Guts

My policy with food in foreign countries is “don’t ask, don’t tell.”  In order to increase my consumption of cultural experience, I prefer to not know what will pass through my hardy digestive system.  This morning I strolled through a market filled with wriggling octopus legs, frozen fish that glared at me through their cold dead eyeballs, motorcyclists zooming through the walkway, emphatic bargaining similar to that of Wall Street, alien fruits piled into neat pyramids, and a “distinct” smell.  After letting my senses do their job and absorb on five different levels, I sat down at a stand, smiled, and eagerly gestured towards a fried pancake thingy.  After stumbling through the exchange of currency and the obtaining of a fork (after my pathetic chopstick acrobatics), I heard somebody haggling quite loudly.  Immersed in the delicious pancake thingy, and trying to decide what small animal’s carcass laid in front of me, I ignored the loud bartering.  Yet, the voice persisted, so I turned around and found that the sound was coming from a four foot five inch tall one hundred eighty seven year old woman (approximately).  And, through her one good eye, she was staring directly at me, and shaking her finger (the international punitive gesture).  I looked around (the international gesture for “wtf!?!?”).  Yes, a small Korean sage was screaming curses at me in Korean.  I do not speak Korean.  Therefore, I had no way of knowing the root of the problem.  But, I believe it had something to do with me being born blond or white or blue-eyed or a capitalist or non-chopstick-savvy or something.  Fortunately, middle-aged Koreans came to my rescue and harshly scolded the old woman for being such a crazy old woman and she stopped screaming and hobbled away in a tizzy.  So I sat, confused, a little embarrassed, and forced to finish my pancake thingy with the knowledge that the whole market would be gossiping about the white girl who brought shame upon the corner pancake thingy stand.        

I don’t think Rick Steve or Lonely Planet would include this experience in a list of “must-do excursions in Seoul.”  However, people tell me that my guts are what make my traveling experiences unique.  In this particular case, “guts” could refer to the fact that I dared to sit down or to my hardy digestive system, willing to brave the pancake thingy in spite of anti- Western sentiment.   

         

A Glitch In Human Behavior

Each day, human beings strive for efficiency.  A more realistic definition of efficiency could be “the balance of not having to work too hard and still getting the job done.”  We perform impressive balancing acts to bring in the groceries in the least amount of “trips.”  We choose to write with one hand or the other instead of endlessly perfecting the dexterity of both.  Our speech is inconsistent and falters when we feel lazy and we pronounce words in the easiest way.  For example, “I’m going to go” versus “Mm gonna go.”  When did we learn to do these things?  The over-simplified answer is “when we were young.”  As children, each one of us created these efficiency-driven processes for our everyday life.  In essence, we either put our socks on “sock-sock-shoe-shoe” or “sock-shoe-sock-shoe” according to a habit created early in life to make our daily activities run a little smoother.        

On Monday, September 28, I heard of the news that my grandmother, Katie Jasper, was in the hospital after falling and hitting her head in the bathroom and was not expected to live past the end of the week.  Immediately, I decided I wanted to make the 8 hour drive to see her before her time came.

However, strictly adhering to the American protocol of overeating in times of sadness, I decided to make “alfajores,” a shortbread cookie filled with dulce de leche (a caramel-flavored marmalade) that I fell in love with during my time abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina. 

Anyone who knows me personally knows that I am not an infamous chef, nor in any way an organized one.  Usually my subconscious procedure for measuring 1 cup of flour would be as follows: awkwardly tip the flour bag towards the mouth of the measuring cup and let the four flow until it creates an uneven mound of flour at the top of the cup.  That uneven mound of flour is then “eyeballed” to be more or less sure that there is neither too much nor too little flour. 

But this day, my process of measuring flour unexpectedly shifted.  This time, instead of haphazardly tipping the flour, I carefully positioned the measuring cup in the sink and began to pour over the sink (so if I were to spill any, it would go down the drain).  When I had created an uneven mound at the top of the measuring cup, I stopped pouring, turned around, opened a drawer, and took out a knife.  I attempted to level off the flour.  Given that I was not used to doing this (because it was not in my normal procedure), I accidentally pushed the front of the knife into the flour, knocking the measuring cup over, and spilling a little bit.  I patiently tilted the flour bag and poured in some more flour.  Finally, I proceeded to level off that awkwardly shaped mound of flour to be sure that there was exactly 1 cup of flour. 

To most, this would go unnoticed, but given my typically over-the-top-disorganized cooking style, I found myself befuddled, mouth gaping and everything.  What had just happened?  After literally pausing for a moment in my kitchen, shocked by my newfound patience and attention to detail, the explanation came to me.  Grandma Jasper was a stickler for measuring correctly when cooking.  I have vivid memories of her hands craftily wielding the knife across the top of the measuring cup to be absolutely sure that our cookies would turn out perfectly.  These memories are not due to my astute observation as a bright young child, but rather with my height.  As an 8 year old, my line of sight intersected directly with my grandmother’s hands.  We always made cookies and she would let me pour, and then she would do the finishing touch; or in my mind, “the hard part.”

So what does my apparent glitch in human behavior mean?  The simplest and most truthful answer is that I don’t know.  But clearly, my subconscious was working in my favor, delicately balancing the need for efficiency and the need for quiet pause at that moment in my life.    

The internet= superconnect?/disconnect?

Last night I went to a lecture given by Rob Cherof of BBDO Atlanta entitled "The Economy and Advertising."  Although one's (my) first thought was, "well, seems like the economy and advertising are going pretty crappy.  People have less money.  People spend less money."  But, the presentation focused a lot on how people seem to be "getting back to basics."...asin...duh!  This Hummer will not ACTUALLY bring me happiness, that's just a silly marketing ploy that everyone knows is a culturally accepted joke.  

The speaker mentioned this kickass website that basically keeps track of all the crazy activity on the internet in real time.  He pulled it up at the beginning of the meeting and then we looked at how much the  

http://www.personalizemedia.com/garys-social-media-count/

What strikes me about the communication boom that my generation knows as the only reality is this: WE STILL DON'T COMMUNICATE!

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What is Buenos Aires to me?

Today I saw Eat Pray Love, that movie based on Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir.  Of course I ended the movie like a full-spirited traveller that I am, reinspired to see the world and find myself through doing so.  This train of thought, of course, led me to think about Buenos Aires.  My relationship to Buenos Aires is just that: a relationship.  Buenos Aires and I were not friends with benefits.  We were not a batty-eyed crush.  We were definitely not a one-night-stand, and certainly more than "just friends."  In fact, the more that I think about it, I think Buenos Aires and I were truly in love.  In my limited 22 year old knowledge of love, it is a puzzling mix of some battles, some romance, some careful planning, and some surprises.

One could say that Buenos Aires and I are "on a break."  It's clear that we're not right for each other at this very moment.  But I don't think either of us regret having discovered so much of one another.

Renaming of the site

I have renamed my blog ¨a stand-by way of life.¨  I thought of this when I was waiting in the airport in Atlanta to come to Buenos Aires. 

As a stand-by traveller, one enjoys the POSSIBILITY of a first class seat assignment along with the POSSIBILITY of no seat assignment at all.  It´s a whirlwind of emotion, and I believe my non-revenue status has taught me a great deal about how I look at the world. 

I have the tendency to be content to sit back and wait.  Patient people either come off as lazy or wise.  I´m one of those people.  I choose to wait for big things to happen in my life, while at the same time arranging everything down to the last detail.  This is what I mean by ¨standing by.¨

Behind The Curtain

This is a documented account of what goes on behind that mysterious curtain between business class and economy class on an international Delta flight.

The most obvious perk of Business Class is that the seats recline nearly all the way back.  Also, each seat has its own TV monitor...not on the back of the seat in front of you, but on a pop-out stand so you can tilt it any way you need.       

This is the appetizer you get:

This is the dinner you get:

This is the chocolate chip cookie you get:

This is the view you get: ...oh wait...I think that's the same as everyone else's view...

The end.