Master's: Complete

I'm alive and have returned to the blogging. I actually never stopped, but the venue was different because I was in grad school, y'all. And guess what? I graduated...!

This past weekend was full of celebrations and Pomp & Circumstance. It's remarkable how I got to Fuqua and eventually settled into its rhythms, but they pull out the stops and surprise me on my way out, complete with ice sculptures and chocolate cherubs. Speaking of surprises, the most wonderful one came in the form of my dear friend Deanne who I met in Italy, flying all the way from Canada, after coordinating with my mother, to attend my graduation.

So even though I've been very absent on this blog, I'd like to reopen the pathway now that there's no more finance or accounting to study. Now that I can return to the hours of a non-student, as the studying schedule was much harsher this time around. Now that I can pursue all kinds of activities, goals, thoughts, and desires that had to be put on hold (not excluding my 25 Before 25, which is desperately in need of a new name now that I'm knocking on 26).

To reinaugurate this blog, I'd like to do a lessons learned post for my 10 month stint as a graduate student in Durham:

• Doing a power pose before big presentations helps, but only in the secrecy of your home or a bathroom stall. Otherwise it's just embarrassing.
• They might not be graded, but soft skills matter.
• You must have empathy and patience to begin to understand another. I have a lot of road to cover on this one.
• Test grades aren't always the best judgment of learning.
• You don't know your limits until you've met them.
• Learning is a process that is determined by the amount of effort you put into it. It has no limits of time or subject.
• Do the right thing always.
• I am not a self-sustaining entity. It takes a community to get through all kinds of situations. Community takes time and effort to grow.
• Love it or hate it, Cameron Indoor is a special place.
• Failure is an opportunity for exploration and innovation.
• You can't always find the time, but making a good, home cooked meal heals, grows, and inspires. Totally worth it.
• It's all relative.

I don't quite know what's coming up next yet (besides a month in Italy where I sit writing this very post while looking over the Tuscan hills), but rest assured you'll be taken along for the ride.

Calling all good cookies!

Alright, y'all! I need your help. Remember that 25 before 25? I'm still chugging along with that. I'm almost done with the second step of my dual citizenship (there are 29384 steps, it seems). I am working on that español, reading my Shakespeare, and working on a few other things simultaneously. But we've got a big one coming up FRIDAY and SATURDAY!

I'm working with Theatre Alliance of Winston-Salem on a bake sale and we are raising money for Cookies for Kids' Cancer on November 30-December 1 in connection with opening weekend of Sordid Lives (get your tickets here). Cookies for Kids' Cancer is a 501 (c)(3) that raises funds for pediatric cancer research. All of the funds will be matched by the OXO home supply and GLAD products companies! (If you plan on participating in a cookie exchange, check out the Cookies website to see how you can get them some money, too!) Our volunteers will be contributing their own goodies (and not just cookies!) so if you're in the area, please stop by!

On a more personal note, some people have asked why Cookies for Kids' Cancer. Well, in making my 25 before 25 list, I wanted a shout out to strong women and my alma mater Meredith College. My graduating class became extremely involved with this non-profit, the story of a Meredith sister and her heroic son, and it was a roller coaster ride I'll never forget. Gretchen Holt Witt gave the keynote address at my graduation and I remember feeling like she had make the most of what was delivered to her and went far beyond anyone's expectations. She and those working for Cookies for Kids' Cancer, formally as employees (who are all amazing to work with if you were interested in hosting your own bake sale!), or as other bakers just like my dear friends, or as donors, have made great strides towards helping children--and in an ingenious manner at that!

Relistening to Gretchen's speech and reading about Liam's all too short, beautiful life made me reflect on where I come from, the community I have around me, and the tremendous opportunities I can make for the better of others in the simplest ways. So back in August, I listed hosting a bake sale on my 25 things in an attempt to not make a completely selfish activities. It was a little gesture, but my how much I have absorbed from this moment in the attempts to serve worthily a cause so meaningful! The opportunities are endless for what each of us can do to improve the world. All it takes is that we have a little responsibility in respect to our neighbors.

I'd sincerely love to see you Friday afternoon from 12:30-3pm and before and after the shows which start at 8pm Friday and Saturday night. If you can't be there and still want to contribute to the cause, follow the link to make a donation on our giving page. A big thanks to Theatre Alliance for helping me cross another one off my list and to you good cookies for being along on the journey!

Update 29 November 2012: HUGE thanks to Robert and Bob's Big Gas and Subs for offering to donate some goodies for the cause. Y'all, those subs and baked pickles are the best!

The Bicycle Thieves

If you have never heard of it, the title of this post refers to a classic Italian film I wholeheartedly suggest for those who enjoy foreign, black and white films whose ending does not resemble mine in any way.

When I arrived in this little town where G has lived his whole life, he set about teaching me the ways of the land. Where to go for this or that. How to act. The usual decorum of the land. Among these lessons, I learned that 1) a bike was necessary and 2) that it was a safe place. I had already inherited a bicycle from my friend and former roommate Linda and coming from Florence I was looking forward to using it without the super high traffic density, so we packed up my old rusty blue bike (or MORBB) and brought it to our little home. But he also told me, don't you worry about locking it up because in this small town everyone would see what happened.

Still in my big city mindset, I was a bit unsure about this idea. I tried it out at the grocery store, 5 minutes from home. All the other bikes were unlocked, I thought, so I left MORBB on the rack and kept my lock inside. I went in and when I came out, all was well. I repeated this several times, at other stores, in other parts of town, all to the same results. I started to feel safe in this small town.

People teased me and MORBB. "It's ugly," they declared. "Who would ever want that rusty old thing?" they exclaimed. "Do the breaks even work?!" they challenged. I was just glad to have MORBB. It worked--erm, well enough--and I was happy to have a companion in my exploration of the small town. Despite lacking lights, reflectors, and having only the bottom half of the bell (rendering it useless), we shared memories together and it got me from one place to another, skidding or huffing, whatever you may call it.

One day I met G "downtown" to learn a bit more about my dual citizenship goals at the city offices and I didn't lock my bike, as per usual. After the appointment, we went around, trying to escape the heat, and I left MORBB where it was. Wrapped by my security blanket this small town had become, I knew nothing would happen to it.

They say hubris ruins people. They are right. When I returned to the center to retrieve MORBB in the hot sun which I thought could only be reserved for the Sahara, MORBB was nowhere to be found. I walked home heartbroken. My solace from the sun came only from the tears on my cheeks. I already missed MORBB.

And so the search began. G called his parents right away and G's dad, a hunter, went out on his bike to find MORBB. G made trips looking for MORBB each morning before departing our small town and upon coming back from work.

Maybe someone saw MORBB abandoned and rode it a while before leaving it somewhere else. Maybe a young kid had taken MORBB, not understanding what it meant to me. Maybe--oh goodness, no!--someone had taken MORBB to another little town to be sold. G and his father the hunter continued to search. They assured me MORBB would be found. I had already said goodbye in my heart to MORBB and had little hope.

Saturday morning, G received a call from his father the hunter who said he found a dark looking bike that might be mine. My heart soared! Could he really have found MORBB?! I recollected myself and thought logically. Could he really have found MORBB??? I asked G where his father the hunter was as I slipped on my tennis shoes, just in case I could ride MORBB back home. G explained that his father the hunter had brought the possible bike home. "But what if it's not MORBB?!" I blurted. I ruminated on someone else loosing their MORBB.

My stomach tightened as we approached G's parents' house. His father the hunter was sitting outside with one of his ferocious hunting dogs just waiting for us. "If this isn't yours, I guess we'll have to take it back," explained his father the hunter, opening the garage door.

"That is definitely not my bike."

There sat a beautiful shiny new bike with a basket up front. The seat wasn't cracked or weathered from spending ages outside. Lights and reflectors were whole and attached right where they were supposed to be. And there, sitting sweetly on the handle bars, was a tiny little bell on the left and a 7 gear changer on the right.

"That REALLY is not my bike."

"But I kind of remember it that way," says G's father the hunter.

"Now that you say that," G begins, "I kind of remember it that way, too." Now since he spent HOURS changing the break pads and a tire on MORBB, I know there is no way he could mistake it for this gift from Heaven.

Slowly it starts to dawn on me. I can't believe it. I want to cry. I take my new bike, a gift from G's parents, on a ride up and down the street, beaming like an 8 year old. I couldn't be happier. My shiny new bike couldn't be more elegant.

MORBB was really stolen. Sometimes I take a little giro around the town looking for it for sentimental reasons, smiling happily on my shiny new bike. Moral of the story: Don't trust G. Lock up everything.

And don't worry. G's father the hunter bought me a new shiny lock for the shiny new bike, too.

If there is a purgatory, this is it.

Today I went to the post office. I've talked a lot about the post office because it's a place no one really visits while being here for a short period of time, and, well, they are really Italian. At my particular branch you enter and take a number from one of three sections (finances, where you pay bills among other things signified with the letter "A"; banking, because the Italian post office also has a bank system, which have the letter "F"; and sending, for, you know, doing normal post office things, which is accompanied by the letter "P"). When I usually go, it's always a toss up what I'm going to find, but I'm usually pretty sure it's going to be a wait. If I'm both lucky and go at really unpopular times like early during lunch time or Friday evening, I usually only have to wait for 15 minutes. Tops I've been there for 45+ minutes before being called. Trips usually lean more towards the side of eternity than not. Usually I bring a book or my journal. Often I tweet. Anything to pass the time.

Today I went around 6pm. I'd never been there at that hour and thought I'd pass by. If there were too many people, I figured I'd head there tomorrow. I scan the room and find about 5 people waiting. I go to take a number. Of course there was a choice to make. Do I take an A for the bill I had to pay, or a P for the letter I had to send? Most times I take both, but I started with A244 and found that on the list of numbers recently called my number there was A243 making mine next up. I sat myself down without getting a second number. At least the place is one of the few here that has good air conditioning. People, it's hot here.

Anyway, the time stamp on my ticket was 17:55/5:55. Around 18:15/6:15 some girl jumps toward an open counter to ask if any A's will be called. P134. P135. P136. The woman sitting next to me had P137. She came in at 17:52/5:52. Apparently in this office they mostly pull numbers by order of arrival, but that's not always the case. Certain counters have certain functions. They can do it all, but they don't. Then there are people who jump the line. Why? Because they have something "urgent" or they just have a "quick question" that turns into being helped. After all, we are still in Italy.

So finally at 18:23/6:23 my number is called. Everyone with an A number behind me is saying "Finally, we're moving." I offer my bill to pay and ask if I can also get a stamp. She said of course. I take out my cash and she asks me if I'm paying my 75 euro water bill in cash or using a bank card. I tried once using the bank card, but apparently they discriminate about that, too. I didn't have this tiny design on the back so I had to withdraw from the ATM outside. "Cash," I reply.

In the meantime, a man walks up and asks if he can have the bag. "All of it?" she whispers. "Yes, I'll take all of it." He isn't an official. I don't know who he is. The woman goes in the back room, comes back with a medium sized shopping bag from a retail store. They start talking about lawyers and contracts. I white noise them because I don't want to be privy to any information I shouldn't be. Six minutes pass in this hushed conversation. The man walks away.

The woman returns to my aid, printing out the postage for the letter. I wrote down the address exactly as my friend had given it to me. Apparently I missed something he didn't write.

The woman asked me, "This is going to Holland, right?"
"No," I said quietly, trying not to avert the other clients, "it's going to Afghanistan."
"What?"
I clear my voice and raise it half a decibel. "This letter is for a soldier in Afghanistan."
"But the state isn't written!" she exclaims.
"Va bene. Okay. I can write it. Or I can just take it back and ask him again. Either way."

Maybe she didn't hear that last part. I'm not sure what happened, but the next thing I know this woman he got up and went to the two other women with clients and is "asking" what she should do. But really this asking is more like complaining. And she's doing it very loudly. I can feel everyone's eyes on me. Especially the other A's. My cheeks get hot. Despite the cool atmosphere, sweat starts to appear on my hands. A real Italian would have turned to someone nearby and pleaded their case. I can't even turn around to face the A's. I purposely don't pay attention to the words they are saying, a skill I now realize that I have clearly perfected. I hate that Italians seek to publicly shame, but it's part of their way. Especially postal workers. I think it's a job requirement.

After another two minutes in which her colleagues scream their advice and commiserate with her about just how impossible it is to send a letter without a state, she explains to me that this letter cannot, in fact, be sent if the state to which it is being sent is not known.

"But I know where it's going. It's going to Afghanistan."
"Oh." She pauses. "And this address in the corner of the letter is yours?" she says while pointing to the address of the street around the corner, followed by "Firenze, Italia."
"Sì." I say. "That is me."
"Ah, well, we didn't understand each other."

Yeah, something like that...

Lessons Learned, Part 4

The return of the only repeat structure I have ever used on this blog:

Looking like a tourist by pulling out a map is a much cuter and more comfortable look than looking like a ragamuffin with blistered feet.

Likewise, the Google Maps Navigation system isn't always the most reliable and you can go up and down the same street up to three times trying to read the fool-proof directions.

Friends will figure out a way to make the friendship work here, there, and everywhere.

I need a personal assistant. (Dad, are you sure you don't want to be my shadow?)

When apartment searching, you will find the perfect place only when 4 other people are interested in it, too.

Still, your luck in this whole process might not have run out yet and you will get the apartment of your dreams for a seemingly reasonable price in the most amazing location.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I am officially living in Italy!

Lessons Learned 3.0

When asked how I'd like to spend my final moments in Rome, I'll admire art.

I should always prepare for my trip to and from Italy to be at least 5 hours longer than expected. 

While traveling I should be as padded as a linebacker. Too many bruises.

No matter how old you are, you can always run into Momma Bear's arms.

A brother is the best friends a girl can have. Best friends are the sisters she never got.

I can live at home (at least for now) happily unemployed.

“There's nothing half so pleasant as coming home again.” --Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

Lessons Learned, Part 2

Vitamin B doesn't keep mosquitoes away. In fact it might attract them.

I bat around a .350 on the mosquito kills-to-attempts.

Glasses are sassy.

Wear shoes when anywhere near Filippo's computer or risk a (literal) shock.

Having Facebook and my iPod in Italian has taught me useful vocabulary.

Good friends are good no matter where in the world they are.

If I don't listen to my own advice about wearing shoes near the computer headquarters, I will get shocked again.

Silly Bandz have made it to Italy. My professor wears one.

Lessons Learned

Since I'm learning so much, so quickly while I'm in Italy, I thought I'd start writing them down for you and bring them up every once in a while. Here's the first batch:

Italians of all ages love to sing. (Level of ability, notwithstanding.) 

Gli anziani love my crazy nail polish and think I have pretty teeth.

Never live near a parking lot. Or a church with bells. Or in a medieval city that likes to do road construction in a nonsensical manner at ungodly hours.

While I am still a talented sweeper and dish washer, I make a decent a sous-chef. (Next up: Do I have the skills to be a head chef?)

Commas are always optional and run-on sentences are commonplace in Italian literature.

Anchovies aren't that bad.

Meat, "Why?", "Buon appetito", and my name in Italian Sign Language.

Vitamina B is supposed to make your blood smell bad to mosquitoes. (Actual result: still unknown.)

Stay tuned for more Lessons Learned and the consequences of some from this week.