Frankincense, myrrh and other riches

Okay, so the frankincense (which always sounds like some electricity-woken, bolts-in-head version of incense to me) and myrrh have nothing to do with this entry, but they're baby related, so I stuck them in there. Runaway metaphors! Stop them!

The reason I'm writing tonight, late though it is and tired though I am after the second day of class (and still no finalized schedule!), is that I got an email today from the firm with the news that our first year salaries have been bumped up a wee bit. And by a wee bit, I mean by fifteen thousand U.S. dollars.

Holy moolah! So within the time I've been in law school, the salaries for first year associates have jumped 24 percent: from an already whopping $125K to a truly obscene $160K. The increase alone, as my public interest friends pointed out, is the equivalent of an entire year's salary for many a humble legal services lawyer -- you know, the people actually trying to make the earth a better place 'n stuff.

Ugh. Conventional wisdom has it that virtually all first and second year associates COST their firms money rather than make money (the cost of more senior associates and partners explaining things to them, cost of additional time it takes junior associates to do things, etc.). So yes, the corresponding salaries of those senior associates have gone up too, but really folks -- 160K?

It's ... unspeakable. I made $24K on graduating from college -- five years later, I'd doubled that in my publishing job. That was after five years of experience and honest, earnest work. This 160K is going to lots of 25-year-olds who have never worked a fulltime job and have zero knowledge of how to behave in a professional environment. For serious. The idiots I work with in my student organization? Who don't take responsibility for their jobs and make all kinds of lame-ass excuses when they totally flake on their duties? They're gonna be getting an annual salary of 160K in two years.

God. How do you groom a complete asshole? You take a kid with some brains, pet him all through school and tell him he's brilliant, let him into some fancy schmancy school on the basis of cold, souless grades and test scores, reward him when he cuts others down in class and displays cool calculation in working the system, then give him the equivalent of a small nation's GNP when he finishes school. And then, 7-9 years later, you promote him and call him a partner.

It truly boggles the mind. And you know? As my public interest friends also pointed out, I bet most first year associates would eschew that raise if they could just get their weekends off. Or even just one day a week completely off.

In other rant-worthy news, I have lost sight of my goal of relaxation and easiness this term -- I'm stressing over which class to take. I know negotiation would be good to take -- I'd learn a lot, it'd look good if I ever wanted to go into ADR work -- but my soul quails at the thought of working in groups with eager beaver negotiators. Every encounter I've had with negotiation I've hated. I just don't like the idea of someone being a winner and someone being a loser. You can talk "enlarging the pie" all you want, but that's BS -- you know people are there to win.

Ugh.

To cleanse my mind, I present the picture of the day:
Let's hear it... that's right: "awwwwwwww."

Back to school

Today was the first day of my last semester of law school! I went to five classes today! (total of about 10 hours of class) Some of it was even interesting! I can't stop "shouting" for glee!

This month-long break from all things legal was the first break I've had in a year that was longer than five days. Oh, my soul rejoiced, I tell ya.

And on this, my first day back, the entry shall not be about law school, and it shall not even be wordy (much). Instead, here's a treat for all you beautiful baby lovers out there...



I must say, the more I look at The Nephew, the more I'm starting to think he's an exceptionally handsome baby.



Well, sometimes.

Family Ties

The best part about living in Korea for two years was getting to know my family there. Having many relatives in one physical location gave me a sense of security and rootedness that I never knew I was missing, growing up with only my nuclear family and a handful of relatives in the same state. There's a unparalleled sense of comfort in knowing that there are so many hands waiting to catch you if you should fall. And even more than in America, where even close friends often maintain an uncrossable line of distance, Korean families are passionately involved, hands-on, and yes, sometimes unbearably meddlesome.

I don't know quite how it turned out this way, but my family is tossed across the globe -- father in Korea, mother and aunt/uncle in Seattle, brother in San Fran, me in Crimson City. And sometimes I'm glad -- oh, SO glad -- not to be in the same place, not to have to deal with the messiness of relationships that can't be abandoned with the same ease that you might quit a friendship or a lover. The main reason I didn't pick the Seattle job this fall was because I visited and saw what a terrible burden it would be to be close to my aunt/uncle/mother when I didn't have any other support, in a city where I knew no one else. A weekly phone call is hard enough sometimes -- to be in the same city with two people who rely so much on you for their happiness is not a burden I was prepared to take on. It grieves me to admit that. But I don't want to give up my freedom yet.

But last week gave me a glimpse of what I'm missing by living so far from family. In the four days I spent in SF with bigbro, J1, my dad, and my grandmother, I got annoyed by my grandmother, had a yelling match with my brother, and got bored by my dad. I also shared a huge laugh as my grandmother, after refusing to drink, downed half her soju in one gulp. I measured and sawed with my brother and dad as we put down IKEA flooring to make my brother's workspace in the house a little more user-friendly. I listened to my dad explain why he'd turned the picture of my biological grandmother (his mother) around -- "So your grandmother [in truth, my step-grandmother] doesn't feel bad." I watched my grandmother saw through cow bones she boiled a total of four times to collect the nutrient-rich tendons for J1 and the rest of us. I winked back a tear when I saw my father took his first grandchild into his arms, wearing an unfathomable expression of tenderness on his face.

My grandmother, along with bringing hundreds of dollars in baby clothes and mountains of homemade Korean food, gave a sizeable amount of cash to bigbro to celebrate the birth of The Nephew. She didn't give that kind of cash to her other grandchildren in Korea. When I asked my dad why, he explained, "She feels she didn't do enough for you growing up. You were so far away. And then she felt left out of your lives, like she didn't belong. But now, with your bigbro inviting her to see the baby, she feels like she belongs. And she's happy."

I've lived a continent away from my closest relatives since I graduated from high school. I've made some fantastic, lifelong friends. I've gotten to know some cool cities on the East Coast and I've learned a million things that I couldn't have learned had I stayed in California, or if my family hadn't moved from Korea that fateful day in 1976. I don't regret any of the experiences I've had out here -- they made me who I am. But there is something about being with my family -- maybe in particularly my dad and my grandmother, whom I see so rarely -- that makes me, when I leave them, feel like I am leaving a part of myself behind. That makes me, when I am with them, want to hold on to the moment forever, knowing that such precious love-filled moments are finite in number. That makes me, when I am back in my room in Crimson City, feel simultaneously fiercely grateful and fiercely sad.

Baby, baby!

It's all baby, all the time here in SF, where The Nephew is sleeping, pooping, and gnawing on mommy's boobs with abandon. Once in a while he wakes up and gives us an opaque look, which MIGHT mean: "This baby business blows. Wake me up when I can lift my head and control my bowel movements. By the way, do the bunny ears on this hat make me look a little... silly? Dang it all, I KNEW it!"

I'm totally useless around the baby, but I'm glad to say that I help out by running errands for the as-yet still young-looking and energetic parents. (Give 'em a few months.) My goodness, this infant thing is all-absorbing. Who knew it was so complicated? Boppies, pumps, latching on -- it's a whole 'nother world.

In other, less life-changing news, I got my grades this week, and -- thank the sweet heavens above -- I got a B+ in everything except my clinical, for which my dear mentor gave me a big fat A. Whee! That's right, B+ givers! Suck it! Ahem.

Seriously, I'm both relieved and cynical about the grades. Relieved because I thought I did quite poorly on both my corporations and my bankruptcy exams; cynical because whatever I do -- read religiously, don't read at all, go to every class, skip three weeks of the most important stuff, cry in my professor's office, never speak to my professor at all -- the result is inevitable and as predetermined as the sun's course in the heavens. It's like Miss D said to me 1L year: "hk, don't stress about class. Go to class, get the hornbook, take the final and collect your B+ with everybody else." Ha! How true.

Trivialities in Hollyweird

Another morning waking up at 5 am and unable to fall asleep again. You know what that means... Uh huh. More ruminations.

Well, actually, more surfing the net and reading about Firefly and Nathan Fillion (still waitin' for you to call, sugarpie!). I discovered a nifty connection this morning that requires a little backstory -- you know how I've been writing this TV show for my law school writing requirement? Well, my inspiration was Felicity, which ran from 1998 to 2002 and followed the main character through college (but really, the show was about which guy she'd choose). Felicity starred Keri Russell, who is still probably best known for that role. I've been working my way through the series on Netflix DVDs, studying character development and storylines and being impressed by J.J. Abrams (who went on to do Alias and Lost).

Now, the other DVD series I've been watching and thinking about is Firefly, which I recently became obssessed with. Totally different, but equally engaging and beautifully written. Firefly had an ensemble cast, but Nathan Fillion was clearly the breakout (as much as it could be called that) star of that show.

(Still with me? I know, I'm exhibiting all my nerdiness here, but if you keep reading, I'll wind up soon and then I have a kind of neat entry that follows this TV-focused crap.)

So I've been watching Felicity and Firefly and thinking about both a lot, and what do I read today at 6:30 am when I've gotten up exasperatedly and exhaustedly after yet another night of only 6 hours of sleep? Well, I read that Waitress is showing at Sundance, and that it's getting buzz in large part because its writer and director, Adrienne Shelly, was murdered a few months ago. Adrienne Shelly was the sylph who served as Hal Hartley's muse back in the day -- she was lovely in The Unbelievable Truth and Trust, if you like Hartley's Mamet-like stilted yet deeply romantic style (it works. sometimes). She was murdered (probably accidentally) by a contractor she'd been arguing with. Pretty freakin' sad.

So what's the point? Okay, there is none. But Waitress stars Keri Russell and Nathan Fillion.

Yes. Strange. Worth a page of writing and 5 minutes of your life that you'll never get back? Yeah, probably not. It was worth 30 minutes of mine to write, because I like that kind of thing. The connections and the surprising coincidences and the possibility that it might, it just might, mean something more than just the universe winking at you.

(Here I start with the better written and slightly less superficial stuff.)

I don't know if any of you know this, but growing up as a desperately lonely and social outcast in Los Angeles, I used to dream of working in the movies. I subscribed to Premiere. I had a standing date with Mary Hart and John Tesh on Entertainment Tonight every night at 7 pm. I read the L.A. Times Entertainment section with sad, sad intensity. I kept tabs on my hero, George Lucas, and all the actors in Star Wars (even now, I can still name the actor who played the physical Darth Vader -- not James Earl Jones, who was the voice, but the dude who actually strode around under the mask. Seriously. I am not proud). I belonged to some sci fi movie association that occasionally showed advance screenings, to which I occasionally went. With my mom.

I never dreamed really big -- never envisioned myself as a filmmaker or a director or a producer. No, I had more humble dreams: I thought it might be cool to be a film editor. Or in sound effects. Maybe stunts. Maybe some character acting.

They were humble because it wasn't that I felt I had stories to share with the world, or a vision I needed to express. It was more that I wanted to be part of that magic that the movies work, the process of disappearing from this reality to the one that the cast and crew of the film created, a place that didn't exist anywhere but on that flat two-dimensional screen. A place where I wasn't always the new girl in school, terrified and awkward and socially disabled, book smart but people stupid.

My private and posh high school was the high school to the stars. The girl from Wonder Years was in my grade. Steven Spielberg's step-daughter was in my acting class (and was a total bitch, incidentally). Gene Roddenberry's son was in the grade below mine. Jamie Lee Curtis was someone's aunt. Tory Spelling graduated two years before me. So you'd think that if I really wanted to work in the movies, there was no better place in the world for me.

Well. I'll tell you what one of our guides in Ethiopia said to me. Filimon -- a beautiful, gentle soul with a sweet smile and disposition. I asked him what his name meant, and he said in his soft, halting English, "Do you know where the ships disappear? In the ocean?" The Ringleted One and I struggled with that one for a minute before she said, "The Bermuda Triangle?" and I followed with "Your name means the Bermuda Triangle?" Filimon laughed and said, "No, but like ... a mystery. It means one who searches for himself. Wandering from place to place."

Filimon's dream, he said, was to go to Oxford and study psychology. "But I know... it is hard. So I will be a guide," he said, without bitterness. "My friend says, 'Just doing is better,'" he said.

I wanted to tell him, don't give up on your dreams! You can do it! But that's a false and hurtful kind of encouragement. The possibility of Filimon getting into Oxford and studying psychology are so close to zero that it may as well be zero. Most likely he will become a guide, and a good one, and hopefully make a good living in Gonder, and find a nice girl to get married to, and raise a family, and be content. And maybe in his more leisurely moments, of which he will have fewer and fewer as he gets older, he'll think of Oxford, of some picture he might have seen of its dreaming spires and stately courtyards, and think of what might have been if he had been born someone different, someplace different.

I would insult Filimon by comparing myself to him. There are so many options, so many possibilities in my life that I falter at the thought of them. I am so free, I am fettered by my freedom.

But I am, as we all are, limited by certain things. Personality, lack of talent, lack of drive. I'm loving the experience of writing this stupid TV script. I wish I could go and be a crazy dreamer and doer in Hollywood. Create worlds. Make magic. But I don't think that's in the cards for me. That's not to say that it's totally impossible for me to relocate back to the West Coast, dig up some contacts, and try to work in the industry -- it's totally possible. But it's pretty implausible. I've spent the better part of 3 years and a hundred grand on getting this law degree. For better or worse, the smart path is to put that degree to use. And even if the money and the time weren't an issue, remember that I never fit in at my high school, with all the stars and children of the stars. Hollywood demands a certain personality, or a certain bullheaded determination that ignores personality. I didn't -- and don't -- have either.

Sometimes I wonder. I wonder what it means to grow up and put your dreams behind you. I wonder if I should have told Filimon to continue dreaming of Oxford. I wonder when you put down your burden of promise and say, "This is my life." I wonder if I'm being stupid by telling myself that it's not in the cards, or whether I'm finally getting wise.

SOUND THE TRUMPETS!

The Nephew was born today at 5:06 pm, Pacific Standard Time, weighing in at a respectable 7 pounds, 12 ounces. Mother and baby are both doing well. Father (bigbro, to think I should be calling you that!) sounds appropriately awed.

Welcome, nephew mine, welcome to the world. I hope we shall all do you proud.

Race and Rock Stars

Ethiopia is the first place I've traveled to where I have so clearly stood out and been singled out because of my race. Outside of western countries where the Caucasians are used to Asians, I've only traveled to Southeast Asia, where I could sort of blend in. Even when I couldn't, SE Asia sees a lot of East Asian tourists, so I didn't attract that much attention.

Ethiopia was different. There was no way to blend in, no way not to stand out. The Ringleted One and I, we made a memorable pair, and we attracted a lot of attention. "Hello! What's your name?" "Hello! Hello! Where you from?" "Hello, China." "Hello, Japan."

People have been asking me what the hardest part about traveling in Ethiopia was, and it was really this kind of attention that strained me the most. I am not used to being the center of attention -- I shy away from the spotlight, prefer the shadows. But it was impossible to avoid it in Ethiopia. We met a Latin American man who worked in Addis Ababa, and he said that for some reason, the Ethiopians went crazy over Asian faces. Maybe because they are relatively rare (although a lot of construction contracts seem to be with the Chinese).

All I know is that the only time I didn't attract any comments was when I was walking alone in Lalibela, swiftly and purposefully, back to the hotel. I was wearing a hat that went down nearly over my eyes, plus sunglasses, and I looked at no one. Perhaps no one could tell I was Asian.

Have you ever wondered why all celebrities at some point have come out of a restaurant with their heads down, sunglasses on, perhaps a hat or shawl over their head? I knew why by the third or fourth day. It's not that they think they're hiding from the paparazzi. It's just that if you have your head down, your shades on, and a hat on your head, you're less likely to see people staring at you. You're less likely to see heads turn toward you, to see the sidelong or full-on stares that continue past the point of courtesy, to feel the judgment of those who find you a curiosity or a source of entertainment or a novelty. And by pretending that maybe those stares don't exist, you can sort of pretend that you're normal.

I grew very, very tired of all the attention and the attempts to engage us in conversation by the end of the trip. Whenever we went out of doors, a group of young boys and children immediately latched us. Inevitably, they asked, "Hello! How are you?" If you answer, "Fine," they continued, "Where you from? What's your name? Do you remember me?" and in the case of the younger children, maybe "Hello. Money." or "Hello. One birre [Ethiopian currency]." The worst of it happened in Lalibela, which is highly touristed, and at the height, it happened every single time we stepped outside our hotel -- if we went into a store to buy water, a group of teenage boys latched onto us as we stepped out. If we were walking along the road, looking for the ticket office, a group of teenage boys would follow, telling us, "You need guide? Can I practice English with you? Where you from?"

For me, an introvert who is uncomfortable with attention, it was exhausting, and I had a few moments that I'm not proud of, including one 5-minute journey from the store back to the hotel in Lalibela one night, where I pretended not to speak anything but French. "No English!" I declared. "Seulement francais!" After a few minutes, the frustrated boys began to pull at their eyes and say, "Okay, I speak only Chinese! I speak only Japanese!" It was insulting and racist, but I had been insulting to them, refusing to speak English. I was tired and ill, but I could have explained that to them instead of playing games.

On the other hand, attempts to politely demur from conversation often didn't work and sometimes ended in insults; once in Lalibela, The Ringleted One tried to tell a group of boys that I didn't want to talk to them, and got called "stupid" for her troubles. I ended up yelling at the leader that I didn't speak with people who insulted my friends, and they finally shoved off, for whatever reason.

Ah, the roving boy gangs of Lalibela. They weren't violent, and we never felt unsafe, but it wasn't comfortable to feel that we could not deflect attention, and that we would never be left alone unless we hired a guide. Which is what we ended up doing in Lalibela and Harar, and we never regretted it -- our guides were lovely, well-informed young men -- but nevertheless, it was upsetting to think that we simply could not navigate cities alone without harassment.

But no matter how tired or aggravated I was, I could not stop myself from responding from one kind of comment. It was when some boy (and it was always, always young males -- the women were almost uniformly shy and retiring) would say, "Hello, Japan" or "Hello, China." No matter how tired I was, how much I wanted to shut down and ignore everyone, I could never accept those greetings in silence -- I HAD to respond "Not Chinese! Not Japanese! KorEan!"

It surprised me that I was so bothered by people calling me Chinese and Japanese. It surprised me a little less that I immediately said I was Korean. Not American, not Korean-American -- Korean. The one time I said I was from America, the boy looked at me and said, "No." I've had similar responses from boys in Cambodia -- it's hard for non-westerners to grasp the idea that different ethnicities live in the States, and I don't blame them for that, but it rankles nonetheless. It merely echoes many subtle messages from people in the States that I am not seen as truly American either -- the hesitancy when a tourist approaches me on the street because she's not sure I speak English, for example.

In a way, I always responded that I was Korean, not Japanese or Chinese, because I wanted to educate people about Korea, educate them like I want to educate many Americans that Korea is a separate nation with a proud history, that Japan and China and Korea are distinct cultures and lands and that the differences between the three East Asian nations are significant and telling and beautiful. I am not hopeful that many will remember. But I was always conscious of the legacy I might be leaving in the minds of people we encountered. The Ringleted One brought that up a few times -- since there were few Americans traveling in Ethiopia, how much precedent were we setting, and for how long? How much would we impact people's impressions of Americans (or Koreans)? The next year? The next five years? The next ten years?

The trip was not a carefree one, nor was it relaxing. It was exhausting and rewarding. Next time I'll talk about the rewarding part.

Recovery... and anticipation

I slept a blessed 10 hours last night -- much needed and welcomed by this tired sack of blood and bones -- and awoke feeling almost human again. And then read in bed for almost 6 hours, which was also welcomed if not needed.

Still have not worked a whit on my 3L paper. Speaking of which -- have I mentioned what the paper's about? I don't think so, so here it is: I'm writing a proposal and two episodes of a television series about law students. It's not for the purpose of selling it to Hollywood or anything -- as little as I know about television writing, I at least know that it's impossible to get anything noticed by anyone if you're a complete newbie -- but it's been damn fun talking about it and thinking about the characters and writing snippets of dialogue here and there. Damn fun.

But of course, now that I have full, long days to actually write, I don't actually write anything. This is why I couldn't ever take time off to write -- no discipline! At this point, I'm hoping to get a weak draft of the character descriptions to my advisor on Monday.

Speaking of producin' and creatin', let me distract you from that really bad transition by saying that my nephew, who persists in resisting entry into this bad, mad, wonderful world, will probably not be happy tonight, for tonight is when the chemical coaxing begins. It's not so bad, nevvie! Sure, there's terrible things that happen out here in life outside the womb, but there's also puppies and rainbows and bowls of cherries to comfort us. And there's love, my little chickpea, which is a formidable force and will be drizzled on you with care, like fine olive oil on crusty bread topped with luscious tomatoes, fragrant basil and sharp garlic pieces. Mm. Bruschetta. Huh. Did I just compare my as-yet unborn nephew to an Italian appetizer?

AnyHOO. The point being, my thoughts are with J1 and bigbro tonight, as they start the final stage to that condition of life called parenthood. Bon courage!

Photo Preview

As I seem to be destined to while away the winter term being exhausted, sleeping, or hobbling about, here's a little of what I saw in Ethiopia. I'll try to transcribe some of my travel journal entries over the next few weeks, with appropriate pics to accompany. But in the meantime...

A country girl who tagged along when we went to see the bleeding heart baboons near Gondar

A shopkeeper in Harar, the medieval walled city in the east

Woman and children in Harar

Pilgrims in Lalibela for Ethiopian Christmas

Recovering

After 3 days of invalidism, during which I alternated between: 1. lying in bed staring at the ceiling; 2. sitting up in bed propped by many pillows staring at my laptop to watch ABC shows online; or 3. hobbling weakly to the kitchen for water, occasionally putting out a hand to steady myself on the wall, I managed to rouse myself enough today to get out of the dorm.

Actually, I should thank Resident Evil, because last night I was going a bit stir crazy after three days of no human contact, and so actually showered and got dressed and stuff ... in order to walk downstairs and watch the last episode of Firefly I hadn't seen from her box set with her. I'd been avoiding watching it because I was afraid of getting obsessed all over again, but watching it with Resident Evil made it easier not to get sucked back in. I think I successfully held the obsessive tendencies at bay, but... damn, that was a good show. And damn, Nathan Fillion is hot. Resident Evil and I amused ourselves by discussing said hotness for a while, contemplating a drive across the country to Studio City to stalk the man, becoming his "friend" on myspace, and considering the relative unhealthiness and insanity of ourselves and our love for the delectable (and highly talented!) actor.

Anyhoo. About today -- yeah, I finally slept some normal hours (11 pm to 7 am) and did a fair bit of unpacking before getting exhausted at 8:30 am and collapsing onto the bed again. I did go to the doctor today after all, who rejected the idea of malaria and sent me to offer up some blood at the lab.

Thus, outside the doctoring, about all I managed today was to unpack and organize my papers. Which isn't a small feat, considering the fact that I had to match rest and work in about a 1:1 ratio, but which does mean that I have two days left to the winter term, and I have not touched my 3L paper. Well, tomorrow is another day.

Sti'ick (abbreviated form of "still sick")

The past two days have been a blur of trying to eat despite total lack of appetite, feeling nauseated when I do eat, sleeping in an effort not to feel nauseated, waking up with my stomach completely empty, trying to muster up the energy to get a drink of water at the other end of the hall, watching my Netflix DVDs, and generally feeling pretty pathetic.

Ugh. Yesterday I fell asleep at 2 pm and woke up at 11 pm with a raging headache. Tried to eat something. Felt like hurling, so went to lie on bed to rest and instead fell asleep. Woke up at 2 am, tried to eat again. Been up now for 4 hours. (Yes, that was completely repetitive of the first paragraph. I know. Becoming a bit addled, perhaps, due to too many days without eating properly.)

Sigh. Despite my misanthropic tendencies, I have far too much self-pity and too many hypochondriac fantasies to become a real hermit. I also enjoy drama a little too much. Thus I will probably go to the school doctor today, who will tell me that no, I do not have typhoid, yellow fever, malaria, or meningitis (which I know already, since I took drugs for all of those diseases before my trip); that I need to "increase my caloric intake" (which is what a nurse told me during college after a semi-long illness at the end of which I was walking around feeling like I was going to faint); and that no, she will not admit me to the hospital so that I can feel justified in avoiding all work (I haven't even unpacked my suitcase, which for me is a big deal since I usually unpack the minute I get ho-- c'mon lady, just give me an IV, already! Please?).

First off: Many thanks to The Ringleted One for blogging on Saturday! Isn't she great, folks? Let's give her a hand, and hope she returns soon!

Simplicities

The cold/flu/malaria/typhoid/yellow fever that's been hounding me for the past week finally caught up with me on Saturday night, when I returned to Crimson City. It graciously allowed me enough strength to take public transportation home (I just couldn't shell out $45 for a cab, not when the bus/subway costs $2), and then gracefully sprang in the air when I got home and pounced right onto my shoulders, causing me to crumple into bed feeling dazed, feverish and enervated.

And bed is where I've been for the past 36 hours or so, as the beast commands. Thank god for diningin.com is all I can say, for the cool, rainy weather outside completely shut off any energy I might have mustered to go out and fetch myself some food.

This is the second morning I've seen this side of 5 am, thanks to jet lag. Fortunately, this morning I have a bit of food in the house; yesterday, with my stomach clamoring loudly about its empty state, I scrounged around desperately and came up with two packets of instant oatmeal that were about a year old. Oh well, I thought, holding up the two wrinkled packets, oatmeal doesn't really go bad, does it? Apparently not, as I'm still standing (metaphorically).

I may have mentioned before how I enjoy being slightly sick -- it affords me a good reason to shut down and off, to avoid dreaded school emails and other responsibilities, and to feel not a whit guilty about lying in bed doing nothing or reading trashy novels or watching bad TV. Life becomes a lot simpler, and as a basically simple fool, I love that. For example, last night I was dizzy and nauseated at 10 pm. Well, I've eaten recently, I thought, so this must mean I need sleep. Okay, I'll sleep! And this morning, at 4:30 am? Feeling weak and nauseated? Well, I just slept, so that must mean I need food. Okay, I'll eat! And so here I am, eating leftover tom yum soup and rice at 5:30 am.

Being mildly sick also provides a good opportunity to ruminate, if the body so allows and the mind is receptive, and I did some quality cud-chewing yesterday, as I lay on the floor staring at the ceiling (besides being a change of scenery, it also gave my back a break from the horrible school-issued bed I have). I had an odd sort of thought about myself, which was this: I kind of like the person I turned out to be. This is the year of my 10th college reunion, and over the past 10 years, I've become someone I can tolerate. I don't have a house, a job, a fulfilling career, a boyfriend, a car, or any of the conventional trappings of success, but I try to be a good person, I do, and I'm troubled when I don't succeed. And I think ... I think that if I wasn't me and happened to meet me, I might like me.

Yeah, it might be the fever talking. But I'm going to hold on to that thought as if it weren't.

Hopefully, one more day in bed will send the beast slinking away from my door and set me free to do the copious amount of writing I need to do for my 3L paper (not to mention travel blogging!). Fortunately, as I suspected, I haven't heard a peep from my advisor about it, which probably means he's completely forgotten that I'm supposed to be producing a draft of a couple things by Friday. Here's hoping!

Guest blogger: The Ringleted One Speaks

Ok, I've been promising to be a guest blogger for about 3 years now. I think hk and I first discussed it around the time she flipped that fateful coin in Hanoi on New Year's Eve.

We are just back from the dry, dusty horn of Africa, chat capital of the world. Hk is imitating a panini on my sofa, nicely wrapped in a down comforter. Occasionally a hand pops out to sproing one of my curls. Sproing. We are exhausted and parched. Mmmmm, I fantasize about pomegranate juice. Some of that guava heaven from Gonder would be quite refreshing as well.

Remember, save the donkey. Save the world.

The weary traveler returns

Got back this morning (Jan. 12) at 1 am, after 24 hours in transit, including 4 hours sitting around at Heathrow, waiting for the blustery weather to let us take off.

So. Tired.

But back!

Still thirsty, though. You know the National Geographic programs on Africa, when inevitably the narrator intones, "Now it is the dry season. And the land is parched. Mikele [or whatever name they've given the lioness, leopard, fox, elephant or hyena] and her cubs are weakening"? That was me and The Ringleted One. At Heathrow, we parked ourselves at the beauty supply store and slathered on samples of Occitane shea butter, under the eyes of the sniggering sales ladies.

Back to Crimson City tomorrow, for a week of recovery and writing.

Ululations

So how cool is this -- ululating with old ladies from Addis Ababa in a crowd of 20,000 white-shawled pilgrims as the sun rises on Ethiopian Christmas?

Pretty damn cool, I tell ya.

Much too much to blog about while paying per minute, but I will say this about our dusty, 4-wheel drive-required trip to a 9th century church in a cave yesterday: "Save the donkey. Save the world." (I'll explain later. But all credit to The Ringleted One for that one.)

Last evening in Lalibela. The pilgrims have gone home, the sheep have been slaughtered for Christmas dinner, and we are headed to Aksum ourselves tomorrow for a brief stay before returning to Addis.

Christmas in Ethiopia

I'm in Ethio Supermarket in Lalibela, and Ethiopian Christmas is around the corner, on Jan. 7. All night celebrations and festivities in this Christian country, most happening right here, a Mecca of sorts for this country.

It's been exhausting and rewarding, in the sorts of ways traveling in a developing country usually is. I've not enough money (paying by the minute here!) to describe it all, but for a few highlights:

- "If you don't know your goat, you don't know yourself!" -guide in Harar, explaining how people know which goats are theirs

- "She was beautiful in the usual ethiopian way -- you know, no teeth, but hot." - fellow traveler and aid worker living in Kenya, in Gondar

- "Japan? China?" "Not Japanese! Not Chinese! KOREAN! Go Reds!" - exchange between about 500 kids and adults and myself over the past 10 days

- "My name means one who searches for oneself." - Filimon, our beautiful and gentle guide in Gondar

If you've heard of conflict in the area, rest assured The Ringleted One and I are safe, and there are lots of tourists taking the same route we are.

Now, off to experience the country and battle the begging kids again!