Two weeks in Mexico

I was priviledged to learn Spanish for two weeks at Español Universal in Guanajuato, Mexico. The school is small but extremely well-staffed. My teacher revealed that he was a retired mining engineer who, after taking classes in France at a similar school to Español Universal, decided to retire and become a Spanish teacher.

Guanajuato has a rich and vibrant lifestyle. The people spend much of their time outside enjoying the temperate weather and beautiful skies. A large amount of tourist traffic makes the city easy to navigate. Despite the obvious international presence, the city continues to preserve the traditions of the original population.

The Christmas season allows glimpses of several traditions. Las Posadas (inns in Spanish) falls on the nine days before Christmas. Neighbors gather to walk down their streets, stopping at designated houses while carrying a nativity scene. The pedestrians represent Joseph and Mary looking for an inn on the night of Jesus' birth. The neighbors sing an ancient song of the plight of the mother and father. The inhabitants of the house echo the long ago replies of the inn keepers throughout Jerusalem, informing Mary and Joseph that the inn is full and that the couple must search for another place. The procession ends at the home of the person who accepts the "couple." A large party follows with piñatas for the children and sweets for all.

The celebration of Christmas is publicly acclaimed with nativity scenes in the parks and plazas. I appreciate most that the true reason for the Christmas celebration, the birth of Jesus Christ, is the highlight of the season in Mexico.

A DC experience

After receiving the Archer Fellowship for Fall of 2005, I followed my heart and its sincere distaste towards hardcore partisan politics and applied to neutral bureaucracies and think tanks, such as the AMA, the Department of Public Health, and the EPA. Once I actually settled into the 19th century New England townhouse with my ten roommates and began haunting the district's doorsteps, resume in tow, my repugnance was transformed into intense curiosity, and I took one of the most politically-charged jobs imaginable: as an assistant to David Corn, Washington editor of The Nation magazine.

Finding its origin during the abolitionist movement (where it was of course in favor of ending the institution of slavery), the magazine hails itself as one of the only true muckraking periodicals left in the world. David Corn, my boss, was the first journalist to sound the alarm that connecting Valerie Plame to the CIA may indicate that someone in the administration violated federal law (Don't believe me? He is mentioned by name in the New York Times timeline). The people at The Nation were true liberal bolsheviks, and since I fancied myself an aspiring political journalist, I vigorously pursued the job and was hired.

I was instantly terrified of the most irate pundit I had ever seen. David had books, papers, magazines, and government documents mounded around the office and took to them frantically with a red pen muttering about lies and inconsistencies. He was crazy, but he didn't hesitate to give me a ton of work--copy editing, researching, and even composing blog entries. It was a lot for a first week, but I appreciated the vote of confidence, albeit my warm fuzzy feelings were often split by flying papers and fits of swearing.

David took some getting used to, but my admiration of his sharp eye and keen knowledge of politics continued to grow. He knew everyone in DC, and even though he was unshakable in his liberal values, his meticulous, cautious fact checking and willingness to concede on principle made him one of the most respected pundits in the country. He trusted me more and more as the months passed, and I can tout several once in a lifetime opportunities as a result -- an interview with Senators Barack Obama and Tom Coburn on private security funds, getting harassed by Howard Stern, snarky phone banter with Ann Coulter, an article posted in a national publication, and, my personal favorite, stampeding down a courtroom hallway with several dozen reporters to grab the first copy of the Libby indictments.

My experience in DC was nothing short of amazing. Outside of a very successful tenure at The Nation, I made great friends, fell in love with the district, and found a calling in punditing and public policy.

A trek with the llamas in Peru

This weekend was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. After a lot of going back and forth between being concerned about the altitude (and the fact that Leslie compared the trip to giving birth -- terribly difficult but worth the pain) and being super excited, I decided there was no way that I was going to miss the opportunity to do a two day llama trek in the Peruvian Andes. And as usual, as soon as I started the trek I forgot my concerns and I'm so glad I made the trip.

We started at the house at around 8 (an hour late, but on time by Peruvian standards) -- Terry, Susan, Adam, and I left with Teodoro, our driver. Along the way, we stopped at a trout farm that had about a million rainbow trout of all sizes, a few of which we brought along with us in the car, flopping around the whole way, to have for dinner.

As soon as we met up with Pancho, my friend/the guide for all CCS trips who took us to Quinua and the Wari ruins last week and is helping me with my trip to MaPi next weekend, he handed me a pill for altitude sickness. At that point, I figured why not and popped the pill -- still not quite sure what it was but between that and the coca leaves I chewed along the way, the altitude didn't bother me a bit.



We met with the group of llameros who were on ponies and the llamas who all have their ears pierced with big bright colored pom-poms for earrings, which tell which llamas belong to which llamero. The climb was from 13,000 feet to 14,500 feet and back down to a little village. Pancho said that the trip we took was harder than hiking the Inca Trail! Good thing he told me after we finished, or I would have convinced myself I couldn't do it. The trip was breathtaking. That is, it was gorgeous, and also quite difficult to breathe so high up, but in the end, I had a great time and didn't even notice how tired I was! Our llameros included a girl named Lelia who was about 16, all in traditional dress, and I couldn't help but think about how it is completely luck that I was born in the US and she here, and that we are not in each other's shoes. Being here makes me think that a lot -- I wouldn't say it makes me feel guilty for being so privileged, but it does make you think. The llamas only spit a little. Pancho had brought a lunch so we had a picnic at about 14,000 feet overlooking a lagoon with the sharp peaks of the Andes for a backdrop. I was so glad to stop for lunch to rest, eat, and get the bitter taste of coca out of my mouth!



When we arrived to the first village, no one was around. There were a lot of tiny houses about my height made of stones just stacked one on top of the other with straw roofs and lots of wild dogs but no people -- it was almost spooky to come up over a mountain into a deserted looking valley full of houses after having seen no sign of people since we had left. Pancho said that between 7 and 4 the people are in the mountains with the herds of llamas and alpacas, of which there are 1 and 3 million here in Peru, respectively. We crossed to another little village where we stayed the night in a one room school house. We had some coca tea and crossed through a pasture full of llamas to talk with a family.

I had brought them some cookies, Pancho brought candy, and Susan brought them some hand cream and they were so grateful. To bend over to get in the house was reminiscent of getting on that tiny plane a week ago -- it was only about half my height. The house was about 15 by 8 feet and supposedly accommodated a family of ten at one point, but now some of the kids have moved out because they have their own families. It was completely dark inside and full of smoke because they cook inside but don't have a chimney or lights or candles. Since there is no light, when it gets dark around six they are stuck -- no one in the village has candles and there are absolutely no trees anywhere, so firewood is impossible to come by. To cook, they burn little patches of grass and llama dung. One of the little girls had a bad cough and they asked us if we had any medications for bronchitis, but Terry asked a few questions via Pancho because the women only speak Quechua, and said that her symptoms sounded more like TB. Pancho told the father that she needed to go to the hospital, but he said he didn't have the money. Before we left, Terry gave Pancho the money for the girl to go to the hospital and you could just see how much it meant to them. To see them cooking barley soup that they have for every meal was heart breaking, and I felt really conflicted about leaving to go have our dinner of trout. They asked us for money to buy soap and rice, but Pancho said it would be better if he brought them the products the next time he came, along with the copies of the pictures that we promised we'd give them after we took photos together. We said good bye and walked back as it started to snow to the school where we all tucked in our sleeping bags, and it made me so sad to think that they will probably never have a night that comfortable in their lives. But the thing is that yes, they are poor, but they are happy, and Pancho said that things are getting better for them.



Today we woke up and I learned how to shear alpaca wool with a dull knife. Then we took a horseback ride to the black lagoon. One of the girls, Eugenia, who was leading the horses and I talked a lot. Eugenia is 21 and has 3 kids, the oldest is 7 and the youngest is just a baby that she was carrying on her back. She asked me if I had any babies and I said no, and she said why not? I told her that in the US people don't have babies as early as they do in Peru, and she replied that she wished that it was like that in Peru because it was very hard for her to find food and work and she couldn't feed her kids. Then I explained to her about the different kinds of birth control and how it's free here in the health clinics and she was so excited to hear about it and promised me that she would use it. She told me she had never seen a gringo in her village before and asked me all about the US and Argentina, but I could tell there was something else she wanted to ask. She kept turning around to look at me and when I would look at her she would look away. Finally she asked me, "Why are your eyes blue?" I told her that it was because my parents have blue eyes and that's just how I was born, and she said it was very strange to her. I asked her all kinds of things about her life, and it was all heartbreaking to me but she seemed just fine with it all. For example, when I saw that she had blisters all over her feet I asked if it was hurting her a lot to not have socks and I loved her reply. She said, "Oh it is much better than without shoes!" So when we returned I gave her a pair of my socks and she and her sister Eduarda wanted their pictures taken. We said goodbye and headed back to home sweet home in Huamanga, or Ayacucho where I had a real shower (freezing cold, but still...) and where there is a real bathroom (even though you cant put toilet paper in the toilet). Here I am at an internet cafe just hours after having been in the middle of nowhere. It just amazes me how our world is.

Studying in Belfast

Telling people that I planned to spend the fall studying in Belfast was an entertaining task. Would my listener respond with unrestrained excitement, cautious encouragement, or a simple, “Belfast? Is that safe?”? Unfortunately, much of what America knows about Belfast and Northern Ireland in general has its roots in the tragic images of violence that haunted our televisions and newspapers for much of the late twentieth century. In fact, it is these very preconceptions that compelled me to study abroad in Belfast. I wanted to discover for myself the real stories behind the myths and half-truths surrounding the conflict, and for the past two months I have been studying Northern Irish politics, along with Irish literature, at Queen's University in Belfast.

In preparation for putting down my own thoughts about Belfast, I asked an American friend of mine here how she would describe the city: "Not as bad as the media portrays it and not as good as the Belfast City Council might want you to believe." I have to agree.

Let me begin by saying that I have seen no tanks, no army, no guns, and no explosions. Northern Ireland is a changed place and the old images from the TV and newspapers are just that: old. This is not to say that violence no longer exists in any form anywhere. In fact, even our university orientation programme subtly advised us to stay out of certain areas of the city alone or after dark. However, huge strides have been made in the last few months alone. In July, the Provisional IRA announced an end to its armed campaign, and in September, they completed the decommissioning of their weapons. The latest report from the Independent Monitoring Commission (IMC), a watchdog for paramilitary activity in Northern Ireland, gave cautiously encouraging news about the status of criminal activity of some paramilitary groups, especially the PIRA. Currently, the British and Irish governments, along with many major political parties of Northern Ireland, are awaiting the IMC's more comprehensive report in January. A positive report could be the push needed to get Northern Ireland's political parties back on the road to open discourse and a government that seeks to include all communities.

The major question I had before coming here was, How do people function on a daily basis in a society that has been so haunted by war and remains divided on so many levels? I've found the answer is, no differently from you or I. It is true that there are still certain taboo topics and unspoken understandings. Enquiring about subjects as seemingly innocuous as someone's high school, church, hometown or address, or surname can occasionally raise eyebrows here, as it can be interpreted (though often it is not) as an attempt to discover a person's religion and/or politics. Referring to the name of the place can even be a tricky business. One is fine with Northern Ireland, but referring to the region as Ulster, the Province, The Six Counties, The North, or Ireland can imply or reveal a political bias. However, for the majority of people, these issues don't intrude on everyday life. All people in Belfast and Northern Ireland in general may not be ready to completely abandon the old ideology of Catholic versus Protestant or Nationalist/Republican versus Unionist/Loyalist, but to me many seem ready to attempt a move beyond the violence and political intolerance that has impeded genuine advancements in Northern Ireland. Issues like healthcare, education, housing and the economy are as much front page headlines here as are paramilitary decommissioning, policing and justice reforms, and a possible return to a government in which the major parties agree to share power. Especially hopeful is the desire I've observed in most people my age to forgive the sins of the past on both sides of the conflict and finally create a truly peaceful and just society.

As I close in on my last few weeks here, I've been asking myself what I am going to remember most distinctly about Belfast. Many memories come to mind—the daily glimpses of the green hills surrounding the city, the taste of an Ulster fry on a Sunday morning, the way Queen's University looks like Hogwarts at first glance, the sound of any Belfastian saying "What 'bout ye, luv?" (How are you, dear?), carving a turnip for Halloween in the old Celtic tradition and more. Though one of my most important lessons is that, contrary to widespread opinions, Northern Ireland is not all about politics, I'd be lying to say that the political developments, along with a new understanding of the communities here, have not been an important part of my experience. I truly believe that, whatever happens next with the government of Northern Ireland, many of the developments I have witnessed in the past few months will be key in writing the next chapter of this land's history. I hope it proves to be a positive one, for the opportunity of getting to know this city, its people, and its culture has increased my appreciation for all the traditions represented here and increased my hopes, like so many young people here, that the future holds something better for everyone in Northern Ireland.

Taking on St. Andrews in Scotland

Here I am in front of the ruins of the old castle in St. Andrews. It sits right on the water and is an impressive sight.

Swimming in the North Sea. Sounds fun, right? Well, it would sound especially appealing when you come to St. Andrews after one of our lovely but scorching Texas summers. Granted, I have been wearing a wetsuit, but it is an interesting bragging rite. Especially since I lately have ended up swimming in the North Sea after I have capsized out of my kayak when surfing on some of the lovely waves. Can't do something like that in Dallas!


This is the building where the economics and management classes are held. Looks a bit different from the one we have back at UTD!

St. Andrews is quite different from Dallas. For one, I still haven't quite gotten used to which side of the road the cars will come at you from while I'm walking to class. Or walking anywhere in town for that matter, being that from just about anywhere in town it takes no more than twenty minutes to walk to the center. The town is small and beautiful. On my daily walk to classes, I pass the beach, the old cathedral, and the lovely St. Leonard's College. My psychology classes take place in the Old Library in the Psychology building in St. Mary's Quad, which had a tree that is said to have been planted by Mary Queen of Scots. The Quad itself is a square of striking old buildings. My Russian lectures are held in the other quad, St. Salvator's Quad. It's a bit smaller and newer (the current buildings are only from the 18th century) than St. Mary's, but events often occur in the big grass square in the middle. Last week, I participated in a student protest led by the Ethical Investment group against some of the university's business affiliations. And on Raisin Monday, a university tradition, all the first year students (the freshers) participate in a huge foam fight while dressed up in costumes that older students, their "academic parents," dressed them in.


The lovely building I am blinking in front of is St. Salvator's Hall (nicknamed Sallies), or at least the back of it. It's one of the dormitories at St. Andrews.

There's also a thriving campus life. In the Student's Association, a.k.a. the Union, they have "bops" where you can dance the night away. There are lots of student societies and sports clubs as well. I personally belong to the Canoe Club, Psych Soc (the psychology society), J-Soc (the Jewish society), and Knitting Society, along with others. With the Canoe Club, as I mentioned earlier, we practice twice a week in the pool and go out to the shore once a week to surf in our kayaks. Psych Soc sponsors weekly talks by various professionals about many different facets of the field. The last speaker was a prison psychologist and spoke about the programs she is involved with for rehabilitation of prisoners. The one before that worked for social services and talked about the many career opportunities in the field of social work. In J-Soc Friday night dinners are held for Shabbat about twice a month that the students cook themselves. I've helped with the cooking and it's always been fun. The Knitting Society not only helps teach people to knit but is going to be participating in "Afghans for Afghans," a program where people send items like blankets, mittens, and sweaters to Afghanistan.


Behind me is a view of one of the famous golf courses in St. Andrews. I'm pretty sure this one is the Old Course. It's huge.

St. Andrews is also famous, other than for the university of course, for its golf. Early in the semester Dunhill Links had a celebrity golf tournament and we all kept our eyes peeled that weekend for celebrities walking around town. The golf courses are picturesque and on Sundays they let non-golfers walk around the course. They are exquisite to see and fun to explore.


This is one of the university's buildings. It does not hold any classes, but the administration building looks neat. Imagine if our Multipurpose Building looked like that!

The history surrounding you in St. Andrews is amazing. Not only are there the old golf courses, but just about everywhere you walk you can see a sign denoting some event that occurred there. Every time I go to my Russian lecture, right outside the main entry to the St. Salvator's Quad in front of St. Salvator Chapel, I pass the initials P.H. marked out in cobblestones. These denote the spot where Patrick Hamilton, a Protestant martyr, was executed. Superstition states that if you step on the initials you will fail your degree at St. Andrews. The way to fix the error of stepping is the May Dip, where freshers jump in the North Sea. Hearing about the May Dip tradition makes me happy that I will be able to avoid such a feat since I come back to Dallas in January. I prefer the aid of a wetsuit before swimming in the North Sea.