Hikers who are not in the Trail Club

Last weekend my Dad and I went on a three day, two night hiking trip on the Appalachian trail. A real one. The whole no showers, the paste-like power bar dinners, water from the stream kind of trip.

Cause ya know, I'm the whole tree-hugging, technology-shunning, who-needs-civilization kind of girl.And even so, the phrase, "We're not real hikers" came out of my Dad's mouth at one point, because we met hikers who are doing the trail in one go, from Georgia to Maine in a few months. They do take breaks visiting friends and eating in restaurants and what not, but during that time they mostly, as one girl said "walk and eat and sleep."

Many of them get to know each other, asking "Have you met so-and so?" and " How long have you been out?" They have trail names (like Panda Bear and Peter Pan and Red Flag) and trail lingo (Sobo and pack-slacking and purists) and inside trail jokes (hiker smells and the creepy old men). It's like a dirty, smelly exclusive club. With some of the strictest entrance requirements I've ever seen.

How do they afford four or five months in which they make nothing and spend money on expensive hiking gear and occasional restaurants and hotels?

I don't know. The one guy said some people are retired, some just out of school, some on disability. (I know, right? Anyone on disability who can hike for four months...my tax dollars at work.)


But anyway, our three days was a pretty good first trip for me. I saw some great countryside views, I walked in the rain, I made my ankles sore jumping over rocks. I spent time with my Dad and we sang such hiking classics as "The ants go marching," "John Jacob Jingleheimerschmidt," and "I know an old lady who swallowed a fly."



It was a good time.

But tip to myself for next time: bring a sleeping mat.

The wildlife varied from tame and cracker-eating to slightly dangerous.

Prime PA views.

This is what cool people do...

... when they've reunited after six months of away-ness.
1) Stop first at a Mexican restaurant, which in reality only lists maybe three Mexican items on the menu. And calling even those Mexican at all is probably very generous. But there was a lot of hot guys, so who's focusing on what she's eating anyway?

2) Spend 20 minutes in the parking lot of the Salvation Army after the clerks see smoke pouring out of the ducts. It was half-off day, so we were naturally all much more concerned about our stockpiles of two dollar shirts than about our lives. So we sat as close to the building as possible, ready to rush back in and claim our dressing rooms, as all the king's horses and all the king's men (who were apparently bored in the station, just waiting for the a puff of smoke or a kitty in a tree) stood around and tried to convince us that it was serious business.

Now that's a classic Q-town love story right there.

3) Picnic in the park and attempt to be all intellectual and book-y. But we mostly napped.

4) Attend Shakepeare's classic Two Noble Kinsmen (You haven't heard of it? Shocking! But neither had we.) and whisper the whole time about how the actor playing Palomon looks like a serial killer and how distracting Hippolyta's fake Australian accent is.
5) Watch Gigantic, which is the weirdest movie I've ever seen, and not even worth all the snooty, hipster buttons you might get to put on your girl scout badge because it's an indie film. Who's that homeless guy? Why's he hitting whatsisname with a metal pole? What kind of weird eight year old wants to adopt a Chinese baby? Is whatsisname's face capable of smiling or frowning or expressing any emotion other than boredom? Though looking bored while getting hit with a metal pole is impressive.

Dude, admit it. We're way too cool for you.

Although, I've discovered I have just about zero cool-dar. Obviously. Or I wouldn't be writing the word cooldar.

Eating in Chilis and circling parking lots

Today I had a severe bout of what I feel like should be called "homesickness" for Peru.
For starters, this afternoon on the porch I was reading a book of a British man's journalistic experiences in the Middle East (why is that capitalized?) and reflecting, as I often have before, on how the heck anyone should approach a culture and a country not their own. Accept bumbling Westerner status? Struggle vainly to become as much of an "insider" as possible? Bungle your way through helping with what you see as the problems? Give up and accept that you have no proper perspective or position to do anything? Are these the only choices available to us? God I hope not!

And then of course, my Mom comes out and hands me the Travel section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, which just happened to be titled "Deep into 'wonderfully weird' Peru."

As I read the article, I found myself getting really defensive about the sort of simple, unexplainable weirdness this guy was projecting. The only cultural detail he really got into detail on was "la hora peruana, Peruvian time," which he claimed was "indecipherable to North Americans." He described an event in a book by another North American in which a man lied to his mother and told her that his own wedding ceremony was at 12, when really it was at 4 and she shows up "red-faced and puffing" at ten till 4.

RI-diculous. Totally false. Obviously the woman found out that it was actually at 4. How could you not? She's not a child. Four hours late would be logistically impossible. And anyway, any Limeno I know would find showing up that late for your own son's wedding shocking. Do the readers of the Inquirer actually buy that hooey? She just coincidentally shows up ten minutes before the real start? Give me a break.

Yes, time definitely works differently in Peru. Yes, it can be bewildering and frustrating at times for foreigners. But, I thought to myself on the porch, I would hardly call it indecipherable. You get to know the circumstances: Business meeting or house party? You get to know the people around you: Relatively on time or chronically without a watch/cell/sundial? You get to know the phrases and the cues and the times of day and the priorities and....

Okay, so umm....it sounds more complicated than it is. Or maybe I got used to it. And I guess I can't reasonably be annoyed that someone who hasn't spent the same amount of time in the country would print things with such nonexistent clarity.

And then I started seeing all the details of the last year playing over in my mind. My Peruvian friends taking me to American restaurant chains that I hadn't been to in years. The expensive churros late at night. The old men who took it upon themselves to educate me about American culture and laws. The classic Peruvian literature that described the city as poop brown. The gringos in the touristy district with boots and hiking backpacks and lost looks on their faces that we laughed at. (Er, I mean with, of course.)

But well, here I am. And there's plenty to learn about this place.

Like for instance, why do Americans circle parking lots forever searching for the closest spot in order to spend less time walking to the building? Is that some territorial instinct? Do the primates swing from tree to tree to tree looking for the tree that will require them to do the least swinging?

PS. Happy Birthday to my brother Darren! Who will most surely not read this. But the universe shall know that I'm so glad we've gone through these first 22 years together, even if half the celebration is rightfully yours.

Meet Veritably Clean

Mr. Clean Magic Erasers are truly, truly magical. The David Blaine of cleaning products, if you will. Or, am I David in this situation? And the eraser is like...one of those ladies who gets sawed in half. Or an invisible elephant. Or a top hat with bunnies. Whatever. Moving on. It occurs to me, that good old Dave isn't much for the coin from the ear type of magic anyhow...

What did maintenance workers do before Mr. Clean invented his eraser anyway? How did scuff marks come out of the walls? How did permanent marker get off the under sides of desks?

I don't intend to look too far into how exactly the eraser does these things, because anything that is like five times more power than our other already powerful cleaning products has to contain something that could wilt every flower within a 10 yard radius.

Actually, what I was really wondering about was why the creators of Mr. Clean gave him the image they did. Was it aimed at women? Women want a big muscly white man to help them clean? Or, they really want their husband to help them clean, but this will do? Would the image work the same if he were some other ethnicity? Why is he old? Why is he bald? Why does he wink? Why does he roll up his pant legs?

I tried to research this topic, and all I got was that Ernie Allen created him in 1957. And that his name is Veritably.

Which makes him sound a little bit like he should be out picketing for prohibition with Constance and Prudence.

This has been another delightful episode of Philosophy from the Janitor's Closet. Tune in next time for, "How discovering a woman cleaning what's supposed to be the men's bathroom throws a little boy into an identity crisis."

Summer slacking

I know, I'm sorry, a week. But I'm in summer mode, and not very busy at all. Which naturally means that nothing gets done.

A couple updates:

1) My love of country music has sadly dwindled since I came back from Peru. Maybe cause I haven't listened to it for six months? Or maybe cause it just now strikes me as sooo....irritatingly American.

2) Keeping up with American entertainment must have gotten incredibly exhausting sometime in the last semester. The new TV, radio, movies...I don't even try. Makes me feel out of the loop. Is there a loop? Is it worth getting back in the loop? Can you be cool without being in the loop? Cause I definitely don't wanna be risking that...

3) I'm missing Lima. I miss the going out and the micros and the speaking in Spanish. And I miss living in the city. All these beautiful trees...fresh air...lovely scenery...you can see how there's only so much you can take of that. Pollution and traffic for me baby.

That's me with my twin up there. Do we look alike?

But dude, I did miss the late night cookie dough runs courtesy of the time Mom didn't have to bake those suckers. People in other countries don't know what they're missing out on.

While squirting that bluish liquid you find in public toilets

I have a new, temporary job cleaning a school this summer. Toilets, windows, wiping, dusting. Minimum wage. Thrills chills and spills. But really, I've heard countless stories of people struggling to find work right now. So only gratitude here. And a little bit of wishing university would start already.

And plus, a lot of the time I get to just listen to my ipod and think, often simultaneously, while working. Thinking is much more fun when it's voluntary, and I'm a huge podcast fan. (Please tell me you know what that is....like a radio show, or a lecture...but downloadable....) You're not really my friend until you've heard me say "Oh, actually I listened to a podcast about that once..." at least 10 times.

This was today:

While cleaning the bathrooms, 2 episodes of Stuff You Missed in History Class : Best Innovators in History (Johann Gutenberg, Ben Franklin, and Leonardo DaVinci, apparently) and Victoria and Albert, the non-Emily Blunt version.

While dusting the elementary school office, A lecture from London School of Economics: "Change in the Middle East? Democracy, Authoritarianism and Regime Change in the Arab World." Really good. But hardly any economics at all (except for all the angry economics students demanding that she hadn't paid enough attention to the economics of the situation in Egypt....)

While washing the windows, an episode of Philosophy Bites: "Thomas Hurka on Pleasure" A fascinating topic, but not a very thorough exploration of it, I didn't think. Could you do that in a twenty minute podcast? But I did continue to think about the relationship between pleasure and goodness and care for others for another good half and hour.

Interspersed with Sara Bareilles, Tony Lucca, and conversation in both Spanish and English.

It's possible that this makes me look like something of a dork.

But needless to say, this is nowhere near the worst summer job I've ever had. (That involved two really spoiled bratty rich kids...)

Umm, I have a cold.

These are the deepest thoughts I can muster right now:

I think my life and myself are much less complicated than I'd like to think they are.

I think liking to think I'm complicated is probably prideful.

I think people who think they're complicated people are usually pretty annoying.

Brief recap: I recently moved my person and two suitcases containing my material life for the past year from Pueblo Libre, Lima, Peru to Quakertown, Pennsylvanvia, USA. If you know me, you may be wondering how that's going. If you don't, you probably forgot all about it. I understand.

I've hesitated to write this first "How are you?" post after returning. Partially it's because I feel like I owe you all an honest, not just comic, response, and partially because I'm overly sensitive to pressure (okay, it's mostly perceived pressure) about what "reverse culture shock" ought to look like and the things I should be learning about my "experience." Doesn't that sound like I was shipwrecked o n an island or fought in a war or something? How has "your experience" affected you Dani?

There may be a lot to be said about the move and the things I've thought in the past few days. Most of them aren't at all original. Most of them even I have thought many times before. All the way from "You're throwing a bonfire? How amusingly American!" to "Does the American dream deserve all the flack it's been getting recently?"

And I've asked myself the same question that I know everyone's going to be asking for a few months yet, "How do you feel being back in the United States after a year abroad?" I've built it up in my mind. I'm overly analytical. I really want an answer.

But the truth is, I don't really know yet. The best I can do is say vague things like "good and bad" and "fine" and "okay."

Does that satisfy you? Not really? Well, you'll just have to settle for now, because I think I'm going to allow myself some slack to just go with the flow and not force myself into self-centered obsessing over the state of my adjustment. I'll just live and let the revelations come in little trickles or great big waves or not at all, as they wish.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that I don't want to talk about Lima. I do. I really want to talk about it. In fact, I think people are probably already getting tired of me saying things like.,"In Lima, the toilet paper gets thrown in the trash, not the toilet!"

And I don't mean that you can't ask. Please do. I may give you a little recap of what I just said, but by all means...

It's just that, at least for now, I'm releasing myself from finding a good answer to the question, "How does it feel to be back?"

Maybe I'll just say, "It's totally unfair that I have to put up with a Lima winter cold and the PA summer heat all at once!"

This was a long post. I hope you skimmed ;)

I think I may have just over analyzed my need to stop over analyzing.