Lone Wolf in Boston
Okay, I’ve still much to catch up on, but in my defense, last weekend I was away in Galway at two different hostels, and I didn’t wish to bring my laptop along with me. It turned out to be perfectly safe, but the delay compounded my usually slow turnaround time in blogging.
14 May I was back to class, and afterwards we went to a Gaelic Athletic Association place and ‘experienced’ the Gaelic games of hurling, Gaelic football, and handball. We also did a bit of ceili, or traditional Irish dancing. The weather was shoddy that day to begin with, and I wasn’t particularly looking forward to going out to play anyway. Hurling is a game that simply defies logic for me, and it didn’t help that my professor, who joined us on our adventure, was more coordinated than I was. The idea is that hurling is some kind of cross between field hockey, lacrosse, and baseball, with curved, semi-flat batons called hurleys; goals are made by striking a small ball much like a baseball through a football-like goalpost. I was startlingly incompetent, as I mentioned, and it ended up hailing while we were playing. I have never been in a hailstorm before, but it was one of the most unpleasant things I’ve ever experienced. I had on a threadbare shirt and basketball shorts to play the games, and I felt bruised and pummeled by the time I made it to the locker room. The hail blew over, but it was pretty miserable after that, with bands of rain coming and going as we continued to play. The staff, seeing that we were all at our wits’ end, plied us with ten minute breaks, colored marshmallows, and jaffa cakes, a cookie confection that is well-known here in Ireland –they consist of sponge-cake cookies with a layer of orange marmalade that is then dipped in chocolate-. Gaelic football went somewhat better, given the fact that my Miami/Cuban heritage makes me a vicious and hot-blooded player on the field when it comes to futbol or futbol-like games –honestly, I can’t bring myself to care about American sports, but futbol happens and I go all out, regardless of my skill level and competency-, and Gaelic football was like futbol with hands permitted. Handball was pretty entertaining too, though the rules are sometimes dodgy about what counts as an out or not. Ceili dancing was less fun than I expected it to be, though I did earn bonus points from the staff for actually having a sense of rhythm when none of my other travel fellows did. We adventured back to our apartments on the public bus, and I took a somewhat abortive trip to the grocery store that resulted in some encounters with very rude staff –it’s not my fault that everything seems to close early in this damn city, but early in the sense of like, 6PM or earlier or some weekdays-.
15 May we had a visit to Glasnevin Cemetery just outside of Dublin. I have, of course, made my feelings on cemeteries known, and the fact that we went to a cemetery just to visit the graves of important dead people was even stranger than my last visit to the cemetery in St. Louis. The weather was troublesome again, with a particularly vindictive and bitter wind, and I made the mistake of wearing a light summer dress that day. Honestly, I couldn’t muster the energy to even pretend to care that we were standing near the graves of important Irish historical figures like Michael Collins, Eamon de Valera, and Charles Parnell; my focus was just on getting back to the apartments. I spoke to Southern Gentleman about my adventures, and we caught up on my whiskey tasting and his own sixty mile motorcycle expedition to track down blueberry beer in Maine; we spoke about his grand cross-country adventure again, and I cajoled him to keep in touch. I may even ask if he wishes a postcard soon.
16 May we went to a dinner at a pub near school that purported to let you pull your own pint at the table. I sat with a number of people I didn’t usually socialize with, but we had a good enough time drinking Carlsberg and Guinness, laughing over the fact that the bar very likely appealed to older gay men given the number of 1980s music videos they played on the big screen televisions, and consuming fried brie cheese cubes. Aside from that, the food was predictably lackluster, and I walked back to the apartments disillusioned and hungry. I gathered up all my belongings and prepared to travel to Galway, which I had better expectations for than Dublin, though I’d be staying in two hostels over the weekend with my group. Call me pretentious or something, but I’m used to traveling well with my family, and hostels just don’t make the cut for us. To my surprise, they weren’t as bad as I’d expected, if a little stark.
17 May, of course, we set off to Galway on an express bus that runs between the city and the center of Dublin –roughly a two and a half hour ride-. To my great irritation, our worthless RA had absolutely no idea where to go or how to get us to the bus we were supposed to take, and so I was left to stumble uncomfortably along the streets of Dublin with my cohorts and a rather heavy duffle bag because of her incompetence. Finally, we found the bus, but due to her lack of group management skills we were too late to have time to grab coffee. We did manage to find seats on top of the double decker bus, and I was pleased to find myself with a window seat. I did a bit of observation on the way out of Dublin, took an hour long nap on the bus, read an assignment for one of my professors on the trip, and took copious pictures of pastoral, rural Ireland. It became a running joke to see all the animals sitting in the gray-clouded fields and not making an effort to eat much – it was my assertion that they were too disillusioned to give a damn about Maslow’s Pyramid because they lived in Ireland. I think *I* was pretty disillusioned at that point too, since I’m not one for binge drinking and vapid conversation, two pastimes that many of my cohorts seem to find infinitely pleasurable and have engaged in since the onset of the trip. I may have been projecting just a little much onto the cows, horses, and sheep though.
We got to Galway around lunchtime, and since I’d been staving off hunger since a meager breakfast, I was more than happy to head to Subway with the rest of my companions for a six-inch. Lo and behold, however, this country is a little too copious with their condiments –which is something coming from a person described by my family as a ‘repeat condiment abuser’ in that I excessively douse foods that require condiments in sriracha, pepper, horseradish, mustard, or mayonnaise-. Also, provolone cheese does not exist here. Period. I was instead served shredded cheddar on what was supposed to be a nice turkey breast and provolone sandwich with lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, and I have yet to find provolone sold in any of the grocery stores. After my rather odd lunch, I picked up some candy and ginger beer at a convenience store and then headed to the National University of Ireland at Galway for a pretty interesting lecture by another professor who is good friends with one of ours on the trip; he spoke about femininity, gender, and the role of friendship in Irish literature written by women. After that, we moved into the hostel properly after we’d stored our luggage – I roomed with five other girls who turned out to be very nice, though I had a rather unpleasant meal of chicken goujons –some popular chicken finger-like dish here- with a few of them at a nearby pub. The meal turned out to be excessively expensive, as we calculated they charged us nearly quadruple the price of gas for a bottle of water –gas here runs about 1.65 euro per liter here, so about 6.25 euro per gallon, with an average exchange rate of about 1.35 euro to every dollar…therefore, gas is on average 8.43 US dollars per gallon; a bottle of water, which is 500mL or a half-liter, cost us 2.70 euro at the bar we went to-. We finished off the evening with a trip to the cinema, where we saw part of Charlie Casanova, a horrific and critically-panned arthouse film here in Ireland that was too stupidly reasoned to make any kind of biting social judgments, and watched Albert Nobbs, the Glenn Close film where she masquerades as a man in Dublin to escape her past. It was, all in all, a pretty lackluster evening.
With that, I’ve caught you up to 18 May, last Friday, and I’ll be sure to get more posts out this weekend, seeing as I have it free to myself. Fourteen days in and eighteen days left in my study-abroad.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
So I left off with seeing the Hunger Games. I made it home in two days, and by that point, the trip was starting to grate on everyone. I was really pleased just to be in my own bed, be able to take ridiculously hot showers with pounding water pressure –crummy showers are the bane of my existence, and I happen to have one here in Ireland, alas!-, and be able to eat decent food with sriracha and some spice. 6 May I had one last celebratory get-together before I left for Ireland with my bros, including Trollface, the Ragin’ Asian –a friend who I’ve known for about five years and video game with, though he insists he’s the better sniper, and who is coincidentally Trollface’s roommate at university-, and Philosopanda –another Asian friend I’ve also known for five years, who is a stoic writer who’d never admit to the fact that he actually has a heart of gold-. I baked chocolate-caramel coconut bars for all of them, and we went to see the Avengers and have dinner together. The Avengers was fabulous, of course, and I have more than a little crush now on Jeremy Renner –codename Hawkeye-. The archers apparently do it for me, because I had quite the thing for Orlando Bloom back in the days of the Lord of the Rings. Humorously enough, I still have a Legolas cutout in my room guarding my closet that my family gave me as a Christmas present –that year, before we moved him from near the Christmas tree to my bedroom, we kept freaking out thinking he was a burglar at night-. But that aside, it was nice just to chat with old friends and catch up. Things, of course, are a bit different since we’ve all been away at university –Trollface has grown out his hair and has this whole rakish look now, the Ragin’ Asian is much more talkative, and Philosopanda actually treated us all to dinner when his usual habit was to split Dutch. I don’t really know that I changed much, but I did make good on the longstanding promise I had to bake for them, as I mentioned.
10 May started my grand expedition to Ireland on study-abroad – an hour drive to Ft. Lauderdale for a three hour connection to Boston, followed by a three hour layover in Boston, and a six hour plane flight to Dublin. I just really don’t do well on limited amounts of sleep. Then, our group leaders dragged us out to breakfast in the city center at a place called Bewley’s, which was actually pretty charming, though I could not appreciate it fully given my exhaustion. I had a scone, jam, and cream, and then returned to the apartments where we’re staying after trudging through the rain. I had to drag all my suitcases around a good three times because of room difficulties, and my apparent luck to end up being the last person chosen for any group activity –in this case, for roommates- all the time. I’m rooming with a nice enough girl who’s a third year at my university, a nurse, and a native Southie Bostonian. I expected it to be worse, but it’s not suicide-inducing, anyway – the terribleness is reserved, at this point, for describing the weather and the food. I can’t say that I’ve had a straight, decent dinner since I’ve been here.
11 May I had an introductory film class and then went out to dinner with our group at a traditional Irish restaurant. I ordered the fish and chips because it is, of course, traditional, and I thought I could overcome my disdain of fish. Unfortunately it was not the case, and I realized I should have just had the corned beef instead. There was Guinness to be had on the university’s tab, which I took advantage of, though I don’t particularly like Guinness either. We were also treated to a dance performance and traditional singing, and I find myself determined to learn the pub song ‘Oro se do bheathe ‘bhaile’, though the pronunciation is far from anything that I’ve ever encountered in my own language studies and my language formulation for my book.
12 May I went out with the group on a bus tour around the city, and we stopped at the Guinness brewery, where we were treated to a free beer at the rooftop bar overlooking the city, as well as some tasty treats made with Guinness; there was lox and cream cheese on Guinness bread, as well as Guinness chocolate mousse, which was very decadent and rich, but not overly sweet. I enjoyed it a fair bit, and picked up some trinkets and goodies for the family, and a t-shirt depicting a young woman drinking Guinness from one of the company’s famous advertisements. We stopped for pizza –which made me a bit sick, since I haven’t eaten pizza in months- and then meandered our way back to the apartments.
Since no one really got an early start that day, 13 May I went out on my own to Phoenix Park and spent a fair bit of time at the zoo photographing the animals. It was lovely, except for all the screaming children. It really, really drives me up a wall when children and even adults feel that by banging on the displays, disturbing the animals, or imitating their natural calls poorly will get the animals’ attention. It was just horrible to see people banging on the glass at the tiger enclosure because the tigers were pacing up at the back of their area; it seemed obvious given their body language that it was close to their feeding time, and because the zoo schedules such things precisely, the animals know to expect it, but the visitors I saw all seemed to think that the animals were ‘being boring on purpose’. Ridiculous. I did get some nice shots of wolves, red pandas, and sea lions in particular, and bought a few more things for my family. I had a scone and jam again at a tea room just outside the zoo in the park, and took a ramble around the sporting fields and the formal gardens. Father likes cricket, so I took some pictures of a club match that had started up before I left the zoo; I also had nice action shots of the pitcher throwing the ball and the other participants…cricketing –honestly, I have no understanding of the sport-. The formal gardens were nice, but as it was starting to get late and I wasn’t sure how long the weather would hold, I continued on the tour bus over to the Jameson distillery, where I was the youngest person and one of two women on my tour. I was also one of eight to volunteer for a comparative whiskey tasting, which was pretty cool. I’d planned to outdo the older participants tasting blind, but it was a guided tasting. I got a little certificate of completion, anyway, and a glass of Jameson and ginger ale for my trouble. I usually prefer whiskey and scotch neat with a side of ice water, but since Jameson is almost too smooth for my liking I actually liked the ginger ale in the drink. It’ll probably be my drink of choice while I’m here since I can nurse it and I won’t have to end up completely smashed like the rest of the people on the trip.
I’m still a few days behind, but I’ll catch up, I promise.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
So I’ve got to catch up on the rest of my life really, really quickly so that I can appropriately share about Dublin, my home-away-from-home for a month while I’m on study-abroad. After my last day of class, I had to get packing on my room. My parents came to Boston on 22 April, and I was very happy to see them on 23 April. The week was kind of chaotic, as I was busy taking finals and the like. International relations went well – I found myself getting bored halfway through the test, and I know that when I get bored I know my material well and that there is no reason for me to panic. Also, my family got really mad at me on 23 April, suggesting that I should have started packing a month prior to their arrival to leave for home, and that if I had any sense of responsibility that I would have been living out of a suitcase. Honestly, my friends all thought it was the most ridiculous thing ever, and since I am my parents’ only child and they’ve never moved me out of school before, I think the whole situation was severely overblown on their part because of nerves. Granted, I was sobbing for a good while because they’d shouted at me for a good ten minutes within full hearing of my floormates given that the walls of the dorm are so thin, but in hindsight it was just a large misunderstanding. 25 April was my last final, and of course, it was during the last timeslot that the university offered – this was a problem because my parents, who treated me to see a Florence + the Machine concert in St. Louis, had to drive twenty-six hours straight to get from Boston to St. Louis in time. It was the biggest pain in the ass ever, and needless to say we never plan on doing that ever again.
Interestingly, during that time, I had several long chats with Computer Boy, Florida Guy, and Southern Gentleman, which were all enlightening to say the least. Florida Guy I may have cajoled a bit with slightly ambiguous comments that could be taken flirtatiously, but he’s either an artful dodger, a total gentleman, or completely uninterested. Trollface, one of my very good friends who attends a state school back in Florida, insists that he’s gay –as does my mother, after I coincidentally ran into Florida Guy when my family was picking me up from university- but as I tell Trollface repeatedly, the jury is out. I just can’t tell one way or another. He’s a little bit too friendly for good taste, or whatever. Computer Boy proved himself to be a friend because he kept me consistently company for many hours straight, in spite of the fact that I can’t sleep in cars and was rambling and incoherent by the time I got to St. Louis and texted him a picture of the Arch. Southern Gentleman actually replied to my texts, and revealed that his past behavior was influenced, in some way or another, by the fact that he lost his scholarship. My mother didn’t –and still doesn’t- approve of me talking to him, so I told my father what I’d learned. Father was, of course, a dose of reality, and while I’m willing to give the Southern Gentleman a chance again, father reminded me to remember that he has treated me rather poorly. We did chat once I finally got back to Miami, and he seemed much more relaxed and happy since he’d gotten his scholarship business worked out. We chatted about his sister, and I had him laughing about some of the antics my floormates and I got up to the past year; it was a lot more personal than some of the weird, skirting-around-our-thoughts-and-feelings kind of chats we usually have, which I can’t complain about.
While in St. Louis, we saw my mother’s mother, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, nephew’s wife, nephew’s two children –a boy and a girl-, niece, niece’s domestic partner, niece’s domestic partner’s daughter, and her niece’s and niece’s domestic partner’s baby son. We made arroz con pollo for them in the afternoon, and I got to socialize with them a bit. I’d never met any of them, save my aunt and uncle, whom I’ve met twice in nineteen years, and my grandmother, whom I’ve met once in the same amount of time. It felt weird to pretend, in a way, that I get along with them smashingly and that we’re all great friends and whatnot. Apparently my mother’s niece and nephew don’t necessarily get along, because her niece is a lesbian and her nephew is devoutly Christian. I mean, I was raised with Christian values but religion was never forced on me; not only has it seemed that my mother’s nephew has forced religion on his children, but it also appears that they’re all stiflingly intolerant in one way or another of various social groups, apparently even when a close family member is a part of a group that Christianity doesn’t look favorably upon. Call me out for philosophizing, but it seems hypocritical.
That same day, 29 April, my parents and I went to a Florence + the Machine concert at the Peabody Opera House –Van Halen happened to be playing next door-. It was a beautiful venue, and Florence is an incredible, fabulous performer live. Every one of her songs that she played I sang along to, and generally made a big idiot out of myself because I’m such a fan. I was pleased that so many people came from a wide range of age groups too – of course it was predominantly young, but the couple sitting next to my family was older, as were many of the couples in the mezzanine. Humorously enough, I really got a clue as to what the Midwest was all about when I asked if we could get a late-night spot of dinner –it was 10:30PM- and literally every place from the Opera House to our hotel was closed. I’m too used to Miami and being able to go out at any given time for Cuban food.
After that, on 30 April, we visited my grandfather’s grave at Jefferson Barracks. I hate cemeteries. Not only do I find it harmful to keep visiting a cemetery to just endlessly grieve over the dead –I mean, I certainly think it’s important to remember, but I think the idea of a cemetery can get in the way of that remembrance and make it some kind of emotional harm-, I think it a little creepy to walk on the dead. My grandmother, aunt, and uncle came with us, and afterward I talked to Southern Gentleman, who encouraged me not to look at my family as kind of unwanted intruders. I can’t help that I do, because I’m so used to being guarded, but I gave it a good shot. We went to the Blue Owl Restaurant in Kimmswick afterward, which was lovely. They had some really delicious quiche and I had a good old slice of pecan pie.
31 April my aunt and uncle tried to cajole us to come to this speech at the library about the World’s Fair, which sounded cripplingly boring, so after a rather bad dinner at an Italian restaurant where I attempted to needle Florida Guy into talking about something more than business –since we’re both on the ballroom board at university now-, my family took me to see the Hunger Games instead. I was perhaps most impressed with Katniss’ costuming and the cave scenes with Katniss and Peeta. Otherwise the film was an average film in a line of many average films that I see on a routine basis.
Okay, getting tired now, I’ll wrap up the rest tomorrow, promise.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
Well, isn’t this quite the surprise. Multiple blog posts in a relatively short span of time – I’m either getting better at something I was never very good at to begin with, or I’m doing my level best to procrastinate endlessly from completing assignments and studying for finals. I covered a lot of ground in the last post, so I think it’s a welcome relief that I’m going to be discussing this week and not an entire month.
My classes finished up on 18 April, and honestly, I don’t I’ve ever been as pleased as I was when I walked out of the musical professor’s class. My partners and I managed to pull together a passably decent musical, and after tomorrow’s performance of the professor’s own piece –a shameless self-promotion on his part, for a poorly written and boring topic-, I’ll never have to see him again. He’s proven time and time again that he’s -rather paradoxically- underhanded and spineless, two traits I pretty much can’t abide. He covers it up with this veneer of magnanimous beneficence, like he’s doing the universe a favor by educating us on the finer points of musicals, but the fact is, I’d hardly feel him qualified to give directions out of a paper bag given his inflated ego. Forgive the vitriol, but given that I’ve been consumed by work and competitions for a while, I haven’t had time to vent. This evening, 21 April, our performance was put on, along with two other groups’ pieces from our class. I think they all had their merits, though our merit was primarily based on all the references to pants –or lack thereof- and Rickrolling. I take what I can get. The President, Dance Warrior, Florida Guy, Awkward Businessboy, Saiyan Hair –Awkward Businessboy’s roommate, who I’m rather good friends with-, Computer Boy, my roommate, Tokyo Rose, Evil Giraffe, and several other people that live on my floor came and watched our performance, which I was very glad of; it’s nice to know that they’re all so supportive. Afterwards, Dance Warrior, Florida Guy, Tokyo Rose, Awkward Businessboy, Hipster Roommate, Computer Guy and I all went for dinner, which was greatly entertaining. Call me crazy, but I’m positive on the way out of the dining hall, we ran into the Southern Gentleman with an unnamed friend.
Maybe I’m just imagining him cropping up in all kinds of places, smirking like he does. Honestly, I’m going to break his face one of these days if I have to see that goddamn smirk again. Call it vanity because he wounded my pride or whatever, but it’s simply not fair that he gets to hide behind such an enigmatic expression, screwing around with me, and then leaving me to wonder what kind of stupid things I’ve done that aren’t quite good enough for him. I’ve always been a relatively good judge of character, but when it comes to him, it’s like trying to find out what’s on the other side of a brick wall.
Last time I wrote on here, he was supposed to come with me swing dancing on 20 April along with the rest of our little group, including the President, Florida Guy, and many of the aforementioned individuals above –minus Dance Warrior, who was notably absent-. But lo and behold, after feigning obliviousness at the dining hall just downstairs from my dorm while he stalked past and casually observed me before heading to eat his dinner, I head upstairs to get dressed and get this rather snide decline from him on Facebook. Whatever – I suck it up, comment to Rhett that I’m used to disappointment, and head downstairs to meet my group. I had no idea that I mentioned to the President and Florida Guy, or anyone aside from Computer Boy –given that we two commiserate over our situations with the Southern Gentleman and Trojan Ruby- , but they somehow attempted to cheer me up by mentioning that the Southern Gentleman comes and goes like the wind. I didn’t really find that to be any kind of comfort, but I’m good at wearing a mask. When we got to the swing club, it was most of our group’s first time; save for Tokyo Rose, Evil Giraffe, the President, Florida Guy, and I, they were all really taken aback and a little unsure of what to do given all the improvisational stuff that most dancers at the club do. I’m not sure if Florida Guy guessed that I was still kind of upset over the Southern Gentleman’s actions, but he caught me for the first and last dances of the evening, and several in between; I danced with some older men who were all pretty good, but skies above, one reeked of sweat, one smelled of stale cigarettes, and one awkwardly attempted to flirt with me by asking if we’d seen each other before. I awkwardly asked the Florida Guy if he was studying hard for finals, but then remembered that he was on a co-op work cycle; I felt really embarrassed that I had forgotten, but he seemed strangely apologetic that I felt embarrassed. The fact that I can’t carry on conversations appropriately is pretty shameful sometime.
I guess to finish out this post, I’ll write about the rest of 21 April that I’ve neglected. After the swing club, Saiyan Hair, Awkward Businessboy, Evil Giraffe, Hipster Roommate, and I were all starving, and so we ended up ordering Chinese takeout and watching Die Hard at 1AM. It was ridiculously fun as my floormates freaked out as I doused my food in soy sauce and sriracha, and then swooned over Alan Rickman and Bruce Willis. I got a bit of sleep in before waking up, having some breakfast with Evil Giraffe, putting in a phone call to my family, and then heading to our last ballroom practice. Florida Guy, Dance Warrior, and I worked a fair bit on swing with some of my floormates, and I spent some time working with –or nagging, whatever- Computer Boy about his technique. All in all, I’m going to sorely miss those Saturday mornings. After practice, we left for lunch at some bagel joint, where I got to luxuriate in capers and lox. We trekked back towards campus because I had rehearsal, but stopped on the way for ice cream, which we ate at the Christian Science Center. I had a smile on my face for most of the day, anyway, which is great motivation to get going and be productive for the rest of the week for my finals.
Anyway, I’ll bid everyone good night.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
I can’t believe that it’s been a month since my last post. I didn’t realize things had been so busy until my blogging came up in conversation with someone that I’m working on a zombie musical with –yes, a dancing zombie musical-, and it occurred to me that I should probably catch up on some things.
17-18 March was the MIT Open competition, my last of the year. I was incredibly excited because I got a new Latin-rhythm competition outfit, a cute little red and black lace number that I wore with some fishnets. All in all, I was quite pleased with it, and the people that I compete with seemed pretty happy that I had found it as well. Dude Non Grata and Computer Boy were both around when I showed everyone at one of our rehearsals, and both ended up doing some kind of weird double take; I’ve no inkling as to whether it was out of shock, disgust, fascination or what, but the fact that they did it simultaneously made me chuckle. The Southern Gentleman, who happened to be around practicing with his partner, only gave me a smirk. At the time I remember overanalyzing that to no end, but because of recent events I’m starting to not care; but I digress, and get a bit ahead of myself. At competition, Dude Non Grata and I did pretty fantastically: we finished out the year with twelve callbacks over smooth, standard, Latin, and rhythm. Usually, we do piss-poor in standard, though to be fair most people on our team don’t really favor standard. We also managed to compete in international tango and quickstep; our quickstep earned laughs from Florida Guy, who explained that he had no inkling how Dude Non Grata managed ‘the fuckery that was K—— quickstepping forward’. Competition numbers are usually a minute and a half long, and so I was quite literally leading as a follower for a good thirty seconds of the set, and Dude Non Grata was bodily dragging me in the Monstrosity, the foul –fowl?- feathered Barbie pink smooth-standard dress that I’ve been wearing for my spring competitions, as I’m apparently the only person in the club with a ‘classic ribcage’ to fit into its confining, Madonna-Gautier bra form. Thank heavens that I’ve managed to talk the family around to buying me my own smooth-standard dress. Mother has promised to bring it when she and father come to remove me to St. Louis, and then Miami, where we’ll have to have the length adjusted. I also managed to chat a bit with the Southern Gentleman, who made some decisively suggestive comments about how well I put my Cuban hips to use in Latin-rhythm, and how he likes to watch me dance; I was delightfully flattered at the time, and pleased that he and our club president had a photo shoot with my camera at MIT, leaving me with a picture of him smirking over a cup labeled ‘poison’ that I have directed my friends to find on Facebook so that they can offer their commentaries on him.
31 March brought the MIT social, which was infinitely more pleasurable than the actual MIT competition. After a wretched swing lesson where the club president and I grumbled to each other about how bad the teachers were and how I needed to ‘rein in’ my overly-sassy poses, there were hours of lovely dancing. One unfortunate older Asian man attempted to ‘teach’ me the rumba fan position, which I’ve done countless times in practice and competition; to be honest, I kept doing it wrong on purpose in the hopes that he would leave me alone, and fortunately he did. I did dance several tangos with Florida Guy, who I guess has realized that we share a common bond of doing tango properly, in addition to our IB past, and our body rolls in cha-cha –because sexy sells, and it’s a seller’s market, since the commodity is scarce, apparently-. Doing tango properly means we’re ribcage to ribcage, which I’ve since learned not to complain about. Technique-wise, it helps for control, and well, I don’t mind being so close. The Stylemaster and I also managed to hustle several times smack in the center of the floor as all these couples attempted to samba around us; I actually heard other dancers on the sidelines say something to the effect of, ‘are they…hustling?’. I was very entertained, and the Stylemaster, who prides himself on his hustle, gave me a celebratory high-five. Eric, this fantastic gold-level dancer from the Harvard team, caught me for a tango after I danced with Florida Guy, and just led me through all these insane moves that I’ve never done before; but I managed to follow them, and got a compliment on how great my tango was. Eric also borrowed me for a rumba, where he asked me to put my leg around his thigh and fling my hair around; he was impressed enough at my hair-flinging that he offered for me to come and work with the Harvard team trainers at some point, given that my university cares little for its competitive ballroom group.
Throughout this time, I’ve been trucking along with my two partners in my musicals class, fighting with our incompetent and loathsome professor over a dancing zombie themed musical. Personally, since I couldn’t give a flying banana about musicals in general –probably should have taken some kind of continued music lessons for cello or even an art history class- I’m just doing my best to be difficult and subversive. Our musical is actually getting to be relatively interesting though, and we’ve got this fabulously adorable singer to play one of our roles; his voice is probably one of the coolest things I’ve heard this semester, and I’m kind of picky in my vocal preferences. We actually convinced him to sing his audition piece again, and I’ll see if I can’t sneak it on here so everyone else can be impressed with him too.
6 May we went to the swing club again, and I actually danced with the obnoxious instructor, who praised my swing. I almost felt bad about disliking him so much. Someone brought homemade Thin Mints to BSC, which are definitely on my to-do list to make when I get home and have access to proper cooking supplies. I completely destroyed my feet that evening because I wore stupid shoes, but I danced with Florida Guy quite a bit, and this charming older gentleman who, once he realized I was properly trained as a ballroom and ballet dancer, did all these fabulous back-passes and turns. The best part of the evening was the fact that this photographer from the social section at the Boston Globe came and took our picture; the group of us who went all looked fabulous in vintage attire, and we got a prime spot that weekend in the Globe.
7 May had me shopping with the Evil Giraffe, a girl that I get along fabulously well with –I mean evil in the best sense possible- and Tokyo Rose –that’s a bit unoriginal, but she’s fluent in Japanese and just has this amazing grace dancing because she’s a much better ballerina than I ever was- for our trip to the Latin club. We ran into Florida Guy and the Dance Warrior at H&M, and I managed to pick out a dress for Tokyo Rose that fortunately didn’t have Florida Guy or our club president ripping out my throat; they’re both more than a bit protective of her, which I find very entertaining. I’m the brash, paradoxical Cuban girl, and she’s the dainty, respectable Anglo girl. It’s a fun dichotomy anyway.
13 May brought the Latin club night, after a most irritating week and a comment from the Southern Gentleman that he wasn’t much for Latin dancing, but would come on a subsequent swing dancing trip. Mother sent one of my dresses from home, a slinky little leopard number I used to wear clubbing back in Miami. I wanted to do things right, after all. As a side note, I actually managed to give myself some pretty decent cat eyeliner, which I was proud of –Scotch tape, my followers, does wonders, as long as it doesn’t stick to your eye while you put your eyeliner on-. It was pretty interesting for most of the evening at the club, as I met this guy from our Latin dance crew on campus who wanted to put me through my salsa and meringue paces. Computer Boy tried to get a little too friendly once he caught on how to dance, which I found out since he’s told me that he’s been interested in Trojan Ruby, a girl thus nicknamed for the play on her real name and for the fact that she pulls off the red lipstick look fantastically. Granted, Trojan Ruby is studying abroad next semester –while Southern Gentleman is hopefully looking for work out of state on co-op-, so Computer Boy’s love is thwarted, but that’s no invitation to try and grind on me. Awkward Businessboy attempted to dance with me too, but he was way too uncomfortable and tense to make it any fun; though I certainly didn’t expect to be swept off my feet. Florida Guy was on my mind that evening, because he was really pulling out all the stops on his salsa. At one point, I think I ended up with my leg around his thigh, because of some move he did. He also had this one move where he brought me out of a turn and I found my arms around his neck and the barest bit of space between us; I’m doing my best not to read into things too much, but it was a step beyond usual practice or goofing around while dancing.
After that little show, some pony-tailed Hispanic guy asked me to dance, and Florida Guy caught the President –whose nickname is remarkably stupid, given that she is simply our ballroom president, though I’m a bit tapped for something creative right now- for a dance. But unfortunately, this pony-tail man got the wrong idea and attempted to thrust a knee between my legs and put his hands in places they shouldn’t have gone. We turned around so that I was dancing with my back to his chest, and I kept blinking at the other two, hoping they’d give me a hand. Finally, Florida Guy and the President realized something was wrong, and rescued me. Pony-tail man wouldn’t let go, and I had to reach out to Florida Guy and just let myself be pulled away. And I ended up standing on the dance floor, my arms around Florida Guy and my head on his shoulder, doing my best not to cry with the President kind of stroking my shoulder. I always have this motto, never let people see you break. I think that’s the closest I’ve come here at college, with this stupid reggaeton pounding over my head, leaning against a guy who’s always been unfailingly nice but probably has no interest in me, after the tough Cuban girl was groped by some creep. I sat down for a little bit, and the same guy tried to catch Tokyo Rose for a dance, but I immediately kiboshed that idea, because damned if I would let him screw with her. The protectiveness everyone feels for Tokyo Rose is apparently rubbing off on me too.
Shortly thereafter, we left to catch our bus back to campus. Our club president came up and told me to come back to her place with her boyfriend and Florida Guy to make brownies, and I realized then that my heart is so involved in dance because I really know the most incredible people, people I had no idea cared so much about me. Back on campus, around one AM or so, Florida Guy and I ended up criss-crossing campus as we went to my dorm so I could change clothes, to his dorm for cooking supplies, and then to the President’s boyfriend’s apartment, where we baked brownies and played Super Mario until about 3:45 in the morning. Then, Florida Guy escorted me back to my dorm, which is pretty much completely past his own place of residence; it was kind of charming, and nice to know that he was still looking out for me.
14 May had me going to dance practice, where Florida Guy and Dance Warrior continued to keep some kind of eye on me after the events of the previous night, by teaching me all kinds of new steps that they’re working on for fall competitions. Then, those two, Tokyo Rose, the President, and I went to Chinatown and had a disgustingly huge lunch at this insanely delicious place. I was just proud that I managed to eat the entire meal with chopsticks and not make a complete fool of myself, though the President informed me that her boyfriend managed to have a melt-down attempting to consume tofu with chopsticks at said restaurant on a previous visit; the standards were so low, she said, that even if I failed, I could definitely top her boyfriend. After that, we trekked back to campus, losing the President in the process to some unknown previous engagement. I managed a miraculous shower in ten minutes, and went to the studio of one of our sort-of coaches with the Dance Warrior, Dude Non Grata, Florida Guy, and Tokyo Rose, where one of the coaches’ other students mistook me for Dude Non Grata’s girlfriend. I was nauseated but laughed it off and spent time tangoing with Florida Guy, attempting to do a cool same-sex rumba with the Dance Warrior, and hustling with one of our coaches. I also realized I had at least three cups of tea at lunch, a grande latte for breakfast, and a twelve ounce black coffee before meeting our coaches for their dance party; the things I do to stay awake after getting about four hours of sleep are ridiculous.
Finally, yesterday, 15 May, was just a day to relax. I didn’t do much, aside from some homework and some work on the musical with one of my group members. The songs are really starting to come together, and I’m not feeling quite so vindictive about the whole thing, even though the professor cut my line about ‘zombies give no f-‘ –cue grand piano run-. I talked to the Southern Gentleman, and I think our conversation merits sharing, simply because it pissed me off. We somehow always get to talking about his motorcycle, but I guess it’s an easy topic for me because my father and my good friend both have had/presently have motorcycles; I’ve always figured the Southern Gentleman is shy, so talking about something that will coax him to speak more has always been my plan. We talked about how post workers hate me, and how he had tires sent to himself previously, so the post workers know and like him. His comment was something along the lines of motorcycles being good for meeting people and making friends, and so my witty flirtation regarded the fact that my wearing cute dresses to meet people and make friends was clearly not the right approach. His answer: “too many pretty girls in cute dresses…motorcycles are rarer and unspeakably badass…not many people have good taste to dress well”. I can’t tell whether he was bragging, insulting me, doing both, or simply being completely oblivious. In spite of this, I asked whether I’d see him at practice at one point or another, and he gave a rather wishy-washy answer and then claimed he had to go to the store. I concluded the conversation by saying if my male friends from ballroom collectively killed me for forcing them to do tango so frequently, he would have to speak at my wake; I suggested he say that in spite of my horrible personality and lack of a motorcycle, I had a banal but classic taste in clothes. Two can play that game, Rhett, though I must say how disappointed I am in him.
On that note, I bid the weekend adieu for my last two days of class.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
So I left you all with my story about dance camp and how I kind of maybe have a crush on the Edward Cullen guy, though I am loath to keep calling him Edward Cullen, since I think the character is incredibly creepy –and I listen to way too many corny youtube videos from manwithoutabody criticizing Edward Cullen to take the character seriously-. Now the saga shall continue with Valentine’s Day, a day that I usually despise greatly because of the fact that it generally sucks because the corporate machine has won over and makes me feel inadequate every February 14th for not having a boyfriend. But I wasn’t feeling too terrible though, because I woke up and got to be party to my roommate’s sneakiness in taping secret Spongebob valentines all over our floor-mates’ doors. It was way entertaining, and when I left for my classes and came back, she had actually left some for me on my pillow too, which was sweet.
But regrettably, my headphones broke. I was royally pissed that they had broken, because they were these terrific Bose noise-reducing earphones that my family had gotten me as a Christmas present in 2010, and there was absolutely no reason why they should have stopped working. I was so desperate that I actually posted on my Facebook page asking anyone if they could be fixed, which was something of a long shot, but go figure. So this boy, this Southern Gentleman, of sorts, was among several guys to post to my Facebook offering to fix them – and after some back and forth, -because while we were both finished with our classes that day, I was at a coffee shop fueling my coffee addiction and attempting to blast through a history assignment-, I ended up with his number, and a relatively open invitation to contact him at any point in the day so that he could come and pick them up. I don’t know, I remember that I went back to my room, took a bit of a nap, did some more work, and finally texted him and asked if he could meet me when I went down to dinner. I didn’t mean anything by it, of course, I just figured that I could make the excuse that I needed to run and eat to avoid my social ineptness. So after we both missed each other in the lobby –possibly because I was attempting to look like a passably attractive human being- I ended up finding him in the dining hall, and asked him if I could join him for dinner. It’s funny to me that I should have asked, because before I came to college, I never would have texted a guy like him, pursued him on my interest, much less been so bold as to ask him if we could have dinner. Of course, it didn’t mean anything one way or another, and I was just happy for the opportunity to get to chat with him a little more, but for me it seemed a bit on the surreal side.
The other major thing I’ve been up to before coming back to Miami for spring break was ballroom rehearsals. I got sick, but that didn’t prevent me from working hard to get in competition form for Holy Cross with my partner…Dude Non Grata. To be truthful, I had major reservations about dancing with him because of reasons I’ve related on here, but we seem to have cleared that up, and we do pretty well as a team. He’s not a bad leader –not my favorite- but he helps me to be a better follower and work my way into bronze. Holy Cross actually went surprisingly well – we made the semi-finals in four dances, American tango, American foxtrot, jive, and American cha-cha, with six callbacks in total. I was really proud, since it was my first time competing bronze, and the most callbacks that the Dude Non Grata had gotten in his time competing bronze. I think it’s the first competition I’ve been involved in that I really felt happy about. I was happy to be in it, I made mistakes that didn’t feel like the end of the world, and my partner and I got along. It was just a much nicer thing than it ever was when I competed with Captain Avoidance.
Well, I’ve written a fair bit, so I’ll leave you, dear readers, for now.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
So I’m pretty long overdue for a blog post –or two, thinking I’m going to split this up for my sake and yours, dear readers-. My cousin asked to follow me on Tumblr and I did the same for her, but aside from reposting a few cute things I’ve seen around the site, I haven’t really talked much about my life. I mean, heck, I didn’t even finish my blog post talking about Tufts Competition or Yule Ball, but I mentioned enough, anyway, so I’ll simply have to be better about these things in the future. Life has been interesting in the interim though, I suppose you’d say, so I better jump right in and catch you all up to date –properly!-.
My birthday was 19 January, a week and a half after I got back to Boston, but I ended up going home over the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday weekend. It was nice to kind of have a last celebration before settling back into university. I haven’t been back since then, so I’m really looking forward to spring break and some decent food back in Miami. Anyway, things are getting to the point now that I just want the time away from here to sort myself out. My good guy friend back home tells me I have this habit of running away from my problems and thinking about things too much, but I simply can’t help it; my situations are such that being proactive isn’t really an option, and when I can’t be proactive, I retreat for my own good. It’s clearly not the best way of dealing with things, but I do what I can.
Unfortunately, while my time home was nice, Computer Boy made a rather unfortunate overture the day before my birthday by getting me a birthday present. Now, this situation spiraled downward into some screwy two-week battle with him, because according to him, I have no idea how to accept a birthday present. The truth was that I told him that I didn’t want him to get anything for me, and I meant that firmly. It’s not that I have a problem accepting gifts from people in general, it was that I felt extremely uncomfortable receiving a gift from Computer Boy specifically. In comparison to most of the people that I know that would get me birthday presents, I’ve known Computer Boy an astronomically short amount of time; it just felt too forward, too pushy of him. And the worst part was that the gifts were actually really thoughtful and funny – he got me a Princess Belle crown from Disney World and a Firefly t-shirt with the two dinosaurs that Wash plays with and the slogan ‘curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal’. The idea was clever and sweet –and I really would have loved it from pretty much anyone else-, but again, from Computer Boy the gesture was just too forward. It made me think, what if by accepting this from him and not speaking up, it’s just further motivation for him to believe that something is going to happen between us? He’s just not my type: he readily admits that he has the maturity of a five-year old, thinks that calling me his princess and quoting Elton John songs will win my heart, and mocks the fact that I think a man who takes the time to dress well is silly and overblown –though he immediately went out and bought a dress shirt with French cuffs because I said I thought that was attractive-. So long story short, he thought I was an overwrought psychotic girl, and I thought that he was a disrespectful inconsiderate boy; we didn’t speak for two weeks, until I offered an olive branch of sorts. Our relationship is cordial now, at least, and I’m perfectly okay with that.
Then, there was dance camp between 23 and 26 January, and the major highlight of that was probably the quickstep lesson. I have a feeling quickstep is going to be like international waltz: I’m never going to learn it properly, and when I am obligated to dance it, I’m basically going to have to have my leader drag me through it. Granted, as a follower, I’m supposed to let my leader be in charge, but I don’t really like going into my dances blind. However, that is slightly beside my point. Let me say that the quickstep lesson went rather miserably. I tripped, stumbled, and barely squeaked my way through the lesson, that is, when I actually had a partner. Half the time, the limited number of guys in the room didn’t make an effort to pick me; this isn’t unusual, as I have this tendency to stand near the back of the group of girls, I suppose because I’m shy. Lo and behold, this individual walks in –late, but whatever, it’s good- and takes up like he means to start practicing – a person I met back when I was rehearsing for Harvard Beginner’s, jokingly referred to as Edward Cullen by a mutual friend, because he has motorcycles, plays the piano, dances competitively, and generally has the whole tall, dark, and brooding thing going on. He glances over, I tilt my head –‘you mean me?’-, and we dance. I continue to fail, and then the lesson is over…but not quite, because ‘Edward’ tells me that we’re going to practice some more until I get it, at which point I find I’m way over my head, and my best bet is just to desperately follow along with what he’s saying. Ultimately, this did not turn out to be the problem that I thought it was going to be, because he maneuvered in such a way that we ended up dancing hip to hip, and then explained that it ‘worked better’ that way. Thus begins this little saga that I will attempt to elaborate on tomorrow, but for now, I’m off to bed to sleep away my chest congestion.
Take the road less traveled and godspeed to you.
Just wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, a Happy New Year’s, and a joyous Three Kings Day! I’ve been very neglectful of my blog here, but it’s been on my radar. I’ll be leaving back to Boston on Sunday after a very relaxing but too-short three weeks here in Miami, so I’m a little upset about having to refocus on classes and deal with the drama I was oh-too-happy to leave behind, but what can one do?
I’m also pretty upset about my stupid community service volunteer program infringing on my capoeira practice, but I’ll be sure to elaborate on that at a subsequent date. Suffice it to say now that I am a scholarship student at my university, and that I earned my merit scholarship through four years of hard work in high school; my university doesn’t think so, and has tacked a caveat on my non-university funded scholarship that I have to complete one hundred hours of service every two semesters to ‘earn my keep’. I was limited in my choices for volunteer opportunities -no animal volunteer options or civil service options for me- and am even more limited in my scheduling. So isn’t it just my luck that my hours have been scheduled right in the middle of one of my only two days to practice?
Anyway, I shall post something more soon and explain everything.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
So I’m way, way, way overdue for a blog post. I mean, so many crazy, weird, and amazing things have happened to me since I last posted that I absolutely need to share them. It’s not enough for me to tell one of my best guy friends during one of our almost daily chats about what’s going on. I kind of want to let go and just be my crazy, bitchy Cuban self or my silly, goggle-eyed romantic self and say what I’m really thinking about what’s going on.
I can’t believe the last place I left off at was the batizado we had. But, since that was the last place I left off at, let me just say it was simply incredible. I didn’t get my cord, but I had an awesome time just cheering for all my boys that managed to get new cords. I was super proud of them, and there was just amazing energy the whole time with our mestre directing the berimbaus and making sure everyone was singing and clapping. I’m glad I got to participate in it, but am presently kind of bummed because I ended up having to take some time off of capoeira. I’m definitely going to have to get back into practicing when I get home to Miami, if not at another capoeira academy –with mestre’s and my teacher’s permission, of course!- then on my own. The nerdy guy that I mentioned I met at the ballroom Halloween party showed up –he shall now be Computer Boy- and actually stayed the whole time, which was a bit surprising, and Dude Non Grata showed up as well. Fortunately, I managed to avoid him by hanging out with my teacher’s brother and the cute boy from my capoeira classes. Taking photographs with people is a great avoidance technique, as it were, and I’m certainly not going to complain about snuggling up to one of my three present love interests.
For 11 November, Veteran’s Day, some of the ballroom club organized an outing to a swing place in Charlestown. The whole evening was USO-themed, and so I put on my cute lace dress –which turned out to be a poor idea-, my pumps, and my pearls, and went along with the group on an epic T-ride. We walked the rest of the way from the T-stop to the club, and then realized we were at least forty-five minutes early. So we hoofed it back to the main road, and dressed in our 50s finery, took over a deserted Dunkin Donuts. I took one for the team and split a blueberry muffin with one of the girls from the club so we weren’t just occupying without consuming anything. We spent our time joking and spying on a limousine that pulled up outside the Dunkin Donuts; the limo driver stepped out and procured champagne from a crate in the trunk, while the occupants of the limo snuck across the street and purchased further provisions from the liquor store.
When the time came to go dance, we had a swing lesson from some rather irritating instructors, and let me say, I danced with my fair share of weird guys. Some were older gentlemen who didn’t know how to dance, so I didn’t mind helping them out so much, but there were several men who kept quite too firm a grip on my waist or stared at me just a little too much. I danced a few times with the Stylemaster, a very nice grad student with our group who just adores his fancy turns and back passes. He’s such a sweetheart and always wears shirts with the most awesome puns or slogans on them. The Stylemaster asked if he could dip me when we were done dancing, which was really fun, but I felt very self-conscious about my lace dress and flashing any unsuspecting people.
Our club president told me after I mentioned that the other girls in our group were very popular with the men at the club that I was exhibiting very closed-off body language, and that if I stopped crossing my arms, some people might ask me to dance. I did so, and to my amusement, and hers as well, a few guys did come and ask me to dance. After Computer Boy kept dancing with me and tried to put his arm around my waist in the course of the evening, I was trying my best to avoid dancing with him. My last dance of the evening was with this random stranger who offered me his hand when I was sitting with my group. I didn’t get a good glimpse of him at first, but when we got on the dance floor, it was like I was hit with a pound of bricks, because he was good-looking and a much, much better dancer than me. So I’m trying my best to follow along, since club swing-lindy is pretty different from official ballroom syllabus dancing, and he just makes this comment about how dancing is an art with no right or wrong. Then, he picks me up and spins me around, and I just had my hands on his shoulders laughing. It was the most brilliant, amazing thing, and when he set me down, I knew I had the silliest smile on my face. I told him my name in the hopes that maybe he might give me his phone number or something, and I know he said his name, but I didn’t quite hear him over the band. So even though it didn’t work out quite as I’d planned, it was just the craziest Cinderella type experience I’ve ever had –since lo and behold, it was close to midnight, and my group was waiting for me so we could all run and catch the last T back to campus-.
So at some unremembered date after that, Computer Boy, who seemed to have gotten over my swooning over my swing-dancing Prince Charming, asked me if I would go to the museum with him. It seems like the strange boys of the world that I don’t like are determined to ruin the Boston MFA for me. Not only did Computer Boy ask me –I avoided it, but somehow ended up going shopping with Computer Boy for my Secret Santa’s present; we ended up getting my Secret Santa the Witcher deluxe version-, but my roommate Hipster Girl’s ballroom dance competition partner Awkward Businessboy has apparently taken a shine to me too, and asked me to join him at the MFA for a tour, of sorts. Stupidly, I said yes, before I realized that he was flirting with me and trying to finagle a date. So at rehearsal for competition, I managed to extricate myself by saying that I would be spending most of the week studying for finals. He kept trying to get me to dance with him at our holiday ball, but I kept a handle on it by either sitting and ‘resting my feet’ or dancing with Computer Boy, and once with Eric Cassio.
But more about ballroom competition and the ballroom holiday dance tomorrow, or something. It’s late, and I don’t want to overload you, dear readers, with way too much information.
Take the road less traveled, and godspeed to you.
