Gaining some culture, getting acculturated

Despite the sunburn I received after hours spent at the Capital Pride Festival, I'm feeling quite pleased with how this weekend went. The weather was beautiful and I saw so much in such a short time. I feel like I've lived nearly an entire semester in the one week I have been here.


We explored the museum of natural science on Friday and took so many pictures for the photo contest. (I desperately need that prize money to feed myself.) In fact, I bring my Fund shirt everywhere, just in case. Double the reward!


That evening, we had a dance party. In fact, we seem to be having/attending an awful lot of parties. In this pictorial example, I was the straight in the middle of a gay sandwich. I'm a lucky girl. Having now attended seven parties in the last eight days, I can honestly say that this summer will be crazier than my freshman year of college. Whew.


On Saturday, I met Alice Waters. I still cannot get over it. I purchased her cookbook The Art of Simple Cooking for myself and my mom, and she signed the book and took a picture with me. Sigh. I achieved supreme bliss in that moment.

In a similar foodie event, I tried Persian food for the first time and adored it. Then again, I have yet to taste a new cultural cuisine that I haven't liked. I also found the most divine Greek restaurant this weekend, but I'm sure I'll have more on that later.


More importantly, Saturday marks the day I visited the Church of Scientology. We actually went inside and learned about the religion, meeting with Scientologists and watching a video. The experience was incredibly surreal. It deserves its own post, which will hopefully be happening tomorrow. I need the time to gather my thoughts.


To add to the gay fun from Friday, we went to the festival on Sunday. I saw some of the most bizarre outfits and witnessed some incredibly strange behavior, and I'm so glad I went. There were under-dressed men everywhere, as illustrated. Pretty to look at, at least.

Basically, this weekend marked an excellent beginning to my D.C. summer. I can't wait to spend all of tomorrow in the American history museum. They'll probably have to drag me out.

Now that I think about it, when it's time to leave this place, my family may have to drag me out of this city, too.

Also, Cheezburger

You should play this game if you have inordinate amounts of free time and are easily amused.

New February Resolutions

By this time of year, most people have given up on their New Year's resolutions. I mean, New Year's Eve is one of the most well-celebrated holidays of the year, and you're probably high off the endorphins, and God knows what else, when establishing those resolutions. Of course you're going to ditch any commitments you made in that altered, extra enthusiastic state of mind.

Thus, I am beginning a new tradition for myself. New February Resolutions will allow me to set and accomplish goals at an otherwise dismal time of year. Other than Valentine's Day, there are no holidays to get excited about until spring break rolls around. I, on the other hand, will get excited about checking items off my February resolution list.

Examples include learning to:

• listen as well as I talk.
• cook a wide variety of wholesome meals.
• confront people, period. I'll work on the actual method next year.
  
• not worry every five minutes.
• save money. Or spend it on practical things.

Five seems like a reasonable number of New February Resolutions to have, but I guess I get to make the rules up as I go along. I'll add and subtract as I see fit. Speaking of which, getting fit ought to be on there as well...

Una visita a La Tienda Hispanica

My very first assignment for my food studies class was to explore an ethnic market, conducting interviews with employees and soaking up the cultural bliss that accompanies ethnicity-specific grocery stores. Naturally, I just had to wait until the last day before the paper was due to begin my journey.

As I walked down Rosemary Street with the specific goal of entering the first ethnic market I came across, I chided myself for having never entered one of the local markets before. The extent of my cultural grocery-shopping experiences have been visits to Trader Joe’s, where I leave with basmati rice and frozen potstickers. I really have no excuse, considering the cultural diversity of the area.

As soon as I saw La Tienda Hispanica, I knew I had reached my destination. Upon entering the store, I was immediately struck by the large amount of brightly colored piñatas overhead. Other than that, the store seemed quite similar to a condensed version of a regular grocery store. Customers are greeted by the sight of plastic-enshrined convenience foods on the left and produce straight ahead.

Of course, as I entered the store further I realized the distinctive differences: tortillas where the bread would be, fruit offerings like papaya, raw meat laid out under a glass front, gelatin in clear plastic bags. With only two aisles, much of the food was typical American grocery products with Spanish names. Then there were also the specialty items, like dulces and galletas familiar to those with a Latino heritage.

As I sought to find the perfect food that would encompass my trip, I finally realized that I stood out like an apple in a bowl of bananas. All of the customers and employees were speaking Spanish, and I was floating around looking lost in a sea of palabras desconocidos. Little did I know that the cultural barrier would be the least of my worries during my trip.

"Hablas íngles?" I asked the man behind the meat counter, keeping my fingers crossed. "Un poco," he replied. Dios mio. Despite my best efforts to learn Spanish in class and while volunteering, I am not exactly a conversationalist. Employing dramatic hand gestures and Spanglish phrases, I tried to convey my hope to find a quintessential Mexican food. In the meantime, I learned that Cipriano was not related to the owner, though he has been employed at La Tienda for several years.

Cipriano was completely willing to translate my Spanglish into something moderately understandable, helping me with the Spanish words I struggled to recall—- about every three sentences.

Then, I met el jefe, Raymundo. He barely knew any English either, so I got in a lot of Spanish conversation practice in thirty minutes. He recommended that I try tortillas con queso, though, unfortunately, I needed something a little more practical for my walk to work. Raymundo explained how he has owned the store for five years, after moving to Chapel Hill from Mexico. He took me on a brief tour of the store, stopping in front of produce to point out their fruity options.

That is when I saw a thick, green, paddle-shaped plant being scraped by one of the employees. Though I was fairly certain of the plant’s identity, Raymundo confirmed it. She was scraping the spines off of cactus leaves. Raymundo said they taste excellent outside on the grill, cooked with a little bit of oil. When I leave dorm life behind, I just might have to try that.

Finally, I asked about the origin of the store’s customers. The cashier said they come from all over: Venezuela, Colombia, Mexico, and El Salvador, to name a few. Their allegiances are strong. I think the appeal of La Tienda Hispanica lies in that diversity. They accepted me just as they accepted the way more fluent Spanish speakers who came before me.

Though I was unable to experience the same community feeling that I am sure customers who can communicate more clearly do, I felt welcomed by Raymundo and his employees regardless. As I left the store, armed with a galleta gigante that Raymundo called pan (unlike any bread I've ever tasted, that's for sure), I enjoyed the sweet taste of a new tradition, topped with coconut and a cherry.

Gaining Some Religion, Part 1: That's me in the corner, meditating

Remember when we had to read Siddhartha in English class our sophomore year of high school? Well, today I had a flashback to those days of analyzing the symbolism of water and discussing Sidd's sexual fantasies. Or rather, today I recalled my limited knowledge of Buddhism in a useless attempt to make a connection between that God-awful book (pun intended) and my infinitely more bizarre hands-on zen experience. And while I would love to say that my second encounter with the Buddhist religion was more promising, my aching back and lack of inner wisdom indicate otherwise.

Anyway, I suppose that first a little background information is necessary. I'm irreligious. Much like the Swiss, I'm all about neutrality, and my early disillusionment regarding religion has made me a clean slate, a blank page, an empty stone tablet, what have you. The only belief I've had in years has been my faith in myself. I decided about a year ago, however, that I needed to take a dip in the baptismal waters, spout out a little Hebrew, and "om" with purpose. Finally, I am enacting that plan. Who knows? Maybe all I'll wind up with are some WWJD bracelets. Maybe I'll glow with newfound enlightenment.

Maybe I can reclaim for myself what R.E.M. lost.

Back to today. I visited the Chapel Hill Zen Center after corresponding with my ride, B.J., for approximately a month. (We had a lot of scheduling conflicts.) Employing the teachings of Buddha/Sidd (and about a billion other guys whose names we had to chant), the center is a place for self-reflection and meditation. The outside looks like it houses a small family rather than a fat man in a constant state of nirvana. It even has a koi pond. With a bridge.

As for B.J., well, he is a guy I'd like to adopt as my surrogate grandfather. On the way over, he and I discussed American's destruction of the English language, the importance of multilingualism, and his preference for manual transmissions, among other things. Plus, he lives in Pittsboro. Anyone who lives in Pittsboro gets points for the simple act of carrying out most of his or her existence in that fabulously historic and charming town. I'll throw B.J. some karma points because that seems most appropriate in his case.

Being a first-timer at the center, I was put in the library to read up on how to ignore my consciousness, particularly my salivary glands. Nothing disturbs a zen atmosphere quite like an obscenely loud swallow. Then my meditation instructor Paul showed me proper etiquette. Sitting is definitely the hardest part of meditation. You have to situate yourself on this little round pillow, but only the front third of it, in order to place your pelvis in the optimum position. For posture purposes, of course.

I'm not sure exactly how long we meditated, but I failed miserably in my effort. Your focus is supposed to be on your breathing if you're not gifted enough to clear your thoughts automatically. I can't, that's for sure. I guess I can add that to my list of things Chapel Hill has taught me that I actually can't do all that well. I kept trying to count to 10, but my upper back was not adjusted to its new upright attitude and my eyes didn't want to remain downcast yet still open.

After an indeterminate amount of time, we chanted. Some of the chants were in an interpretation of English that I'm sure Faulkner would've enjoyed. Others were in Chinese, Japanese, Sanskrit. I got really good at saying "prajna paramita," or "perfection of wisdom." I was nowhere near perfect or wise, but I do feel more informed. And now I know that Buddhists haven't been missing out on those sah-weet, uplifting gospel songs. Their chants literally made me tap my feet. I hope I didn't look irreverent.

Though completely different than anything I've done before, the entire experience was fascinating.

I liked to bow as a sign of respect. I liked the idea of reaching an inner peace. I liked my shoe-less feet on the soft foyer carpet. I think that my biggest problem was my lack of understanding. At least I have a basic knowledge of western religions. I may not think highly of all of them, but I know the history. I did, after all, have that gold-leafed Bible when I was a kid. Eastern religions are so foreign, so mysterious. Plus, there's that language barrier issue.

I haven't decided whether or not I'll go back.