garbage down for us so that we didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of any part of this slaughter.

Paul, wherever you are, you are a SAINT. THANK YOU.

In retrospect, our response to the giant roach encounter, and the options to which we resorted, was all completely over-the-top. But between J’s quick-thinking and resourcefulness, my ability to stare my fear in the eyes, and the serendipity of having a guy who owns what he calls a “smashing shoe” right downstairs, we were saved and spared the indignity of killing and cleaning up this roach’s remains ourselves. Sure, Paul got a kick out of the whole thing, and maybe we got to make him feel like a man, but he really was our hero. I like to think that I could man-up in this sort of situation (and I know I can), but sometimes, it’s just nice to have someone else man-up for you. I can deal with almost everything EXCEPT roaches — let me just make that clear.

Later that week, I baked Paul cookies to thank him for his good-neighborlyness. Luckily, we never had another roach encounter. I didn’t see much of Paul after that, but I did hear the music blasting downstairs in his apartment. Every time I came home, just knowing he was right downstairs with his smashing-shoe was enough.

All I can do now is wait for the next horrifying roach-encounter. But next time, I’ll be prepared; not only will I make sure to keep roach spray on-hand, but I will also scope out the neighbors in every apartment I live in, just to make sure I know whose door I can knock on in the case of another roach emergency.

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January 28, 2012

Bull in a Classroom

A new semester has begun.

You know when those horses bust out of their gates at the beginning of a race, the jockeys whipping them with a crop, screaming and kicking as the horses’ legs spring from the dirt like it’s lava they don’t want to touch? That’s kind of how I feel (except I am both the horse and the jockey in this case, I think). The gate has flung open and it’s all systems GO now. Back to school for me!

I’ve decided to take on this spring semester like a bull in a bull fight (uhoh, analogy overload?). I want so badly to conquer this semester, to keep my focus on the red cape, to attack it, to charge through it, so I’m going to do everything in my power to make that happen. Sometimes I feel more like a bull in a china shop flailing around trying to control this science thing, breaking lots of dishes along the way instead. But, hey, at least I’m going into the shop as a bull and I’m coming out a bull — no flimsy china can change that.

Bull in my path. Cotopaxi Province, Ecuador.

This whole post-bacc pre-med thing is HARD! (Oh right, I’ve mentioned that about 50 times already — but it’s worth repeating!) I hope to have more control over the material now. Last semester, I learned more than just science; I learned how to be a student all over again — a different kind of student than I had ever needed/wanted to be. Everything I knew — about studying, about what matters in a classroom, about how to do well, about how to be a top student — was all quickly thrown out the window a month or two in. The small class sizes I had experienced my whole life were suddenly replaced with 700-person lecture courses on a subject I knew the least about. Class participation now means nothing. Who you are as a student means nothing. Only numbers count. I am a student ID number, not a person. My grades are computed by a computer. Every test is multiple choice, filled out with #2 pencils in a new class room every test. Until last fall, I had never been in a class with more than 50 people — ever, and usually there were fewer than 25. I use the word “classroom” loosely, as all our biology and chemistry lectures take place in NYU’s largest theater, with the professor on stage, attendance taken by remote control devices called iClickers that we must bring to every class (both to click in and to answer multiple choice questions throughout the lecture, which appear on a spreadsheet for the professor when he/she gets to his/her office), and we have to grab black boards to rest on our laps so that we have a surface upon which to take notes.

Every week, there are at least three quizzes — two of which are online (laced with exasperating technical problems), one of which is during our Chemistry recitations on Friday mornings. You can never sit back and relax. You can never feel on top of the material because this place is like a factory set at a very high pace, and if one link in the sequence hits a snag and slows down, the whole contraption will fail. If you ever want to get ahead, you must teach yourself the material. In fact, most of my studying is trying to teach myself material. I’ve never experienced an academic environment like this, but apparently it is the pre-med way! I’m used to being taught. I’m used to asking questions as I go, having the material explained, learning piece by piece. This is all so different — it’s on YOU to learn. It’s on you to get help. It’s on you to do well, and even you (oh, I mean me) don’t ever feel like you have total control over that part of the equation. But somehow, in this giant system, there is a chance to do well if you can find a way to grab the golden ring while the Merry-Go-Round of science spins you in circles… and I’ve got to go for it.

Galapagos Hawks. Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.

When I began Chem I and Bio I in the fall, I can honestly say that for the first three weeks, I had absolutely no idea what was going on (particularly in biology). It was a horrible, disarming, humbling feeling. The amount of material that was referenced and breezed over because I was “supposed to” know it already (like the rest of the fresh-out-of-AP-Bio-pre-med-freshman surrounding me — the real ones) was beyond my expectations, even though I anticipated it would be this way (but not to the extent that it was!). Taking on my least-studied subject at this level at this age has clearly been an uphill battle from the start, and it took me weeks — even months — to find my footing in this new world of science that I had been dropped into like ET on Earth (without a cute kid feeding me candy), but I think I’ve finally found that footing.

All I can say is that the learning curve has been steep! But, here I am, ready to take everything I’ve learned — both about science and about being this new, different kind of student that I have to be in order to succeed in this foreign pre-med world — and apply it to this new semester. Such is life, no?

The look of determination.... on a giant tortoise in the Galapagos Islands.

Every week, when I leave the spinal injury rehab and brain trauma rehab centers of my hospital volunteer job, after working with brand new paraplegics who are learning things as basic as how to get back into their wheelchair if they fall out, and brain trauma patients with staples across their entire scalp whose toughest question every morning is what is their own name, I am reminded of how much I want to do this, of how much I want to learn the skills to be able to help these people, and of how much learning is still (always) ahead.

For now, I’m just happy to have something red to charge towards.

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January 22, 2012

A Brief Tour of Cairo

Time to reveal the Mystery Snapshot! But first, I want to quickly say THANK YOU to the past four weeks. My staycation has come to its inevitable end, and tomorrow I head back to school for more NYU pre-med intensity. It’s been a pleasure having a social life again, but farewell dear friends… Back into the study cave I go. (Although, I am determined to have a little more control over this semester — both academically and socially, so we’ll see how it pans out.)

Alright…

The Mystery Snapshot was taken outside of Hatshepsut’s Temple, built just outside the Valley of the Kings (Cairo, Egypt). Andy, you are the official Mystery Snapshot winner. Good job! Egypt is one of those places I’ve been wanting to visit for years. Some day, I will actually get over there. For now, I’ve got this post.

Below, guest contributor, Raechel H. explains more about Hatshepsut’s Temple and about Cairo itself. (Enjoy!)

Guest Contributor Raechel H. w Sphinx and Pyramids in Egypt.

By Raechel H:

Random fact about Hatshepsut: She was the longest-reigning female ruler in Ancient Egyptian history.  She ruled for 22 years, when she took over for her husband.  Basically, her son, Tuthmosis III was supposed to take over, but Hatshepsut declared that he was too young to assume the throne. Instead, she sent him to military school abroad, and ruled herself.  Eventually, Tuthmosis III came back, took over, and then tried to erase Hatshepsut from Egyptian history.  She built tons of temples, obelisks, and other monuments to the gods, and Tuthmosis tried to destroy all of them – thankfully he did not succeed.

What’s really cool (in my opinion) is that for the longest time it was believed that Hatshepsut’s mummy was missing.  Turns out, they found the mummy of Hatshepsut’s favorite nurse in her tomb, and found a tooth in some kind of box. A few years ago, they x-rayed the box, and the tooth fit PERFECTLY in another mummy that was already in the Egyptian museum in Cairo!  So they had Hatshepsut’s mummy all along!

Foreground: courtyard of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo (symbol of ancient Egypt). Background: Mubarak's National Democratic Party HQ, a symbol of Egyptian modernity

EGYPT:
Egypt is a place I’ve wanted to visit since I was a kid, and especially during the past year (which is no surprise to the people that know me, I’m sure).  Egypt provides a fascinating juxtaposition of ancient and modern culture, in the cross-world between sub-Saharan Africa and the rest of the Middle East.

Pyramids. Cairo, Egypt. Photo by RH.

Cairo itself is an enigma of sorts; it is absolutely overflowing with people (approximately 18 million officially, but more likely close to 21 million residents), and every one of them seems to have a car. All of that on top of ancient aquaducts, pyramids at the city limits (you can see the Cairo skyline from Giza), ancient markets, and the Citadel.  Traffic in Cairo is like nothing I’ve ever experienced — absolute gridlock at all times of day, with the exception of Friday mornings when everyone is at prayer or at home.

Cairo graffiti outside voting site for Parliamentary elections. Photo by RH.

During the Revolution, I didn’t understand why my friends who live in Cairo were making such a big deal about no one being on the roads, about it being completely shut down – but now I certainly do.  The traffic itself is absolutely fascinating. Cairo drivers get into this rhythm where they’re able to find every hole in every lane as they progress down a highway or main thoroughfare, and that’s how they progress from point A to point B.  Lane lines, when present, are merely suggestions – not absolute.  And most times, you’ll see at least one car, truck, or motorbike driving the opposite direction from the rest of the traffic.  As multiple Egyptians told me, this is “democracy in action – you can drive whichever way you like. If people don’t like it, they can have another revolution!”  Crazy to hear members of the Egyptian military joke about this, but it’s a good sign that people are proud of what they’ve accomplished.

Solar boat, discovered in the 1980s. It was found buried in The Great Pyramid. Its purpose was to transport the Pharoah to the afterlife (in particular, to the Sun God, Ra). Photo by RH.

I was fortunate enough to be there during the Parliamentary elections – seeing lines of men and women at the polls was pretty inspiring.  I was able to hit up the Khan el-Khalili (the famous market), wandering around the Ali Muhammad mosque and the Citadel, meandering through Islamic Cairo, trying out fantastic restaurants, and walking through Tahrir Square (although we were discouraged to do so).

Temple of Hatshepsut. Photo by RH.

Obelisk built by Hatshepsut, which Tuthmosis III tried to destroy by essentially covering it up. Ironically, this just preserved the obelisk, leaving much of the original details visible. Photo by RH.

During my trip, I was able to check out Luxor. I left as Cairo started to get crazy again (there was a sit-in at Parliament that led to clashes between different sides), which was probably good timing.  Luxor is the complete opposite of Cairo: it’s pretty tiny, there are only a few hotels where tourists stay, and you absolutely have to take a cab to get from point A to point B.  Luxor is more restrictive than Cairo in that sense – in Cairo we could walk around a lot more (mainly because there were things close by, in Luxor that’s not really the case).  Since I was solo, I hired a guide and a driver (a friend of mine connected me with a good company), and saw Karnak and Luxor temples before exploring the Valley of the Kings and Colossi of Memnon.

Cartouche for Ramses II, the longest ruler of Ancient Egypt (this particular cartouche is engraved all over Karnak Temple in Luxor). Photo by RH.

The guide and I talked about a lot of things — the revolution in Egypt, Occupy Wall Street, the impact of everything on Egyptian tourism (tourism has obviously taken a major hit, which is problematic), the efforts that the government is making to regulate and organize things a bit more (to try and give licenses so folks can set up stalls to sell things outside of tourist areas rather than letting various people bombard tourists who are trying to enjoy what they’re seeing), and Luxor itself. After everything we discussed, I left with a bit of hope that maybe Egypt, post-election, can go back to a semi-normal state.

Mosque built at what was street level before they discovered the Luxor Temple. The mosque is still a functioning prayer site. Photo by RH.

Additions to Luxor Temple made by Alexander the Great. Photo by RH.

I definitely need to go back and see more – there are tons of sites in Luxor that I was not able to explore, and I did not make it down to Aswan or along the southern border (which I’ve been told is pretty amazing).  Hopefully, I’ll be able to make that happen soon – and I’m always looking for someone to travel with me if anyone is interested!

Luxor Temple, Egypt.

Egyptian Sunset. Photo by RH.

Raechel lives and works in Washington, DC; Raechel and Tavel met while Raechel was conducting a Fulbright Fellowship in Brussels, Belgium.  While Egypt was phenomenal, Raechel’s favorite place to travel is Rome, where she spent a year abroad. She hopes to continue to cross countries and continents off her bucket list, and will head to Costa Rica this Summer with her family.

So there ya have it – Egypt. THANK YOU Raechel for contributing to TwT!

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