The Myth of #NewYearNewMe, and Our Obsession with the Gregorian Calendar

I have a love/hate relationship with New Year's Resolutions. It is a topic that has been discussed before, but I have yet to cement my feelings on the subject. I'm always looking for ways to live a more "fulfilled" life, and as one of my bosses recently (only half-jokingly) pointed out, I "crave structure." Or maybe it was "desperately need structure." Either way, his point rings true - because I live such an unstructured daily life - professionally and socially - I enjoy the accountability that comes with New Year's Resolutions. Making an intentional plan, setting attainable, detailed goals, and scheduling specific checkpoints along the way sounds glamorous, almost, especially when you can post about progress on Instagram and Facebook with the hashtag #NewYearNewMe, and click it to see how everyone else is doing on their goals. The knowledge that many others around the world are doing the same thing makes me feel like I'm part of a community of idealistic realists, ready to conquer our demons and accomplish our goals. On the other hand, it sucks. It too often turns self-identifying 'idealistic realists' into sad, jaded, New York Pessimists (NYPs for short, also my proposed mascot for the city's next professional sports team. No, they won't have a cheerleading squad). Too often do people set unrealistic goals, and become disappointed when they don't accomplish them. All too often, people are motivated for a week or a month, but lose motivation and make little or no actual progress or change. I slipped into the world of NYPs this year, on January 7th.

It started on New Year's Eve. I stand on a semi-tangential soapbox when discussing New Year's Eve plans: 90% of New Year's Eve plans, especially in metropolitan areas, are centered around the hype. And they almost always turn to disappointment, because the fairy-tale notion of going to 6 parties in all 6 boroughs (Fun Fact: NYC opens a separate borough on NYE called Richperson Island with an hourly partyferry that runs from 10pm-7am) does not come true. That party you *think* you can get into at EquiToxic, the gym/dance club/art gallery, has an age limit of 21. On either side. Like, to get in, you have to be 21. The dream of meeting the perfect man by the stroke of midnight and kissing a frog/beast/bear/woolly mammoth as the ball drops, turning him into a Ken-doll-but-with-genitalia, and running through a sunlit meadow of lilies and snow at sunrise on New Year's Day never becomes a reality. To combat the inevitable frustration, I decided to stay in.

...actually, who am I kidding? I'm a 20-something, extroverted millennial. I planned to party-hop til noon, armed with my mantra to go with the flow and just let everything play out, expecting nothing. I hadn't slept much the night before, but it would be fine. The night went as follows:
8:08pm: Awesome. Only 8 minutes late to a friend/neighbor's house to get ready for the night. Dressed in someone else's clothes, I'm lookin' fiiiiine.
8:47pm: Later leave-time than expected. It takes a while prepping (re: eating leftover Christmas desserts and talking too much), but we knew that might happen. Fine.
9:53pm: Slow trains, because it's December 31st. It's fine, we know this. We arrive in the East Village a bit later than we had planned, with a few slices of uneaten chocolate cake for the hostess gift - I had been tempted to scarf them down while waiting for the train, but I save the slices. Victory.
10:27pm: Having a blast! Steven, the twin brother, who came up from North Carolina for the festivities, planned to meet me at this location. My loquaciousness and lack of attention to my phone, coupled with his underdeveloped sense of direction (I take blame... I ate most of the nutrients in the womb, sorry bro!) push his arrival a tad later than planned. Fine, we knew that might happen, but so far the night has been spectacular.
10:46pm: This is where it gets tricky. We had planned to leave and hang out with Steven's friends for a bit, so we run the 1.3 miles to a West Village bar where his friend is playing guitar. Steven keeps up. No one vomits from exhaustion. We get there just in time... for his friends to walk out. But it's Fine. We didn't want to pay the $10 cover with a 2 drink, 3 appetizer minimum anyway, we say.
10:53pm-11:16pm: The short, quick walk to another friend's super-cool, swanky, basketball-court-on-the-roof, recording-studio-in-the-basement apartment in SoHo turns into a 9-person parade to a pizza place and down a mistaken road or 4. It's fine, I just need to be in Harlem by midnight.
11:17pm: Oh FIIIINE, I guess I'll participate in the toast to the old year. Oh, it's a game? Count me in! It needs to be short though, I have to be in Harlem by midnight.
11:36pm: Uh oh, look at the time! I won't be able to make it! But we're having fun, I'll just stay here for the ball-drop. Let me text my friend that I'll be late... wait, where's my phone? Oh, there it is.
12:00am: Happy New Year! I love you all! Goodbye, take care! Hmm, I should text that I'm close. I'll run. It'll be fine.
1:00am: No, seriously guys, I have to leave. Friends are waiting, but I love you and this conversation about your dog's cute rain boots is too important to miss!
2:00am: See you soon, I gotta go! Wow, 2am already? Ok, let me just text them and say I'll meet them at the after-party in Hamilton Heights. It's totally fine.
Fast forward to 5:13am, in Times Square, flagging down a sleepy policewoman - I had fallen asleep on the train to the after-party, and awoke 2 hours later without my wallet. I blame my father for the genes of a deep-sleeper.

So, my New Year's Eve plans did not work out as I had wanted, and I had let down some friends who were waiting on me so graciously towards the end of the night. But it was a new year! I could tag all of my Facebook updates with #NewYearNewMe, and start anew! I wrote my Resolutions on poster-paper: Run another marathon, go to the gym every day, weekly voice lessons, learn French, host a dinner party once-a-month, write a musical. I got a new phone on January 2nd. 2016 was gonna be my year! Then I lost a bag on January 3rd. It had toiletries, gloves, and a journal, so it could have been worse, but I couldn't help feeling the slow engulfing of the NYP. On January 5th, I pulled a muscle in my leg, right before audition season. On January 6th, I still hadn't found a room to move into once my sublet was up. I had only been to the gym once, and spent a literal 3.5 minutes on a language-learning app before getting bored. But on January 7th, I read an e-mail from my old yoga studio, offering a significant discount to return, since I hadn't been in 6 months. I ran into a friend who mentioned he had started teaching there, and he invited me to come to his class. It was just the impetus I needed to pay for a month-long, unlimited pass. It was a commitment. A resolution. A Resolution. I vowed to take a yoga class every day for the month. I resolved to enhance my diet to build more muscle, and to practice calming exercises for 5 minutes a day. And I failed.

And I was okay with it. I rarely like to fail (I guess no one likes to fail, right?) and it's a mix of pride and insecurity sprinkled with desire to prove self-worth that angers me when I fail - but this has been different. The term "resolution" has some weight to it, because it is rarely used in colloquial conversation. People use the term at the beginning/end of the year, and we literally capitalize (and capitalize on) the word, giving it more clout than it used to have, more influence than it should have. In truth, we are constantly making resolutions, even if they are not "Resolutions." Take my previous roommate, for example. Bless his heart, he is so awesome, but he always buys too much food. He'll come home with 9 bananas and a gallon of milk, for his breakfast and coffee, and every time, 2 weeks later, I'll pour half a gallon of sour milk down the drain and throw 2 bananas in the garbage (and if you know me, you know how much I hate food waste, haha). He realizes that is what happens, but the following day buys 9 more bananas and another gallon of milk. He is subconsciously, and sometimes even consciously, resolving to eat healthier, and tells himself that this time is different. I respect the embarkment of the resolution, even if it does not come to fruition. So, if we are doing these things anyway, why make such a big deal out of it once a year, on January 1st?

It's arbitrary. The Gregorian Calendar isn't even the easiest calendar to follow, what with leap years and daylight savings. January 1 does not denote the start of a lunar or solar cycle. It is just another cold, wintry day in the Northern Hemisphere. It's a day like any other, except for the collective desire to do better. Which is not innately wrong. But the desire easily warps into negative comparisons, waste (of time, money, energy, stress, worry) and pressure. In our collective conscience, we see January in a specific way. I have starting calling it the "Case of the Januarys", a la Garfield or that woman from Office Space and their feelings about Mondays. We want the idealism of a new year, but are often disappointed by the weather, lack of sun, and overall Pessimist-inducing nature of January. I want less of #NewYearNewMe and more of those posters with an eagle and a mountain, saying "This Is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life." Less Resolutions and more resolving to do better. Less measuring of time and more measuring of experience.

It's February 2nd, and I have yet to host a dinner party. I have taken voice lessons, but not weekly. I go to yoga often, but not every day. I have resolved, today, to prepare better for auditions. Because a Resolution on the first day of the year, or a resolution on any other day of the year, should not be measured in failure or success, it should be measured in effort, persistence, and resistance. Resistance to the temptation to fail, but more importantly, resistance to the desire to call it a Failure. That's why gym memberships spike in January but fall in February and March. We decide we have failed and move on, instead of trying again. I'm headed out to yoga in a minute. I didn't go yesterday, but I plan on going tomorrow, and the next day. And I am excited for the resolutions that I can make, break, and re-mold today, tomorrow, and throughout the year.

With Gratitude,
Will

P.S. During the snowstorm I had my tri-monthly stress-out about productivity, and the Beyoncé comparisons crept in. You know, the adage that she has the same 24 hours as everyone else (which is still not proven to be 100% true). Even with this blog post, I had a plan to write through the weekend and finish before the snow melted, but as is with most plans for productivity, the more time I have and the less time restrictions or accountability I am given, the less likely I am to accomplish the goal. Accountability is powerful. Community is powerful. Also, I'm counting the brownish slush in shady spots as snow and it has yet to melt. Resolution accomplished.

 Steven and I at the fancy-shmancy place

 Unintentionally #twinning

 Some random Instagram picture I screen-shot. Appropriate, though.

 I know it sounds hippie-dippie, but it has helped me. Kinda cool that all of that is in one word. 

 I successfully moved another time, and the new roomie didn't know about snow cream.

My response when he mentioned he didn't know about snow cream. But we bond over this: 30 Rock.

Committed to the Curvy Road

An article written by the eloquent Julie Collins Bates about my winding journey:



Committed to the Curvy Road

Not Traveling, but Definitely Not Stationary

ສະບາຍດີ (Sabai Dee)! Hola! اسلا عليكم (Salam Aleikum)! Olá! Ahoj! Bonjour! HELLO!

***SCROLL DOWN TO THE BOTTOM FOR THE SPARKNOTES VERSION***

***PICTURES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE***

After being exposed to a variety of different languages and cultures during my 4 years in undergrad at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (Go Heels!), 7 of which I've utilized above (can you name all 7?), I have encountered a much different transition than those to which I had become accustomed. There were some similarities between the start of this adventure and the start of the many others I had taken throughout college: the stress-induced insomnia the night before, filled with frantic cramming of socks in new-found suitcase pockets, the shoving of home-cooked food down my throat (most of it voluntary, but somewhat force-fed by Roberta "You'll Surely Starve in A Week Without This Food" Thomason), the tears and double-embrace, because one hug just won't be enough, the promises of regular contact and detailed updates. But this time I was not traveling to a Communist, UXO-ridden foreign land or a country on the verge of revolution; this time, I was traveling to a place I had been many times before, a place which was the center of many of my dreams. This time, I was going to New York City.

Let's set the scene. It is around 9:00pm on August 3, 2012, and I'm sitting at a mall in Durham, North Carolina, savoring the taste of my double-chocolate brownie 2-scoop ice cream in a cup, because it lasts longer that way. They ran out of Rocky Road, but my spirit is only slightly dampened. I have my shorts on my lap, having recently changed out of my work-out clothing in the mall restroom. I'm silent, a rarity in my everyday life, but a state I have come to appreciate. I am reflecting on my day of preparation for the Big Move. My recently-bought (much to my parents' dismay) bus ticket downloaded on my iPhone (R.I.P.), my suitcases jammed into Dad's blue hybrid car, my face sweaty, mostly because I did not plan enough time to shower after my final class with David Alan, an instructor with whom I have gotten very close. But some of that face-sweat comes from adrenaline, produced by a mix of nervousness, uncertainty, pleasure, worry, excitement for the little-known road ahead. I think about the decision I've made, after the hours of thought and discussion, and the myriad of twists and turns in the past year that have led me to this place. I am about to move to the Big Apple, not to work on Wall Street like I had projected in high school or for a Marketing Firm in Midtown like I had told my friends when declaring my major Sophomore Year. And I wasn't working for a Non-Profit, Social Entrepreneur, the Peace Corps, or Student Affairs office, all of which I had looked at when starting job applications during the Fall of my last year of college. I am moving to Empire City to pursue a career in Ballet.

How did this come about, you ask? Rewind even farther back to the Summer of 2011, right before the legendary senior year at UNC. My last post was written at the end of my summer travelling throughout South America, Spain, and Morocco, and I had enjoyed a fairly calm and expected junior year, complete with stress about extra-curriculars, stress about my social life, and stress about grades, mixed with late-night trips to Cookout to grab a strawberry banana milkshake, dance parties lasting 'til dawn, and deep conversations on a blanket in the Quad. Y'know, the usual. I had started an internship researching water purification techniques and serving as a development intern for a non-profit located in the Penyem village of The Gambia, in West Africa. I will be the first to admit the I was not well-suited for the job. It was completely self-directed with few mandatory checkpoints, no minimum number of hours a day or week, and it was all done virtually, through Skype or e-mail. Add civil unrest and an aborted trip to meet the locals for whom I was working, and I was a mess. I hated doing something I was not good at - in the past, if there was even a hint I would not succeed at a hobby or a task, I would do what any good leader does: delegate, or switch to something else (only half joking). This time, I just had to suck it up and realize that my selfish wish of meeting impoverished Africans and giving them water was littered with white privilege and my desire to feel important and "good." The thing is, I am bad at doing good when it doesn't make me feel great. While chugging through my self-made misery, interrupted intermittently by calls to friends staying in Chapel Hill (my good friend Rana Alkhaldi as the main culprit) with any excuse to procrastinate, I knew I needed a pick-me-up, something I wasn't awful at, but something that was new and exciting. I had recently stopped singing in a formal group, I had already done the marathon thing, and the new language I was going to tackle was Mandinka, the official language of The Gambia, but that was out of the question because I had no reason to learn it anymore. I was watching Hulu one night on my hand-made bed, constructed by my grandfather Laughlin, and I came across the show So You Think You Can Dance. I had taken dance classes in elementary and middle school, but the only moves I remembered were plie and fondu(e), because it was also the name of a food. Cheesy, I know. The happiness they showed and the height of their jumps and leaps on the show astounded me, and it convinced me that this could be a great outlet to let off frustration and focus my thoughts, one that could be a change from my usual outlet of long-distance running. I looked up dance studios around the Chapel Hill area, and the Chapel Hill Ballet School caught my eye - it was close to my house, housed classes that I could take as a Phys. Ed. credit at UNC, and offered a scholarship program for boys wanting to dance with parents that approved (because let's be honest, in North Carolina, that number is about 13). So I started taking classes on Tuesday nights. Then Tuesday/Thursday classes. When school started, I arranged my schedule to enroll in the classes offered through UNC, and attended the boys classes on Fridays. One day, an instructor pulled me aside and asked me to come the following Saturday, and I arrived, jumped a little, and received a call the following week that I had been cast as the Wolf in Chapel Hill Dance Theater's production of Peter and the Wolf. From there, dance took up more and more of my time, and while I still enjoyed extra-curricular activities like UNC Dance Marathon (FTK!), the Campus Y, Interactive Theatre Carolina, and others, ballet became a central source of happiness and desire to work, literally, to the best of my physical ability. After a brief trip to The City for New Year's, Laurie, my UNC ballet instructor, urged me to audition for a summer intensive, to have an unforgettable experience before heading off into the real world of 9-to-5 desk jobs. The Joffrey Ballet School happened to be holding auditions in Raleigh one Saturday afternoon, and despite some confusion and feeling of being extremely out of my element, I found myself waiting anxiously for the promised letter 2 weeks after my audition. In the letter was not only an acceptance to the summer program, but also an invitation to the Joffrey Trainee Program, a Pre-Professional year-round full-time program aimed at preparing dancers for roles in nationally-acclaimed companies. I talked to everyone and their mother (including mine), visited NYC again for Spring Break, talked to a mentor/friend Terry Bowman while I was there, and on May 13, 2012, when seemingly everyone else read out their plans of joining Forbes 500 companies at the Kenan-Flagler Business School graduation ceremony, I stood with my Carolina blue gown on, detailing my plans to become a professional ballet dancer.



Now it is October 20, a chilly Saturday evening, and I am about to leave for one of my 4 part-time jobs, a resident that has too-fully embodied the mantra of the City that Never Sleeps. My leotard is about to go in the wash and my dance belt is drying on my door handle (Note: a dance belt is like a jock strap, but tighter and much more uncomfortable. I'll leave you to do more research if you would like), my ballet shoes on queue for me to get around to sewing on new elastics. I usually wake up at 7:00am (who am I kidding... I press snooze and sleep for 15 more minutes) and take the L-train in my 40-minute commute to my home-away-from-home, where I sluggishly warm up from 8:30-9. After two 1.5 hour-long technique, variation, coaching or pas-de-deux classes, I chug what's left of my two water bottles and chow down on the previous night's leftovers - hopefully with some hors d'oeuvres that I took home from a catering gig or dark chocolate from a package mailed to me by a friend. From 1-5pm are Repertoire classes, Kinetics, Dance History, Nutrition, Anatomy, Character, Modern, Contemporary, or Jazz, (I placed out of Music class in order to take another Contemporary class, SCORE!), then a free night-time Adult technique class or a quick-change and deodorant application, and off to work. I have started to follow somewhat of a routine and have found time to go out, to meet up with friends visiting for the weekend, or to grab a drink at a favorite Happy Hour place. Weekends consist of Core & Conditioning classes, work, Craigslist volunteering adventures, and Central Park snoozing, and I couldn't be happier. It is absolutely nothing like I had imagined life would be after college, but it is the right place for me, for now. I am living with a sense of urgency, yet fulfillment, with a perfect blend of consistency and spontaneity, with a lot of eustress and little distress. I feel like Master Wayne, and my Catwoman's spandex is in the form of a leotard and pink tights instead of a black pantsuit, and I am the ruler of my part of Empire City. And I feel good.

Until next time,

Will

Pictures:

The first sight of my new city after I woke up on the "Scary Bus" (copyright Roberta Thomason)

My home!

My home away from home.

Financial District patriotism.

More patriotism. This one: Sunset on the Highline.

My first celebrity sighting. Matt Bomer shooting "White Collar." Awesome, I know.

Stereotypical "I'm a Tourist in Times Square" photo. Had to.

Holy Moly I love this. Goal: One day be one of the dancers in this musical. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7q3V8zzjXQ

After a catering event I was invited out with the host of the fancy party. To an even fancier club. I mean LOOK AT THAT BATHROOM!

The beautiful Central Park.

Parents came up to bring 2 more suitcases and make sure I was still alive. Took me to see super star-studded Broadway show The Best Man. What up North Carolina!

Seriously, I probably make at least $2 a month just from change I pick up.

Saw my friend Doug Thompson in a workshop of "Madam Fury's Traveling Show," and he was fantastic!

Coke Scholars meet-up on a rooftop in Midtown, and my friend Jackie made a cake!

Found the Bar-B-Q place Brother Jimmy's, and they stream UNC football games, complete with Blue Cups all the way from He's Not!

My friend Landen came to visit - little sleep but a lot of fun!

A fun-filled package from my good friend Caroline :)

For all HIMYM fans, the bar that MacLaren's is based off of.

There is at least one festival/fair/free street event every week.

Another fair. This one in Jumbo, Brooklyn - everything was bartered, no money allowed. I exchanged a smile for some garlic, and this artist would draw you if you drew her.

And yet another fair, MakerFaire. A Craigslist adventure, volunteering for ScrapKins, which turned into a part-time job!

One of the Craigslist adventures? An extra in a feature film!

Another CL adventure, jumping on trampolines for a music video in exchange for free food! (Note: to watch the video, type in "The Cosmics Feelin' So High" into youtube. Caution - Strong language use.)

An art gallery opening reception in the West Side. This is made from clothing and jewelry from Madonna, Jamie Lee Curtis, Sharon Stone, Janet Jackson, and more.

The 2012 National Youth Entrepreneurship Challenge, hosted by NFTE. I was invited to the Evening Reception by Terry Bowman, and ran into someone I met on the Subway two weeks before!

A birthday celebration for my friend Sofia - prime example of the male-female ratio at the Joffrey.

Volunteering in over-sized Coke t-shirts at the Harlem Education Fair.

Friends at Rockaway Beach, an hour train-ride from my house.

This store had the world's largest Twizzler and Kit-Kat bars. Aka a taste of heaven.

A fall-themed potluck hosted by my friend Andrew. Yum!



SPARKNOTES VERSION:

1. Since I last wrote, I had a calm-ish junior year, a difficult 2011 summer, and a crazy fun senior year.

2. I moved to New York to become a ballet dancer.

3. I have 4 part-time jobs and school, but also make time for fun.

4. I love my life here, and feel so, so good.

5. Until next time! Feel free to comment/e-mail/Facebook/tweet/carrier-pidgeon me!

مباركرمضان - Ramadan Mubarak!

Hello all,
Today is the first day of Ramadan in Morocco, and I am excited to experience this awesome cultural event! I have done a lot in the past 10 days, and I feel bittersweet knowing that I only have a few more days until I return home.

una montaña rusa emocional

This past week has been an emtional "montaña rusa", or roller coaster, of highs and lows. I have been impressed, frustrated, excited, nervous, exhausted, stressed, confused, satisfied, curious, touched, and encouraged, among other feelings, and have surely learned the importance of "thinking of the good times, not the bad."

After my time spent in the North Argentina indigenous lands among the poorest of the poor, I took the opportunity to travel to the famed Iguazu Falls. For those of you who know nothing about this natural beauty, here is the wikipedia site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iguazu_Falls. Basically, it is Niagara Falls times 10. maybe times a hundred. After the long, stuffed bus-ride and seemingly never-ending trek to find a cheap hostel with free beds and internet access, I took yet another bus to the site of the falls, where I could already feel the mist of the forest. Having been in the dead of winter for the previous month, I welcomed the change of temperature and climate. Compared to the dry desert of Mendoza, this place felt as if it were raining all the time. After paying my discounted price (I told them I had an Argentine residence and showed them my study abroad card - and they accepted it!) I sauntered into the national park, ready for the ropes and chains and security that i so plainly remembered from my high school church trip to Niagara. But what I saw was minimal safety measures and wooden platforms with a simple railing so close to the falls that if you came up to the edge, you were sure to be drenched. Walking on the path to the central point, I noticed the thriving flora and fauna of this place, in particular the monkey-raccoon-anteaters that my friends and parents had warned me about. As a careless traveler, I let my bag with my orange and peanut-butter-banana sandwich hang at my side, and before I could react, one of these little creatures was tearing at the bag. With others watching and jumping, I snatched the bag off of the ground with the animal attached by the mouth, and shook it violently until the creature released its grip and sulked away. Normally I am not this intense with animals - in fact, I usually timidly sneak around and try my hardest not to disturb them - but this was my peanut-butter-banana sandwich he was after. And let me tell you, the two things that are not available in Argentina, which I bought in Chile and rationed out for the next 10 days, are peanut butter and sliced bread. He could take my orange, but he was NOT going to take my prized commodities.

Shortly after this episode, camera in hand, I approached the first bridge to take my first glance at the waterfalls that so many had raved about. I was excited to see the beauty and wonder of these falls, but as I approached the edge of a platform and looked out into the vast range of water falling all around, I became overwhelmed with awe. I had seen pictures, but they are nothing compared to the experience of experiencing these falls. The breeze through your hair mixed with the mist on your skin, the rich and heavy sound of water rushing past you with impenetrable force, the scent of forest plants and tropical air filling your nose make he Iguazu Falls so incredible. With more hiking, picture-taking, and occasional snacking, I ran into two girls I met at the hostel earlier that day. They were on their second day at the falls, and having just interned for 8 weeks in Paraguay were making a trip to see this hopeful New World Wonder. We discussed the different falls and took pictures of one another, and they introduced me to the "Devil's Throat," the most famous of all of the sections of Iguazu because of the sheer pressure and quantity of water, and full of myths and legends. Named the Devil's Throat because of the mist that eternally rises from the depths of the falls, it looks as if the Devil is breathing from the underworld. It is, to put it mildly, incredible. Times like these make me think of the awesome opportunity I've been given to experience these powerful sites.

A special opportunity I had during my time at Iguazu was to go on the "Full Moon" tour of the Falls. It is only offered during the full moon of each month, and I, by chance, had come during a full moon. Those of us who signed up for the tour crowded into a train and rode to the Devil's Throat, already knowing the power of it but excited to see it in a different light. The two most beautiful parts of this tour were the way the moon shown off of the water, turning it white, and the fact that there were less than 20 of us, engulfed in this uncrowded and strangely peaceful part of nature, stars shining alongside the full moon without a hint of light pollution. Though marketed as a romantic night to remember, instead of looking into the eyes of a lover, I was able to stare into the figurative eyes of God.







After my mini-vacation I took another long bus to Buenos Aires, to spend an action-packed week full of reading about, then exploring, then interviewing, a variety of governmental, non-profit, and religious officials who work in the fight against poverty. I will not bore you with the specific stories, but I invite you to read my final report once I have compiled all of the research into an essay overview. On the morning of Monday, July 26, with my two backpacks and plastic bags I stumbled into the Subte (Metro) station, and as I sleepily and awkwardly paid for my $1.10 ticket with a $10 bill, someone, through all of the hustle-and-bustle, managed to take my wallet out of my pocket. I did not find this out until much later, but after retracing my steps and learning about that part of town from friends, I realized that the Subway station is where someone made a pretty penny. I had recently taken some bills out of an ATM, and had my Driver's License and only plastic form of payment in my wallet, so needless to say it was (and still is) a bit of a hassle to cancel my card, order a new one (and Driver's License), and figure out what to do for the rest of the trip. Thankfully South America partners up with the US to deliver funds from home to a "Banco Frances," and I was relieved at how easy it seemed to just use a code and a passport to receive money wired to me from my parents. But little did I know, even after spending 5 months in the country, that Argentina's banks, like their government, are extremely inefficient and surprisingly bureaucratic, not to mention the fact that everything opens an hour later than they say yet closes promptly at 2pm. After multiple trips form one government agency to another to prove I was who I said I was, I gave up and decided to use the much easier yet far more expensive Western Union. What a pain.

Another setback was the fact that though I had multiple contacts with whom I had arranged meeting, 9 out of 10 times they were either late, forgot about it, or hadn't checked their e-mail in a while and assumed I would not want to talk to them anymore. And the worst was when someone asked for payment for a 15 minute interview. I know I was given a stipend for use this summer, but I don't remember budgeting for "interview fees." With all of this, there were some great interviews and interesting stories: a meeting with a friend who recently made a documentary on non-profits in Argentina, one with a company owner, and contacts with doctors, priests, and a goverenmental aide (though low on the food chain) about the 2010 Mercosur conference on the Millenium Development Goals (http://www.undp.org/mdg/) in Buenos Aires, the 2001 economic crisis, and the recent government corruption in falsifying statistics on poverty and unemployment.

It was great to see some UNC-ites as well in Buenos Aires. I spent much of my time with two Morehead-Cain scholars who are on their public service summer, and they introduced me to their host family and friends. I also spent time with a good friend Daniel Sircar, and reflected on time spent in this country. A Morehead alumna, Anna Marshall ('09), treated me to coffee at the famous Cafe Tortoni, where we delved into conversation and discussion ranging from the difficulties of vegetarianism to gender expression in Argentina, among others. As we kept telling stories and sharing points of view, the time for coffee was up, so we walked along the street and decided to go for pizza. After more discussion we resolved to end with some sweets (obviously with dulce de leche involved) filled with food in our bellies and thought in our minds.

Now in Montevideo, Uruguay, I await my flight to Sevilla, Spain, where I will try to decipher the difference between South American, North American, and European approached to tackling the ever-important issue of poverty. I am sure there will be plenty of adventures to tell soon!

Until next time,

Will

Una semana loca

Hola a todos! I'm in Resistencia, in the province of Chaco, Argentina right now, with internet for the first time in quite a few days! It has been a crazy week, starting with a sad goodbye, and since then there have been festivals, unexpected trips, food-robbers, and a voyage to every hotel in town.

I have gotten to know the feeling of an omnibus (the most common form of transportation in Argentina) and have perfected the sleep-upright-while-avoiding-contact-with-the-lady-next-to-me position, while munching on the preserved sandwich served at 11pm. I have now watched movies ranging from "It's Complicated" (chick-flick) to "Taken" (action-thriller about abduction of young people in a foreign country - not the best thing for me to watch, I must say), both with subtitles and dubbed with Spanish voices. I also now know that feeling that so many backpackers speak of when they speak of the strange feeling that all of their belongings are strapped to their body. Moving from place to place has its fair share of adventure, but has already made me want to take a break. I have had some trouble talking to some contacts, from meetings falling through to a surprise holiday when the entire city shut down to a detoured bus ride. The cool part is that I was able to focus the research portion of this week on poverty among the riches. That is, whenever there is a festival, the rich come. And whenever the rich come, so do the poor. In Chile, a holiday means no work, for anyone, and I still don't know what exactly they were celebrating.

Though I planned to head to the province of Chaco on Monday, no buses were able to make it to the city, so I spent 2 days in Catamarca, where Argentina's only winter festival was being held, a festival celebrating indigenous life and culture. It was interesting to witness this festival, because though it was celebrating the people who were traditionally subdued, put down, and forced into poverty, those who spent the most money on the celebrations were the ones whose ancestors forced these people into their separate communities. The hear the point of view of the mayor of Catamarca City, Catamarca contrasted with that of the chief of the Huarpes tribe fascinated me, that through history books and oral history two very different tales came to be. And though lined with a slight layer of tension, the festival served as a great opportunity to experience yet another culture in Argentina.

As I said, I am now in Chaco, in the capital city of Resistencia, the sculpture capital of the world, where yet another festival is being held, accompanied by contests and lectures. If I knew (or cared, for that matter) anything about sculpture, I'm sure I would know how lucky I am to experience the Bicentennial edition of this event. But instead, I sit, brooding over my lost sandwich that a stray dog stole, the oil stains that somehow appeared on my nice khaki pants, and the hotel shopping I did around town. Mind you, none of these hotels have websites, and even if they did, my computer battery managed to die - I'm talkin', dead, for good - so I couldn't look online. Hostels are not even in the question, as Chaco has absolutely nothing to give to an Australian, European, North American, or even local tourist (minus the sculptors and their enthusiasts). I took a bus instead of a taxi into the center of town, half to save the 75 extra cents and half to prove I could, and stepped off around a group of hotels. I had a map, but obviously no prices, and each hotel insisted that their price was the cheapest and that they knew of no other hotels in the area. So I took my 2 backpacks and 2 plastic bags and walked the 30-40 blocks (total) to each and every hotel in town. As I approached each building, I saw the prices, one more expensive than the other. I paused, wondering what lesson God was trying to teach me - not to be cheap? Settle with what I have? Don't push my limits? As I rounded the last corner, out of hope and ready for another starburst break (those things got me through the day), I walked into the luxor hotel, and found it: the Holy Grail of cheap 1-star hotels. for only eleven dollars, I got a full bed AND my own bathroom, and wi-fi and TV in the common area, all next to the central plaza! Then I realized the lesson: count my blessings. Twice. Everything looks so much better and nicer and cheaper compared to their ugly counterparts. This goes for people as well, as the receptionist, though not exactly happy, was at least willing to look at me without laughing at the immense amount of baggage I had surrounding me.

As I said earlier, I'm already ready for a break, and a break I shall take. I head off tonight to the world-famous Iguazu Falls, to apparently experience the awe-full sights and sounds of this tropical wonder. Hopefully it shall be another reminder of all of the things I should be thankful for, and how truly awesome this experience has the potential to be.

Until next time,

Will

El fin de un capitulo, la empieza de un otro

So it's "el fin," or the end, officially, of my stay with my host family today, and as I sit and reflect on the past 4.5 - 5 months with this family, it is strange to think about how I felt about them at the beginning: strangers who didn't pick me and who I didn't pick. We simply ended up together, hoping the other wasn't strange or high maintenance or mean. But today, the sentiment was completely different. I said goodbye and watched as my host mom started to cry, my host dad stopping his constant joking for a second to clear his throat and wish me safe travels, and my host sister taking a pause in her fervent argument with me to give a quick hug and a kiss. Gladys, who helps around the house, stopped making the potato pie with salad and milanesa (bread chicken) to wish me safe travels and tell me she was going to pray for me. What I had come to call "home" was getting smaller as I walked away, a backpacker's backpack on my back and a student's backpack around my front, carrying 4 plastic bags because I couldn't fit everything into my luggage, and a cheese-jelly sandwich in my mouth, the last of the delicious food my "mama" had shoved down my throat the past 5 months. Feeling quite emotional walking away from street Saint Mary of Gold and my Mendozan life, I needed something to put things into perspective and some time to think and write, so I did the only thing I knew to do: drop by an internet cafe/heladeria (ice cream shop) to eat some more and go on the computer. Boy will I miss the sweets of Mendoza and Argentina.

But the good thing is I still have some time left in Argentina to scoop up more dulce de leche ice cream, accompanied by the mini-cake aka alfajor aka little piece of heaven that Argentina is so known for. I have recently started my International Research summer, the third segment of the four summers generously subsidized as part of the Morehead-Cain Scholarship at UNC. My research is part sociological, part economic, based on poverty and the different ways that government, NGOs, and individuals treat those who are impoverished around the world. Already having experienced days speaking with individuals who are either impoverished or those who tirelessly work to better the lives of these people in Asia and North America, my goal was to go to every continent to investigate the intersection between human behavior, classism, culture, and economy. I have been able to perform "case studies" of the culture in Ban Phao, Laos (see previous blog entries), Washington, DC, the Triangle area of North Carolina, and Atlanta, Georgia in the US, Mendoza, Argentina, and Valparaiso and Santiago in Chile. My next step is Chaco, Argentina, the poorest province of the country, plagued with local government corruption, deforestation, destruction of indigenous way of living and society, and continuous problems with child labor and sex slavery. After that, I'm off to the beautiful Iguazu Falls (a new natural wonder of the World, Niagara Falls on steroids), then to visit friends and work for a week in Buenos Aires. I will also visit and work with friends who have connections with non-profit organizations in Montevideo, Uruguay, and on August 3 I head to Sevilla, Spain, to step foot on the 4th continent I've been to in a little over 1 year. I have a few connections in Spain, and plan to travel to Morocco (marking continent number 5!) until August 16th, when I will take my tired and traveled body back to Cary, North Carolina, with a home-cooked meal, laundry machine, and family waiting for me (hint, hint, Mom, Dad, and brothers). I am constantly amazed at how much I have been blessed, to be able to have the finances, time, and wonderful friends that have helped me be able to travel and change and learn and grow so much.






Speaking of growth, since last blog post, I certainly have grown. As I said, I was planning on running a marathon, and spent my first weekend in a hostel, ending the long weekend with the 42K (26.2) mile run. It was a struggle, but I got through it in around 3 hours and 40 minutes. Though from mile 15 to mile 26 I swore I would never run again and cursed my masochistic self for signing up for this hell, but at the 26.2 mile finish line, my attitude completely reversed. If I don't control myself, I might become obsessed with running marathons. It is a feeling like no other. The satisfaction and joy of completing the race, couple with the bananas, Gatorade, and medal, minus the excruciating pain in my leg muscles and uneasy digestion system, is compared to few others. I was able to meet people who were also running the marathon, and the bond was interesting, how we were able to spend so long conversing simply because we were both going to experience this race. I also made friends with other travelers at the hostel. For those of you who have experienced the hostel culture, you know what I mean when I say the hostel culture is, for lack of a better word, unique. A 30 year-old will come up to a 19 year-old, introduce himself in whatever language he sees fit, and the 19 year-old will invite him to dinner with the 2 others he is traveling with. A Frenchman and an Australian will bond over a hatred for a certain alcoholic drink popular within the community, and locals who are traveling for a three-day weekend will go out with foreigners traveling for 3 months. I was able to make a million connections, and was definitely in my element. Now I have connections and contact information for a 40 year-old man who lives with his mom in Southern Argentina, a Coloradoan guy who works in a Chilean ski slope, 4 collegiate females from Buenos Aires, and an Australian-Indian who offered me to stay in his house in Sydney in the future (which I totally plan to do). I thought I was going to meet Lance Armstrong, but he decided not to run the race because of some stupid thing called the Tour de France; but instead I met one of the top 5 marathoners in Argentina, who chatted with me about everything from politics to health and fitness over none other than a quarter-pounder McDonald's cheeseburger. But hey, if you run that much and that fast, you can eat whatever you want.

Classes ended, as well as the program, with an Almuerzo de Despedida (Goodbye Lunch) at a lush hotel. Afterward some friends and I went to about 5 of my favorite dessert/croissant places to say goodbye to the owners who by now knew me, not by name, but as "hombre que nunca termina" - the man who is never finished. Goodbyes are always so strange to me. In fact, I do whatever I can to avoid the goodbye. I always end it with a "see you soon," know that I, in fact, will most definitely NOT see them soon or a "can't wait until you visit me" promising that we OBVIOUSLY will have the time, money, and freedom to travel the hundreds or thousands of miles to see each other. I get awkward and fiddle with my hands and squirm so that I don't have to hug goodbye, and usually go for the thumbs-up or the high-five, because I'm afraid that one more hug will break me into pieces. Of course, this is all subconscious, and I don't think about the actually meaning of "Have a good life" until hours later, curled up on an airplane or a bus trying to keep every memory of that person or place alive so it will stick forever.

So see you soon, can't wait until you visit me, and until later,

Will