Olentzero en los pueblos fuera de Pamplona

On Christmas Eve, Elliot and I were able to participate in a traditional Basque holiday event: the annual arrival of the Olentzero.

While the history of this figure goes back a long way, the more contemporary story of the Olentzero makes him out to be a portly, friendly, and modestly dressed charcoal burner who brings treats and gifts to children on the night before Christmas.

Cities and small towns alike throughout the Basque region of Spain carry out their own celebration of the Olentzero. These events usually involve people in traditional dress, candy, roasted chestnuts, as well as flute and drum playing.

With a friend, we ventured out to Pamplona's country side and participated in a multi-vehicle caravan that visited several pueblitos delivering treats and singing traditional songs.

Our first task was to get a fire going in the charcoal oven.

The Olentzero cottage, where the chestnut-roasting oven would be transported on the back of a pick-up

A better look inside the cottage

Scenic shot of a house and the setting sun

In the first pueblo, I recorded a video of the Olentzero who makes his first appearance coming down from the mountain, as it is told in many stories. Note his charcoal-covered face...very authentic, eh?

Each stop on the Olentzero's route was exciting because you greeted a new crowd of people offering you Patxaran, wine, and cookies -- as well as several children dressed in traditional garb, eager to meet the Olentzero and warm their hands with roasted chestnuts.

We returned to central Pamplona just in time to see the Olentzero celebration in the old part, which was very distinct from the more personal tradition in which we had just participated. This was more of a parade through the old part of the city, with live animals, lots of music, and a shit ton more people. All pretty much right outside our front door.

The banners read something like "Bring our oppressed and exiled back" and they refer to the
Basque people that have been imprisoned for terrorism in parts unknown to their family or friends.

A holiday celebration unlike any other I've seen. In this part of the world, it seems strange to stay inside, even when it's cold.

Just wait 'til New Year's. Shit gets crazy.

Since when do you eat meat?

Only a few days into our stay here in Pamplona, Elliot and I were bar-hopping during the siesta, drinking some beers and munching on some pintxos. After we ordered our second round of cured ham with green pepper, Elliot turned to me and said:

"So I guess we're not vegetarians anymore."

Fresh chicken legs from the carnicería ecológica (organic butcher) in an indoor market in Pamplona

Now, that's not to say we didn't eat meat occasionally before we came to Spain. Carnivorous consumption had been steadily increasing, however. And it became almost second-nature within 48 hours of being in Spain.

We've known for a while that our minds were changing. Not because vegan or vegetarian lifestyles are baseless, but because our reasons for leading such lifestyles were baseless. And it sure didn't help that a huge part of Navarran cuisine is pork.

Red bell peppers stuffed with brown rice, chorizo, onion, garlic; steamed borrajas and potatoes on the side

For several years, I followed a pretty strict anti-meat diet. I wanted humane animal treatment and less waste. At the time, with a limited scope of knowledge, I chose soy over flesh, or nuts over dairy as a way of saying that I was unsatisfied with animal products and the consumption of them.

Then I started becoming more preoccupied about food origins, regional agriculture, native species, and local communities. These concerns all led me to start consuming more meat, whether it was the very rare chicken dinner at White Dog Cafe, or the frequent hamburger from my parents' cow-share supply of red meat.

I'm not trying to lay my food politics down on the table for debate, but rather I'm trying to paint a picture. Believe it or not, giving up a vegetarian diet was harder than trying to follow one. When avoiding animal products was my only principle, approaching the "should I eat it?" question wasn't very hard. Widening my diet to include animal products made that question more difficult to answer at times. Maybe that's why a lot of people either go veggie or stop questioning.

Chicken curry with cauliflower, peas, peppers, garlic, and onion, over rice

Living in the US, this question came up every day. "Should I eat this?" And due to the previously mentioned concerns, as well as my own tendency to investigate, I researched US food production pretty heavily. This wasn't that difficult, mainly because of the resurgence of locavore movements that criticize the huge industry that is American food production. Various scholarly articles, movies, zines, books, and magazines exist to discuss US food politics, as well as how to circumvent the industry giants that dominate both knowledge and production.

Ever since we arrived in Pamplona, I've had my eye on food -- wondering where it came from, why it's there, how it was grown, etc. I was googling anything I could think of, in any language I could speak, that might lead me to that pivotal piece of literature that tells me everything that is wrong with Spanish food production.

Roasted chicken with seasoned rice and broccoli

And I have to say, I've had no luck. I cracked several books that looked promising at first, but then just went on to say how backwards the US is concerning GMO use or industrial meat production. I'm hesitant to give up my pessimistic search, but I might just have to accept that food production here is not like it is at home.

Some might even say I'm in the best region of Spain, as far as the region's gastronomy goes. The autonomous community of Navarra has three main elements that contribute to this reputation: the mountain, the river, and the plains. Much like parts of northern California, the varying landscapes of Navarra make it known for its food and drink -- mainly pork, cheese, wine, cider, and vegetables -- all grown/produced within approximately 4,000 square miles!

So no, we're not vegetarians anymore. And I don't think this really matters. I'm still not going to eat a McDonald's hamburger, even though I really would like to. And I'm still going to drink almond milk, because I think it tastes way better than cow's milk.

Ultimately, I'm learning to use the resources that are around me at any given time.

Broete de San Fermin: soup-style dish with chorizo, cured ham, green beans, cauliflower,
lettuce, carrots, and garlic, topped with a fried egg

Yes, all those pictures are meals Elliot and I cooked and ate. Yes, they were delicious.

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plains

On this rainy day, which will be among several rainy days this week, I'm not thinking about My Fair Lady, but rather something I just realized I miss.

After a wet bike ride this morning, I came back to the apartment really craving a pale ale.

A bitter,

grassy,

frothy,

golden,

PALE ALE.

As many of you may already know, however, this country is not really known for its beers, but rather its wines. So the closest I can get to a PPA, is some kind of imported Belgian triple-ale. Sure it's high-gravity, but it just ain't the crisp and skunky I'm used to.

More like the beer in Spain stays mainly away from my brain...or something.

Fotos & Haircuts

Maybe I've mentioned this before, but I have trouble taking pictures.

I'm not a photographer. I rely on automatic focus and pre-set settings.
The digital camera I own now is my first in almost five years.
I have a lot of camera-talented friends, which can make me photography-shy.
Taking pictures makes me look like a tourist, and I'd hate to break character.

But I do get excited about the small things here, and I do want to take pictures of them. Things like the creamy head on a glass of Mahou from the tap, or cured ham legs hanging from every ceiling.

Even the things I can see in the US -- like children in church-going clothes or kittens playing with full-grown dogs -- I want to take pictures of them because now they're in Spain!

Gradually, I will overcome this. Because, gradually, I will feel less and less like a tourist.

I have a few photos, though, that I snapped quickly when no one was looking.

Calle de Chapitela, as it intersects with la Plaza del Castillo in the center of Pamplona.

A view of the plaza mentioned in the caption above. This location is totally bustlin' between about
7 and 8pm (i.e. after people leave work but before they go out for dinner).

Elliot, chattin' it up on the cheapest cell phone Spain would allow with a
prospective English student.

Elliot, sellin' his talents on Carlos III, earning an average of $15 per hour.
The little cardboard sign in his guitar case pleads "Thank you for your help."

Four trash/recycing containers, often found at busy intersections. The two on the left are for
"organic materials" and other trash, while the blue and yellow on the right are for paper materials,
and cans or bottles, respectively. 

Homemade pintxos, by Elliot L.Swauger. From left to right: goat cheese with jamón iberico
(Spanish cured ham) and roasted reds, the same except replace roasted reds with honey,
scrambled eggs with red and green pepper, and goat cheese with both chorizo dulce and
picante (sweet and spicy pork sausage).

In addition to my anxiety surrounding camera use, I've also been pretty hesitant about carrying out exchanges with people in businesses. Suddenly, something like buying cheese becomes a panic attack because I can't remember whether there are 2 pounds in a kilo or vice versa (it's the former) and thus can't decide how much manchego I should order at the cheese counter.

So, I figured I'd never get a haircut. Let my hair grow long, you know because I haven't in a while. Yeah that's it, I want my hair to be long, necessitate more shampoo, and require tools like a comb or a brush to maintain it.

Then we started setting up meetings with prospective English students, who seem to mostly be middle-aged women, and I started getting insecure about my appearance. My hair isn't super straight and flat, or thick and curly. It's worse -- it fluctuates (unpredictably) between kinda wavy and not-so-wavy. I started worrying that my blah hair would drive people away. Plus I don't have a comb.

So I set out to find a walk-in friendly peluquería that would satisfy my haircut impulse. While the story is one of success, I must admit it was...peculiar.

As I walked in, the first thing I asked the young gentleman who greeted me was, "Do I need an appointment?" As soon as I heard "no" I joined the five old ladies in the waiting area. Before going in, I was hoping to find a picture in a magazine or something so that I wouldn't have to scrounge up non-existent vocab in my brain for describing the hairstyle I had in mind. 

I grabbed a magazine and stood around browsing celebrity hair pics, until one of the old ladies started telling me a story. I'm not sure what it was about, but I know it was a story because her tone was affirmative, rather than inquisitive. Grateful that she was not expecting a real response, I just shook my head up and down and smiled when she finished. She seemed content with that reaction, as was I.

Finally, another young gentleman came over and said I could join the ready-to-wash club over at the sinks. I asked if I could bring my magazine, in which I found a decent hairstyle, and he said of course. So then I was sitting in a row with some other old ladies. One nudged me and asked me if it was raining outside, and I looked and shook my head saying, "I think it's just cloudy." She agreed and went back to her magazine. I started to wish that I could go to the pelu everyday without paying money, or even getting a haircut, just to chat with these old ladies. Not that I find them particularly interesting, or even that I can understand most of what they say, but it seems like a place where people just start talking to one another because they've been waiting so long.

Then it was my turn to have my hair washed, and boy did I get more than that. I'm not sure if this is commonplace in Spain, but the hair-wash that I got in Pamplona was more like a head-wash. Foamy lather was down my neck and in my ears. Afterward, the guy wrapped my head in a thin towel, and my earrings dripped on my collar while I waited for my stylist.

She was cute and short, with a Monroe piercing and a baby bump. When she asked what I wanted, I pointed to the picture I'd been clutching for an hour and she rattled off what she was going to do, pointing to different parts of my head, and I just said yes to everything. We were getting along fine until she asked me a question, gesturing to the razor scissors she was using to trim my sideburns. Now, I thought, she's either asking me whether she's hurting me or whether I've used that tool before. It was so obviously the former, but instead I just laughed nervously, saying I didn't understand. She laughed, too, asking the question again slowly. "No, it's not hurting me," I said, embarrassed.

So then she had to ask where I was from. I explained that I had just moved here from the US, and although I did know Spanish, I wasn't too familiar with terms related to haircuts or hairstyles. She understood. After that, she spoke in slow, simple sentences, which was helpful but also reminded me of my blunders. While cutting my hair, she also noted my remolinos (cowlicks), and I explained what we call them in English and why. She thought that was funny.

Although I entered the salon with caution, I left feeling pretty good. My stylist was very nice, and she did a great job. I certainly wasn't afraid to take this picture.

So I'm conquering my Spanish anxieties one by one. They tell you traveling is all about leaving your comfort zone. While I think that is true, I also think, for me especially, it is about humility. I'm the weirdo, here. I make the mistakes. I don't belong. I bring unwanted attention to myself every time I open my mouth. But I'm getting used to it.

Transmitimos de Pamplona a los Estados Unidos

Broadcasting from Pamplona, Spain to the United States...

We've arrived. Oh, have we ever!

Finishing up our first week in a foreign land, I have these major updates:

1. We have a place to live! We've been staying with Elliot's roommates (circa 2008) in an apartment in a neighborhood called Ensanche, off of the main drag Carlos III Avenue. Although they are great guys -- very welcoming and funny -- we are branching out. We came here to live Spanish lives, and that we will once we move into an apartment with our new friend via the interweb, Victor! He lives on the very top floor of an old five-story building divided into 10 apartments or so; and it is situated almost exactly in the center of the city -- right in front of City Hall. The rent for our room is cheap, Victor is muy majo (very cool) and he's got a puppy named Punset!

Our approximate view of el ayuntamiento (City Hall) from the front door
of the apartment building via viajeteca.com

2. We have contact with our first student! A couple days ago, Elliot and I taped flyers onto various poles, abandoned storefronts, and bulletin boards to advertise our English-teaching services. We had our first bite last night when a guy emailed us looking for more information. Elliot and he are currently attempting to arrange a first consultation. How exciting! Besides this, Elliot has been earning euros on the street as a professional minstrel, playing tunes by Neil Young, Bobby D, and Steve Miller Band.

A scan of our flyer for English teaching -- yeah I wish I had a photo of Elliot busking, too. 

3. We have bicicletas! Having a bicycle really opens the world up, especially when you're new to a city. I learned every nook and cranny of Philadelphia via bici and I intend to do the same in Pamplona. Elliot scored a vintage steel road bike equipped with Shimano 105, and I invested in an aluminum-frame hybrid with fenders, a rack, and a dynamo front hub. The guys who own the store are two basque brothers; they were very friendly, and just kept giving us discounts as we bought more things. Makes me miss working in a bike store.

Elliot's sweet ride leaning up against the clothes-drying rack. Take note of the sweet colors.

La bici mía -- still tryna name her, let me know if you think of a good one.

4. Elliot and I are still in love! Even after the stress of not living in our own space for the past 4 months, traveling nearly 24 hours straight, having practically zero friends in the city to which we moved, and spending more money than we've made, we've stuck it out. We aren't the kind to shout from the mountaintops, but this was a big step in both our lives and our relationship and I think it serves to say that we're good at being together.


Now for some not-so-important updates, but still fun-to-hear-about facts...

The best thing I've eaten thus far: 
I will divide this category into two sub-topics -- sweet and savory. The best sweet dish I've had, and will continue to seek out, was what the Spanish call a bomba. It is basically two halves of a bun, sprinkled in powdered sugar, with a rich, delectable, whipped cream stuffed between them. Fuckin' outta this world bomba! Goes great with beer.

Better than donuts for sure via amarenas.blogspot.com

The best savory dish I've had was a pintxo -- most of Spain would consider this kind of dish a tapa, but the basque country calls them pintxos -- an appetizer-like plate that usually contains a baguette slice topped with cheese, ham, calimari, egg, salad, etc. A few days ago I tried a pintxo with pancetta (Spanish bacon) and melted brie cheese. Also goes great with beer.

Un bar de pintxos via visitalltheworld.com

The worst thing I've eaten thus far:
Plain and simple -- Spain's version of delivery pizza blows. Elliot and I happened to stop by a Telepizza on a Tuesday night (when they have half-off specials) and even then it was barely worth it for a medium four-cheese pie.

The good news is they're hiring -- so Telepizza is plan B.

How Elliot and I have been passing the time:
We usually have a lot of down time before and after the siesta, which occurs from about 2 to 5 pm. Before the siesta, we probably make some breakfast, hang up some flyers, go for a walk, or watch a little Spanish cable TV. And after the siesta, I'll try my hand at being a writer-for-pay (i.e. writing and submitting drafts to various travel websites) while Elliot busks on a busy street for a couple hours. Keep in mind, this is not how all Spaniards live. Right now, we are just bums trying to find work. But I must say that the siesta allows for much relaxation, as most businesses close their doors during that time of day.

The most embarrassing thing I've done:
The other day I was shopping around for a few things, including a charger for rechargeable batteries. The background for this search involves my camera that requires AA batteries, and me not wanting to buy and throw away batteries all the time. So, I enter an electronics store, looking for this cargador (charger). I notice that they are behind the register, so I explain to the cashier what I need.

"Busco un cagador para pilas."

Translation: I'm looking for a shitter for batteries.

You see, I meant cargador but instead I said cagador so I got a weird look before I corrected myself and proceeded to buy the charger (which was way cheaper than the first place I stopped, so it was still a positive interaction for me).

Something I'm still getting used to:
The double cheek kiss! You've seen it in movies I'm sure. And I usually know it's coming. But some people don't do it upon first meeting, for whatever reason. So when I shake someone's hand, I lean in slightly, awkwardly, and wait until they do the same. And even if they do, I am still surprised. I hope I'm not giving anyone a bad impression. It's just something I'm not good at.

Non-human things I miss:
Along with ginger ale, hamburgers, my (other) bikes, and carrying around more bills than coins, I also miss a little puppy named Pedro! Not to say my parents' other dog Amos or my cat Abby don't matter as much, but I'm constantly reminded of Pedro. What with his latin-influenced name and his likeness to the donkey in the Shrek movies (which I've been watching -- in Spanish).

Like Pedro, the donkey has a long body, floppy ears, and just loves too much.

To remind you readers, I'm hoping to use this blog as both a travel journal, and as a log for loved ones to keep track of our expedition. While I hope to update with posts about differences between Spain and the US, comments concerning the European crisis, or discoveries as an English teacher abroad, I also welcome friends and family to use this blog as a venue for your own questions about the Pamplona, Spain, the trip, our experiences, whatever. Even though I'd love to sit down and Skype with every one of you, our busy lives may not allow us that chance. So ask away!

Adverse advances

Recently, I made a second wave of major technological purchases.

The first consisted of 1990's essentials: a laptop and a camera (both previously owned).

This last wave finally brought me into the 21st century -- at the very least to 2009: an iPod touch and a Kindle.

I bought all of these products with the intention of benefitting fully from them throughout my travels. They'll help me better communicate with friends and family, as well as condense the media I carry with me (books, music, movies, games, etc).

The extent to which these things make others obsolete, however, has left me with some interesting thoughts. And not just me, but the rest of the modern world. We're literally killing certain mediums in favor of their digital alternatives.

The Kindle caused me the most soul-searching. When I first heard of the "e-reader" I considered it incredibly excessive. Books aren't bulky, especially because I don't intend on lugging 3,000 of them around with me. Plus, I told myself, I really love the feel of a book.

I like flipping through the chapters, gripping the spine, dog-earring the corners, and smelling the pages. Why would I want to give up a true experience like reading a book? And for a product that alone costs nearly a hundred bucks?

Then I did. Rather, I didn't give up the experience, but I did buy the Kindle for a hundred bucks. Plus accessories. Now I can carry 3,000 books with me (although it will probably be closer to 30) and not weigh down my suitcase.

Moving on, researching these products really brought to light the issue I mentioned earlier: these things are designed to make other things unnecessary.

Music, for example, has gone through a few stages of consumption. Vinyl records were replaced by tapes and CDs, which were then obliterated by mp3 files. 

E-readers like the Kindle or the Nook are marketed as eco-friendly tools, saving paper and consumers' money, while they also make books, magazines, and newspapers seem less convenient. (Hell, the Internet has been devastating paper media for decades.)

I have access to probably thousands of pictures documenting my life -- more than my parents or grandparents could dream of -- and yet so few of them are on my wall, or in my wallet.

It seems like my life is really going to change -- and not because of my travels but because of incredibly transformational technology. The way we access and distribute information and media is so vastly different from 10 years ago, let alone 100 years ago. 

And yet, some changes are making me think we're moving backward. I was listening to the radio today (yes, the radio) and they were discussing, well, the radio.

One topic: With satellite radio systems, Pandora or Spotify, and mp3 players, what is the fate of local radio stations?

One panelist offered: The radio is a great place to showcase local bands.

I stopped. The radio...a venue for showcasing local bands?! A novel idea. Straight outta 2011.

Have we really gone full circle?

When I was comparing e-readers on the Internet, I read certain users' speculations on the fate of the physical book: Books will become collectable vintage luxury items, as vinyl records have. They'll increase in value. 

And to think, books were luxury items a century ago. To have a library was to be wealthy, educated, and cultured. 

Vinyl records have become huge obsessions for many young people. My dad was infinitely confused as to why contemporary bands would want to release their music on vinyl. Ask any vinyl wiener about their collection and they'll probably tell you all about the superior sound.

Even when I look at towns -- like my own Greensburg, PA -- I feel like we've gone backward. Downtown used to be bustling with department stores, specialized shops, and shoppers. And now, that scene has moved approximately 3 miles down the highway, where you have to drive to get there. It's not called downtown, however; it's called a shopping plaza.

It's as if when suburbs started developing, the developers thought: Hey, wouldn't it be great to have sort of a central hub where people can go to run errands, grab a bite, or socialize? 

No kidding! Main Street USA, man! You can even grow vegetables in your own goddamn backyard! Did you know that?

Do we do go backward because we feel sentimental about older systems, older technologies? Do we do this because the past is truly superior? 

I can't tell whether my 50th birthday will be celebrated on a farm, or in fuckin' outer space. Will I be driving a hovercraft or still riding a bike? 

Most likely, following the current pattern, I'll be riding a bike on board a hovercraft.

Where do nice people live?

When we travel, we tend to meet people that are welcoming, generous, and helpful. I found all of these attributes throughout the past week.

Veggies, old world spirits, and southern hospitality in North Carolina's triangle.
Abundant herb, loud music, and slices of pizza in post-move Philadelphia.

You hear it all the time: Everyone was so nice. They all seem so glad you're there.

Then you go home, where no one cares. Sure, my parents were glad to see me, but the majority of Greensburg's population is indifferent.

And that's because I live here. I'm no visitor, no special guest, no sight for sore eyes. If anything, I'm the annoyingly androgynous youth on a bicycle, riding in the middle of a lane; or the hippie at the bank.

Of course, I'm not particularly thrilled to see most of the people in Greensburg either. The bike shops are barren and uncomfortable; the bars host too many former high school classmates; and the grocery stores have a weak selection of cheese.

Drinks enjoyed whole-heartedly with sour puss Joe McFadden in Pittsboro, NC.

I remember telling myself, before I left Philly, that I would appreciate the calmer environment here in southwestern PA, where it's quiet, laid-back, and more scenic.

The city seemed so anonymous//heartless//mean.

This is also a stereotype of the east coast; or rather, more specifically, the tri-state area including Philly, NYC, and New Jersey. Compared to the west coast, we're more cynical, less polite, and generally ugly.

So I left. And not to San Fran or LA, but to the once-thriving-but-now-sort-of-sleeping town called Greensburg. It's easy to say that people are nicer here, mostly because I don't really have to see anybody. Living without a job or a large social network enables me, at times, to see more dogs than humans.

But really, they're all the same. And when I go to other cities -- on either coast -- I meet more lonely, apathetic souls. Does that mean they're not nice? I guess not. It does mean that they're less likely to smile at a stranger, or engage in conversation. As am I.

Philly, as awful and unhealthy as it is, has a soft spot in my heart. Now, when I hear some goof laugh and gurgle about how much they love their professor, or talk animatedly about a poetry reading, I think about how much I miss my Philly. Conflict, man -- it makes me want to slap that goof across the face just to see what happens.

So where do the nice people live? And is it worth it to find them? You tell me.

Packin' up, gettin' rid of stuff - Pt. 2

Although it felt really good to see the clean, empty house in Philadelphia, I still had to confront all of the shit I owned when I returned to my parent's house in Greensburg.

It's great, though, because my dad is a lot like me when it comes to throwing things away (or I guess I should say keeping things). As I was going through my tools, for example, I would find odd nuts, bolts, hooks, and screws.

I would ask, "What is this? Could you use this?"

And he would say, "Well, I don't know. But I'll take it."

So I feel better because I didn't have to throw it away; and he will feel better in the event that he actually uses the thing that he took.

I went through a second filtering process that allowed me to purge some more belongings that I don't need; and simultaneously another sorting process that forced me to decide what I might want to see or touch in the next year or so, and what I have to forget for a while.

It's very strange to plan for spontaneity. Strategically packing boxes and suitcases so that I can come and go, quickly and easily. Suddenly, decks of playing cards, bottle openers, and sturdy socks have become very essential.

Of course, I can still hoard. Finding spaces in drawers and cupboards at my parents' house is easy. But I keep seemingly useless things because I'm sentimental about them; I like to look at them.

So, inevitably, I'm giving stuff up. For a little while.

Art work from friends and family, bric-a-brac from my yellow bookcase, my yellow bookcase, a great glass carboy for wine-making, ceramic teapots, and a lot of books & movies I never want to revisit now but I certainly will when they're 3000 miles away.

This kind of planning doesn't really leave a lot of room for a home, which supposedly has all these things that I'm packing away. While I know there will be times when I'm grateful for living out of only a couple suitcases and a backpack, I'm sure there will be other times when I feel like a lonely ex-patriate.

(For those of you who read ex-pirate, please remember and write down your first image upon finishing that sentence)

Change is a given. My parent's house doesn't look at all like where I grew up. My neighborhood in Philly will have transformed a few times in the next 10 years. And my suitcases will probably evolve, too.


3712 Brandywine by Ashley Hayes (the Aussie couchsurfer)


PS. I hope y'all don't think I'm materialistic because I talk more about the stuff I have than the people I know. I'm not getting rid of anyone -- at least not on purpose. So you'll all get your weepy goodbye eventually, especially if you buy me enough beers.

Tales from Manayunk

... or Manayunk puts the "hilly" in "Philly"
... or A fuckin' good day
... or Delayed update post


Whatever you'd like to call this post, it's about to get real.

August 7: Friends came over to celebrate leaving our house, as well as take some of our shit. To those of you who stopped by to bid your farewell and swipe a few things, I thank you. It was a delight.

August 10-11: Father and younger brother arrive to help us move out of 3712 Brandywine -- which proved to be an awful task. We were able to donate a lot of furniture, clothing, and housewares to AIDS Thrift and residents on our block. I am most grateful to the family down the street who took the organ. The curse has now been passed.

August 12-14: Elliot and I spent the weekend in Wheeling, WV with his parents to enjoy three days of their annual BluesFest. I can now say I've experienced 27 cumulative hours of the blues, as well as some new thoughts about age, race, and gender. I also got a straw hat and a sweet wrist bracelet tan line.

August 15: Elliot and I hightail it back to Philly around midnight, approximately 1.5 hours after the last Blues Fest band to beat the garbage truck so we could finally get rid of this busted and moldy futon in our basement. That was five hours of too much coffee, Gardettos, and lots of music to which we could sing along (The Killers, RATM, Silversun Pickups, etc). We successfully stayed awake to finish cleaning the house and leave for good.

August 16-19: The worst first week we could have had for our longer commute from Yunktown. Torrential downpour, but only when we were outside! Anyway, it was fun to bike together, soaking wet and singing made up songs about the weather. Like this one...

It's fuh-king -- ray-ning
It's fuh-king -- ray-ning
It's fucking ----- raining
It's fucking ----- raining


But all of that hubbub finally brought me to TODAY! One of the best days I've had in weeks, and I was all alone. First, I woke up at 11:30. And not because I went to bed at 3, but rather because I needed 12 hours of sleep.

Then I researched some key locations to visit in Yunkersville.

Map of Yunkshire; come visit sometime.

I went to the Chop Shop, a cheap chain salon, because I left my clippers packed up at my parent's house. I appreciated the hair dresser's honesty when she told me, in so many words, that I did a shitty job of cutting my own hair. Now my hair has texture, like a stucco wall or some really coarse sandpaper.

Then I ventured to the Weaver's Way Co-op storefront on Carpenter Lane, where I bought some food and marveled at the intersection where the market was located. A food co-op, "green" dry-cleaner, trendy cafe, and bookstore -- all at the same intersection. This led to a lot of thinking which now leads to a story within a story:

Pennsylvania Ave. in Greensburg, PA via jmd41280

This kind of neighborhood makes me think of Pennsylvania Ave. in Greensburg because of the great assortment of shops. Independent businesses are wonderful not only because you can shake hands with the owners, but also because they demonstrate the needs of an area. I appreciate these kinds of intersections because it sort of illustrates the people who live there.


However, the automobile makes neighborhoods like these accessible for those who don't live there; which can also prevent the development of similar intersections in areas that need them. That's why I had to bike 3 miles to get to Weaver's Way. And why most of the people I saw in these shops were white. Not to say that white people don't live in Mt. Airy, Manayunk, or Roxborough, but these areas also have an equal if not greater black population. Thus these intersections are not so accessible for some. 


And they cater to awful people who talk very loudly and explain to their granddaughters that they want to add red peppers to a recipe "for some color" and make pretentious book suggestions to other customers and shove me aside without saying excuse me. But I won't hold this against the co-op.


This all culminated in my decision to write down what my perfect settling place would include, but that's for another entry -- and possibly even another planet.


After that trip, I did some laundry down the street at a self-serve place called the Wissahickon Washaus. No one was there but some security cameras, and that was fine as I read my book from the library.

Finally bought a six-pack at a pub down the street and made a place on the side porch (a real-live porch!) with some cheese and crackers to write this blog for y'all.

I very much enjoyed my day in Manayunk today. Exploring is great. Still can't believe this whole other world resides in the city I've been living in for four years. Now I know how they fit over five million people in this place.

Philadelphia, man. Dig it.

Packin' up, gettin' rid of stuff - Pt. 1

When I was younger -- maybe seven or eight because I was old enough to take on some chores but too young to really see the point -- I would take a long time to clean my room. Once you couldn't see the floor anymore, my parents would give me the ultimatum: clean it up or we throw it away. Sometimes, to add dramatic effect, my dad would even come in with a large, black garbage bag and start rifling through my stuff. He used this tactic to speed up the process because I would take forever.

Mainly because I spent a lot of time looking at and playing with the things I was supposed to be putting away. I'd start in one corner of the room, find something I hadn't seen in a while, and then make a day of it. Maybe I'd rearrange my dollhouse, put all of my Polly Pockets in a row, or make a new city out of Legos.

When I got older -- maybe twelve or thirteen because I was young enough to still have to clean my room but too old to have many toys -- my procrastination was fueled by long-lost diary entries or old stories that I had to revisit and reflect upon. This would usually turn into me pulling more things out of the depths of my closet, rather than putting them away.

Thus, packing up my 22-year-old life proves no different. Plus I'm a pack-rat. So I still have those diaries and short stories. Only now they sit under new short stories,

poems,
research papers,
newspaper articles,
letters,
ticket stubs,
fortune cookie fortunes,
old cell phones,
class notes,
birthday cards,
pictures,
and even old, empty packets of birth control pills.

I like to think that everything has a memory attached to it. But most of this shit has just become something that invokes the same memory: "Oh, that happened."

So I'm trying to force myself to have higher standards regarding what I choose to keep. I'm also trying to let myself just have memories instead of evidence.

There are still going to be a lot of unnecessary things that I pack up and take with me when I leave Philly. But the number of boxes is getting smaller.

And looking at things while I pack them up is still fun. Here are some past-life pictures for y'all to enjoy:

That's me in 5th grade, eating my government-provided lunch. To my right is my best friend from elementary and middle school. She died last October; so I mourn moments like this.

That's me in 7th grade. Playin' ball.

I'm the 16-year-old sitting on the ground to the left. This was my first time ever on any coast -- Wildwood, NJ. We were there as a girl scout troop, part of a larger camping trip at the shore. My mom is the lady in the white sweatshirt behind me to my right. My troop leader is the woman on the right side of the picture wearing a fisherman's hat and a green t-shirt. She died last August; but I am glad that I got to tell her how much she meant to me years before.

Still at the shore -- this time in Cape May, NJ. For about a year, I really loved wearing this purple fedora.

Our first trip to Spain in high school. That's 18-year-old Elliot standing in front of a windmill in Castilla-La Mancha.

That's me, looking larger than life.

Note the bicycle tube belt.

I put up a few of these because I don't think I've seen them since we went to Spain in 2007. Makes me psyched to return in a few months.

Leaving Mantua

Most of the people I know living in Philadelphia have dealt with some kind of tension, either in their own neighborhoods, or in others to which they've visited.

Jumped in West Kensington
Pistol-whipped in Olney
Heckled in Francisville
Beaten in Center City
Punched in Fishtown
Cat-called in Point Breeze
Robbed on the Broad Street Line

For the most part, we all have something in common: we're kind of poor but not really poor. So we can afford to live on the edge -- that which lies between a more contentious area and one that is more, say, white.

Mantua, Philadelphia (via photographyclubcolumbia)

My edge is Brandywine Street. Technically in Mantua, but five steps away from Powelton Village where college kids have crept into the 150-year-old neighborhood over the last decade or so.

I feel safe on my block. It's usually quiet, except when the dude a few houses down blares his car stereo (old and new R&B that I don't really mind). No one has ever made me feel uneasy. Some neighbors have even expressed their enjoyment -- not annoyance -- of weekly band practices held in our living room.

But I wouldn't say that I feel completely comfortable in Mantua.

1. I avoid Haverford Avenue on my ride home, even though it technically represents a quicker route from the Spring Garden bridge. I take Hamilton Avenue instead because it's less likely that people are on the sidewalks or out in the street. Even more unlikely that people on the street are going to fuck with someone on a bike. Hamilton is lined with big, old houses with iron fences, English ivy, Christmas lights, and porches. Once you get past 34th Street, Haverford consists mainly of empty lots, boarded windows, and a sketchy pizza place. When my family was visiting a couple years ago, I told them to use Hamilton even if the GPS suggested to use Haverford. I wasn't necessarily worried about them being fucked with, but I figured they would have a better impression of my neighborhood if they got to my house via Hamilton. Anyway, they decided to go against my directions to see what the fuss was about and the first thing my 14-year-old brother said when he came through the door was "I think we just saw a drug deal."

2. I never made a decent effort to know my neighbors. Sure, I recognize most of them, but there's never more than a hello and a wave when we cross paths. During block parties, I hung out on the stoop for a hot minute, but never crossed the street to drink a beer with the dudes that grill all the time. Interestingly, I never got to know the other white college kids on the block either. Never really saw them outside. A kind of collective agoraphobia. There is a grass lot on our street, about the size of two rowhouses. Perfect for an urban garden -- sun, space, and proximity. I thought about this project, and the best/fairest way to go about it. Should I start it on my own, or get the support of other families on the block? Should we share a communal garden, or have individual plots? Should I push for organic and sustainable methods of gardening that I've only read about, or let everyone do their own thing? The final question I asked myself was, Should I even be the one to do this? I decided I shouldn't be. After all, I was one of the newest tenants on the block. It'd be pretty white of me to move in, not talk to anyone, stick a shovel in the ground, and start making "recommendations." So the lot remains empty.

3. I didn't plan to be here long. I moved to Philadelphia for school. I moved to Mantua because it was convenient, cheap, and relatively safe. Always wanted to live off of Baltimore Ave. (see previous post). Lately, I've been all too eager to leave. I never felt like a Mantua resident to begin with. No investment in this house or this street. Gave up on living in the city.

So in the next two weeks, I'm leaving this neighborhood. I'll be living in Manayunk for a few weeks (stay tuned!) and then moving back to the childhood comfort of Greensburg.

I realize that I am in a privileged position, to come and go as I please. On one hand, I feel like an intruder living in a neighborhood where I don't have any roots; on the other, I feel sheltered and naive living where I feel too comfortable. And as a traveler, I'm an outsider anywhere.

I don't have any conclusions. But I do have some advice: visit as much of Philly as you can (or substitute Philly with wherever you live). While I wasn't completely comfortable here, I feel confident in saying I've lived here because I know where things are, and I know what places look like.

GET A MAP

Baby research

I thought it would be neat to write a post on what my post-graduation job entails. The real one, as opposed the one on the side. (Just kidding)

For some of you, this might be interesting because you're interested in developmental psychology, jobs that resemble careers, babies, etc.

For me, this post not only reflects what I do five days out of the week, but also provides some insight as to what I went to school for in the first place. Especially since I'm currently in the process of paying back my dues.
 

I am the lab coordinator for the Developmental Science Lab, a psychology research facility, at Temple University. Behind me in the picture to the left, is the lab -- half kindergarten classroom, half high school chemistry lab.

What's more interesting about this picture is that this is what a parent sees when they visit our website and browse the members page. So that's me, trying to look friendly, approachable, and smart! The hand on the hip implies that I'm serious about my job, but I can have fun, too.



Most of my job responsibilities are routine: checking emails, answering phone calls, signing for packages, filing receipts, organizing data, managing undergrad researchers, and stuffing envelopes.

The reason I have this job, though, is more complicated. For those of you not familiar with academic fields that rely heavily on research, research, research, psychology is one of these fields. Most people imagine the whole therapist & couch scenario when they think of psychologists, but most of us (yes, I'm including myself because I've got a fuckin' degree) are researchers. That's how universities get money, and it's also how the field progresses (sort of).

Research, if done right, involves a lot of writing, planning, hypothesizing, and recruiting. Thus, research implicates the contributions of many different people: investigators (tenured professors, grad students, post-docs), interns, student researchers, and volunteers. All these people help to carry out studies, analyze results, and publish anything significant.

In short, my job is to keep all of this going. And the incentive is that if I don't keep all of this going, the lab's projects won't be funded, and I'm out of a job.

Ok, so that was kind of boring. I'll try to talk more about babies.

Yes, my research mainly involves 14-month-old infants! Basically, I invite them and their parents in (usually a mom, but sometimes a dad or a grandma), obtain consent (very important), and then try to put an EEG cap on the child's head.

I wish I could use a picture from our lab, but I'm pretty sure the photo consent form didn't say anything about use on a researcher's blog. This interweb picture does the cap justice, though.

You should know that this process is a challenge. While EEG is used worldwide as a way of collecting data, not many labs attempt to use the technique with children, especially those as young as 14-months.

You can't explain anything to the child about what you're going to do; all you can do is wave the cap in front of them and smile really big so they think it's OK. And it is -- I promise it is.

The first time I put an EEG cap on a baby, she cried. She frowned and buried her head in her mom's chest every time I came near her. I don't know if I can do this, I thought. I'm tormenting her.

But I did do it. And continued to do it. Approximately one out of two babies cry when we put on the cap.

Why? Because it's weird.
They don't want the cap on.
They don't know who I am.
Their mom is almost two feet away.
They haven't had their morning nap.
They have a tummy ache.

Most parents get this -- that babies cry for lots of reasons. Some don't. The mom's face starts to look worried and the baby can sense that and so she wails harder.

I've gotten used to the crying. Not that I don't know the difference between a whine and a get-the-fuck-away-from-me cry. But I'm not going to wince at every whimper.

The more shocking/awkward stuff I see is from the parents:

- One mom consistently bit her son's hand whenever he grabbed for something
- Another chose to start breastfeeding while the study was in session
- There was a dad who lied to me twice about his daughter's age
- A mom who brought four other kids with her, two that weren't hers
- A grandma who left in a huff because she totally disapproved of her daughter and granddaughter participating
- Several parents who disciplined their (14-month-old) son for playing with "girl" toys

Anyway, having worked in this lab for 3 years, I don't think I want to do research.

This job was great; it provided me with invaluable experience. I have sincerely enjoyed it. But seeing the research process in action has discouraged me. There are exceptions, sure, but most studies take at least a few years to plan, carry out, and publish. And it takes far longer for the information learned from these results to trickle down and benefit those concerned.

This bothers me. Especially when I get a rash of calls from parents seeking out an expert who can explain why their child isn't walking, talking, smiling yet. The point of research is to expand resources, but the chain of events is too spread out to be truly effective.

I still maintain that research is an important element for the field of psychology -- still enjoy reading about it. Just don't want to have a role in it. I'm not patient enough.