El Calafate

When I was about nine years old, my family took a trip to Blackwater Falls, West Virginia. We went in March and there was a blizzard, but we were only there for a few days, so one afternoon we went tobogganing. No one was around so they hadn’t turned on the lift (like a ski lift, only for sleds!), so we had to trudge to the top of the hill, and once we got up there, there was so much snow the toboggans wouldn't go. By the time we started walking back to our cabin, my brother, who was six, and I were very cold and unhappy, and it was a long walk, so, to keep us going, my mom taught us “The Jeep Song,” a song she had learned in Girl Scouts. This song is full of nonsense lines, like “If Easter eggs don’t wash their legs their children will have ducks (quack quack!) / I’d rather buy a lemon pie for forty-seven bucks,” and “Oh loop-d-loop in your noodle soup just to give your socks a shine / I’m guilty, judge, I ate the fudge, three cheers for Auld Lang Syne.” In case you’re wondering, the song doesn’t have a single reference to a jeep. The strategy worked, we survived the walk back. And, as an extra bonus, I still remember the entire song.

I bring this up, because last weekend I went with friends Michael and Martín to El Calafate in Patagonia, and it was so cold that I considered breaking out into The Jeep Song on more than one occasion. I spent the entire weekend in six shirts/sweaters and three pairs of leggings/pants (as evident by the photos). In the last few years I have been lucky enough to see some really beautiful places, but for the most part these places have been beautiful because they’ve been lush and green. Patagonia is beautiful in its emptiness. I have never seen so much open space in my life. Also, it is far enough south that we experienced a very strange phenomenon: the sun came up over the lake around 10am and set around 5pm in almost the same spot.

Sunrise

Sunset

On Friday we went to see the famous Perito Moreno glacier. The glacier is about 3 miles wide and 250 feet high. It is also the world’s third largest fresh water reserve and one of only three glaciers in Patagonia that is not retreating. It is, in fact, advancing, and because of this it makes a lot of noise. It creaks and groans and occasionally you can hear ice breaking off and falling. The strangest thing about the sounds is that we never actually saw anything move. We were standing in front of this massive ice formation in one of those huge silences that happens when it is very very cold, and then we would hear a loud crash without a source and then it would be silent again.

Martín, me, and Michael

On Saturday we did a 5-hour horseback tour through the area outside of El Calafate. I have been on “horse treks” before, and usually you get on a very docile horse that just follows the horse in front of it and you walk along a trail for a couple hours. This was not that kind of tour. First of all, there was no trail. We walked along the road for about ten minutes and then we were just off in the vast emptiness that is Patagonia.


We walked along the Lago Argentino, the largest lake in the country, and picnicked by the shore. Our guide’s name was Luís, and he was a lesson in stereotypical Latino male chauvinism. Usually I can smile and ignore certain things, chalking them up to cultural difference, but I was pretty sick of him calling me “mujer” the whole time. Especially since I was the only mujer there. But other than that it was a lovely afternoon.


There was a flock of big bird floating in the water near where we were eating, and when Luís told us they were flamingos I thought he was just giving us a hard time. But it turns out he was serious! Who would have thought that the first place I saw wild flamingos would be the place I went to to see glaciers?

Two particularly exciting things happen on our “cabalgato” tour. First, about six of Luís’s dogs (he owns 16) came with us. While the dogs in El Calafate are domesticated, they are still pretty wild, and these particular dogs hunted down a jackrabbit. If someone had asked me, hey do you want to watch a pack of dogs hunt down a jackrabbit?, I would have said, no, gross! But actually it was pretty cool. It was right out of a National Geographic special. The dogs circled the rabbit and then cornered it, and got it by the throat. Then the guide broke its neck, to make sure it wasn’t suffering, and tied it to his horse to take home and cook for dinner.


The other exciting thing is that I fell off my horse. My horse, Dogo, did not like walking, or following my instructions. If any of the other horses starting going faster, or even just got ahead of us, he would start trotting, which I could handle, or galloping, which I couldn’t really handle. We had galloped a few times and I was fine, but this time he took off down a sandy hill, veered around a bush, and jumped over another bush. Upon landing, I managed to hold on for a couple more seconds before falling sideways. I have a very clear visual image of the ground coming up quickly and Dogo’s hoofs very close to my face.

My entry in the guest book back at the tour office (aka Luís's house)

I was only off the horse for about three minutes before Luís helped me back on and we were off again.

Sunday morning was drearier than the other days, but also warmer. The town was pretty quiet because it was Election Day, and most things were closed. We went on a lovely walk in the morning, and a couple local dogs adopted us.


We got back Sunday night and I’ve spent the week hanging out with friends. Michael left on Tuesday, which was very sad. But I've been hanging out with my other lovely friends, and I'm going to Uruguay for a couple of days tomorrow, so look forward to another update!

Don't forget to live

Today a cab driver asked me if I have a boyfriend. When I answered no, he asked me why. I said because I don't have time. He said, yes, you're young, focus on school, be your own person. He laughed. Then he looked at me in the rear view mirror and said, don't forget to live.

Shail, The Big Move, and MALBA

I would like to start by sharing a quick anecdote. In choir rehearsal yesterday, one of the men in the group came up to me excitedly and told me that on Wednesday he had seen the Shail choir perform. “The Shail choir!” he said, and then looked at me expectantly, as if I should know what he was talking about. “¡El coro de Shail! ¡De los Estados Unidos!” I kind of nodded. Clearly unsatisfied with my reaction, he solicited the help of a woman who speaks English. “He went last week to see the choir from Shail,” she told me. “I understood him,” I said. “I am not familiar with them, but I’m sure it was great!” Now she seemed surprised as well. “Shail,” she pushed. “From the university! They are muy conocido. Shail!” At which point it dawned on me that he had gone to see the Yale University choir. Stupid Argentine accent.

Anyway, this past week has been quite eventful. Well, it really just involved one big event that has greatly impacted everything here. Due to some really unfortunate circumstances, which I would happy to discuss via email, but probably shouldn’t write on the world wide web, I moved last Monday. It happened very quickly. I notified my program director of the situation on Friday, I went in to speak with him at noon on Monday, at two I met with the housing coordinator, at three I went back to my apartment to pack, and at 3:45 I was in my new apartment. It was a really uncomfortable few hours, but my program director and housing coordinator were really supportive, and the new homestay is fantastic.

The apartment is only about eight blocks away from where I lived before, which is nice because I don’t have to completely learn a new neighborhood or, more importantly, new colectivo and subte routes. I’m living with a lovely woman named Paz (it means peace--the IFSA housing coordinator and I decided it was a good sign) and her 22-year-old son, Juan. I have already spoken with them more than I did with all four members of the last family combined in three months. They chat with me, help me with Spanish, and have made me feel really welcome. They actually both speak perfect English, but are happy to let me practice Spanish. The apartment is bigger (not difficult), but my room is much smaller. It’s cozy, though, and I have my own bathroom and shower and much better pillows. The thing I am most excited about, though, is that we eat fruits and vegetables! There were never any in the other apartment (we’re not going to talk about weight-gain….). So this is going to be a much better situation. I am so much more comfortable and confident then I have been for months, and I’m kicking myself for not moving in March.

Other things are going pretty well. I am finished with my internship. Not really much to say about that. School is stressing me out, but school always stresses me out. I’ve met some good people in the last two weeks (in addition to Paz and Juan). Last weekend I went to a dinner party with my friend Meg and had one of the best nights I’ve had here. Meg is part of the Catholic student group at la UCA, and on Friday night she invited me (well, actually she begged me to come…this is how I know if you’re reading, Meg!) to a dinner they were having. The group was really nice, and a lot of them made a point to come and make conversation and get to know me. By the end of the night someone had brought out a guitar and everyone was singing! I want to go to the group meetings to hang out with them, even though I’m not Catholic, which Meg assures me is not a problem.

Yesterday I had choir rehearsal (concert’s coming up!) and then had a lovely day hanging out with my friend Mariano. I am embarrassed to say that I haven’t been to very many of the numerous museums in Bs.As., so we decided it was high time to visit the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires, aka MALBA. The inside of the building itself is similar to the east wing of the National Gallery in D.C., so it was familiar to me (reference this post). As in any museum there were pieces I really liked and pieces I really didn’t, but I really enjoyed the collection as a whole. I’m sure my grandmother could have told me a lot about the paintings. I really enjoyed the pieces by Uruguayan artist Joaquín Torres-García (if you can read Spanish, check out this website). The two paintings of his that I really liked were called Calle de Nueva York (New York Street) and Compsition symétrique universelle en blanc et noir (that's in French, I think it's Universal Symmetry in White and Black). I couldn't find photos of either painting, but this painting is similar to the latter and seems to be typical of his style:

Arte universal--image stolen from Wikipedia

We also saw this painting by Argentine painter Emilio Pettoruti:

La canción del pueblo--image stolen from
http://lazarillomochilero.blogspot.com/2008/10/emilio-pettoruti-1er-post.html

We both recognized the painting, but we weren’t sure where we had seen it before. There were also paintings by Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. It’s a great museum!

Today I explored my new neighborhood and found a very cute cafetería (coffee shop) a few blocks away with wifi! I love Sundays in this city. Everyone comes out to cafetererías and just sits and reads and chats and generally relaxes. Not a bad culture.

Devil's Throat

Well, it’s been a very long time since my last update. My apologies. After three months this really feels more like living than traveling and I have fewer exciting stories to share. Also, I’ve had to stop pretending that I’m not really in school. This week I have a paper due and an exam, and next week I have two exams. I am super excited about it.

Last weekend, however, I traveled! I haven’t been traveling much, mostly because it’s expensive. But last weekend I went to Iguazú Falls, usually referred to here simply as las cataratas, or the waterfalls. Iguazú Falls is one of the biggest (are some of the biggest? Does one refer to waterfalls in the plural or singular?) in the world. Supposedly when Eleanor Roosevelt saw them, she said, “Poor Niagra!” (that tidbit courtesy of Wikipedia). There are three main sections of falls and many more minor falls; in total the whole thing measures over 2km across. The Guaraní legend—they’re the indigenous group native to this region—is something about a god being in love with a Guaraní woman, but she fled with her lover in a boat down the river and in anger and god slashed through the earth and the woman and her lover fell to their deaths.

I went with my friends Michael and Martín, and Martín’s girlfriend, Arina. After a 20-hour overnight bus ride, we arrived on Friday afternoon at a charming little hostel. We had a very international moment when showing our passports to check in—I carry a US passport, Michael is from the UK, Arina is Russian, and Martín gets to choose between his Peruvian and German documents. After grabbing some lunch we walked to a spot a little outside town where the Rio Iguazú meets the Rio Paraná, forming a T. Argentina makes up one of the riverbanks, while Brasil sits across the Iguazú and Paraguay sits across the Paraná.

Paraguay on the left, Brasil on the right

Each country has erected a small monument painted in their respective national colors, and you can see all three from from the riverbank.

Argentina

This spot is lovely and muy tranquilo, and we stayed for a while and watched the sun go down over Paraguay.

Michael, Arina, Martín

The next day we got up bright and early to go to the Parque Nacional Iguazú. In the morning we walked around the forest and found some small waterfalls. The weather was beautiful and these paths were pretty empty since most people just go straight to the main event and fail to explore the rest of the park.

Michael was a jungle explorer

In the afternoon we saw the cataratas. You get to the falls via a small train and an extensive network of raised walkways that allow you to see the falls from above and below. We went first to the biggest of the falls, called Garganta del Diablo, or Devil’s Throat. The walk there was beautiful:

We could see the spray from Garganta long before we could see the falls.

The falls, of course, were incredible. Truly awesome. I’m not sure I’m a good enough writer to describe them. I would say that they (it?) were definitely one of those natural wonders that makes you feel very small. These walkways are at the top of Garganta and there is so much water creating so much splash and spray that you can’t even see the bottom of it. And it is very loud. I think I’ll just let the photographs and video speak for themselves:

After Garganta we went to the other set of falls, which are not quite as awe-inspiring, but beautiful nonetheless. Unfortunately the sun was going down by this time, so my photographs don’t really do them justice:

These falls are great, however, because you can go on a boat, which we decided to do. The boat first takes you to see Garganta from the bottom:





Then you go under one of the [not much] smaller falls. I knew we were going to get wet, but I thought it would be mostly from the spray, like the Lady of the Mists boat or whatever it’s called at Niagra. But in Argentina, you actually go under. I was not at all expecting the amount of water that was suddenly pouring down on my head. We got thoroughly soaked to the bone and had a great time!

Martín, Arina, me, and Michael, after the boat ride

In other news, the other day I went to the movies. When the movie was over, I left the theatre quickly because I was late for dinner. I was one of the first people leaving the theatre and I stumbled and fell down the stairs, sort of flopping onto the side of one of the seats. In front of everyone. I have a big scrape on my knee, and a bruise on my chest where I hit the seat. Graceful.

I’ve been missing home a lot lately and having some problems have arisen that I would prefer not to post on the world wide web, but it would meana lot to hear from you and I'll tell you all about it. ¡Hasta la proxima!

Great food

Buenos Aires has great food. Argentina is, of course, most famous in North America for its beef and its wine. I have to say, I’m not sure I really know how to judge the quality of beef. Growing up, my family’s red meat consumption was mostly in the form of hamburgers (my dad makes the best, and I’ll fight you on that) and the occasional pot roast or stew. Actually, my mother would eat stew every day if she had her way, but my brother and I went on strike at a young age after it was the only dish we ate for an entire winter. At least that’s how it goes in my memory. I have eaten steak only four or five times in my life. I had filet mignon once at one of those Japanese restaurants where the chef juggles knives and cooks the food at the table. I was probably eleven or twelve years old and went with my aunt and cousins. They, being good Cubans, ordered their steaks rare; I, taking a cue from my Irish mother who microwaves her meat after my father cooks it, even if it’s already crispy, asked for mine well-done. Apparently this is a filet mignon faux pas, and the chef made a big deal of serving everyone’s food and then having to wait around for mine to finish cooking. I distinctly remember him slapping it with the spatula, perhaps to prove that it was good and dry. But I digress.

So Buenos Aires is known for its beef, which comes from cattle that graze in the pampas, the vast plains to the west and south. Actually, Argentina has a gaucho, or cowboy, culture that is alive and well; I often see gaucho paraphernalia decorating the windshields of busses and there is a gaucho market a little outside Bs.As. The most traditional ways to eat Argentine beef are asado and parrilla; both are kinds of barbeque. I’m a little embarrassed to say that I have not actually had either. Well, I sort of had parrilla, but I went with a vegetarian and we shared a vegetable version. The grilled veggies were yummy, but did not quite constitute the traditional Argentine experience. I have, however, eaten my fair share of beef. My host mother makes an excellent roast, and meat is served at La Alameda on a regular basis. As I said, I’m not an experienced judge of beef, but I can say that meat here is very good. Also, they like it well-done.

Wine is a subject with which, while I know just as little about it as I do about beef, I have more experience. I really like wine and, although I usually buy cheap wine because I am a poor student, I can taste the difference between good wine and cheap wine. Here, the cheap wine is good wine, while expensive wine is really good wine. I can buy a bottle of wine for nine pesos (a little less than three dollars), and it tastes just fine to my finely attuned college student taste buds. Really, most college students are just excited by wine that doesn’t come in a box with a pour spout. The price also means there is a lot of incentive to drink wine over other beverages because, as I said, an entire bottle of wine can be had for nine pesos while a 20-oz bottle of water (a glass of tap water is difficult to come by in restaurants) or soda is between six and eight pesos.

As wonderful as Argentine beef and wine are, there are three other food items that, in my opinion, make a trip to Bs.As. worth it. The first is empanadas. I’m going to go ahead and assume you all are familiar with empanadas—if you’re not and you live in Arlington, take a drive down Columbia Pike. Here they are stuffed with the traditional ground beef or chicken, but can also be found with mozzarella, basil and tomato, tuna, bleu cheese, ham and cheese, spinach, and a whole array of other ingredients.

The second amazing food is helado, known in English-speaking places as ice cream. Here you can really see the city’s Italian influence, as the ice cream is more like gelato. There are helado shops on almost every street corner, which means it is a daily struggle to eat anything else. My favorite flavors are chocolate suiza (dark chocolate with dulce de leche), coco con dulce (coconut with dulce de leche), and dulce de leche (dulce de leche with dulce de leche).

Which brings me to the third: dulce de leche. Dulce de leche is made from milk and sugar that has been boiled down and boiled down until it turns into a thick, gooey, delicious caramel (the name means milk sweet, or milk candy). It is put in or on top of everything from cookies to bread to fruit. I love it. I hear other foreigners complain that dulce de leche is too sweet, but, as a Cuban, I have no concept of “too sweet.” In case you’re wondering, as a Cuban I also have no concept of “too loud,” “too close,” “too much garlic,” or “none of your business.” It appears the only trait I picked up from my mother is my strong aversion to meat that is still bleeding.

I could go on and on about Argentine dishes. The pasta, the pizza, the tortas, the pastries—all the things that Argentines are miraculously able to eat and still maintain their size 4 figures. But I’ll sign off for now, I hear a salad calling my name.

Tell Me More (a shameless plug for NPR)

For those of you who don't know, I am an avid listener of NPR and, thanks to podcasts, I have been able to keep up with my shows down here. One of my favorite shows is Tell Me More with Michel Martin. If you've never heard it, I highly recommend listening to her. Anyway, Michel has been following the South African elections and the other day she interviewed two women from the country about their experiences on election day. Something one of them said made me reflect on my own experiences during election day here in the U.S., and I wrote Michel and the Tell Me More crew an e-mail. I wanted to share it here:

Dear Michel and everyone else at Tell Me More,

First of all, I want to thank you so much for the show. I am a self-proclaimed NPR junkie, and Tell Me More is my absolute favorite. I am currently studying in Argentina, but I tote my computer to an internet cafe every few days to download the podcast!

The other day you did a piece on the elections in South Africa and you had a conversation with Nanette Sabidys. She spoke about her first voting experience, which happened to be in the first democratic election. She talked about standing in line behind an 87-year-old man who was voting for the first time in his life. She said that it felt "really really good and very humbling."

I was very touched by this story, and I felt humbled myself hearing it because I have been lucky enough to grow up in a country that has held democratic elections for a long time. Her story made me think of my experiences during the U.S. presidential election last year. I know it's been five months since November and that we've all heard a million stories about Election Day, but I wanted to share mine because I found parallels between Nanette's story and my own.

I am a university student in Richmond, VA, where I worked for a well known progressive nonprofit organization, canvassing neighborhoods to register voters. I canvassed almost exclusively in African American neighborhoods; unfortunately in Richmond this is often synonymous with low-income neighborhoods. The reception my fellow canvassers and I received was astounding. People were thrilled we were there and would often come back to us with their children, parents, neighbors...anyone they knew who wasn't registered. We got smiles, hugs, and many cheers of "We can do it!" I don't think for a minute that it was really about us. People were just so excited to be getting involved in the election. I've never felt such a strong sense of solidarity--of really being part of something important. What's more, I registered many people who were in their 40s or older who had never been registered. I cannot tell you how many times I heard things like, "I've never voted before. I never thought it made a difference and I never cared who got elected. But this year I'm going to vote." They were so proud and, thanks to them, Virginia went blue for the first time in 44 years. Like Nanette's story, I found the whole experience extremely humbling--not only to have elected a man who inspired people to believe in their power and gave them renewed faith in their government, but to be with people who were discovering and believing for the first time that they do have a voice and the ability to make a change and to make history.

Thanks again!

Lina Rodriguez, from Arlington, VA (and Richmond and currently Buenos Aires)

Tengo ganas de hacer anything but schoolwork

I’ve had quite an eventful week.  I started my internship, attended a peña with the folks from said internship, got invited to join another choir, went to a South African theatre festival, and made my first two Argentine Facebook Friends.

I have now worked two days at La Alameda.  If you’ve missed earlier posts, La Alameda is a community center that works mostly with Bolivian immigrants who have been working in sweatshops in BA.  The center also serves community meals, has sweat-free ceramics and clothing workshops, runs a small library, and offers classes for adults and children.  I am interning there eight hours per week with David, another IFSA student.  We will primarily be working on two projects: reorganizing the library and translating parts of the website and other materials into English.  So far we’ve only been working in the library.  We are completely reorganizing the books, both physically on the shelves, and in terms of updating their records system, including organizing them by subject and figuring out a numbering/tracking system.  This is quite a daunting task, although David seems to have a little more patience for it than I do.  I think it’s pretty boring, but I also know that it’s something that needs to be done and that it will make a big difference to La Alameda and to the people who use the library, so I’m happy to do it.  I really like the other people that work there, and I’ve made friends with Jorge, the center’s media guy (Argentine Facebook Friend #1).  He makes videos and slideshows and things like that.  He also gave me 2 gigs of Argentine music—that’s about 500 tracks.

La Alameda hosts and sponsors many events to raise funds or just to raise awareness and support for their causes.  Friday night they hosted a peña, or folkloric music concert, to raise awareness about child labor and the terrible working conditions under which some immigrants work (all you grammar nerds can correct the construction of that sentence).  A few artists played and the music was wonderful.  Then there was a video about child labor and a Bolivian man who had been working under pretty terrible conditions on a farm spoke.  I got to play with his children!  It was a good event. I'm starting to learn a lot about sweatshops and labor and, although sometimes it's so hard to hear these terrible stories, I think it's an important thing to know about and I'm interested in doing more work in this area.

Choir rehearsal on Saturday was exciting.  If you missed my last entry, I’m singing with a choir that needed more people to perform Carmina Burana in July—they rehearse their own music on Saturday mornings and then the rest of us join them in the afternoon to practice Carmina.  On Saturday the director invited me to join the small choir!  It turns out that I won’t actually be here for any of their concerts, but he told me that if I have “ganas de cantar,” I’m welcome to join them on Saturday mornings.

I would like to take a quick moment to explain the phrase “tener ganas de.”  It is one of my favorite phrases in Spanish and we really don’t have an English equivalent, so I find myself using it often in English conversation.  It essentially means to have a desire to do something, but it’s used pretty casually.  The word “gana” means a desire or an inclination.  It can also mean an appetite or a hunger.  It’s like saying you want to do something, but it implies a little more than just a casual inkling.  I’m not very good at explaining things like this, but it is a phrase I love, so I gave it my best shot.

To tie back into my story, Daniel, the director, told me that if I had ganas to sing, I was welcome to rehearse with the small group on Saturday mornings.  I am very excited (and a bit nervous), although getting there at ten in the morning is going to be a bear.  It takes me an hour to get there on the colectivo, and I have a hard time making it by noon.  In this city, getting up at 8:30 on a Saturday morning is practically unheard of.  I guess it means no more Friday night partying for me!  That’s alright, it’s worth it to sing.  Also, the guy who told me about the choir, Samuel, became Argentine Facebook Friend #2.

I actually haven’t been doing that much partying.  When I first got here I was going out a lot, mostly because it’s a good way to make friends.  But now that I have friends, I would actually rather do things like go to peñas or other cultural events.  Saturday night I went to a play that is part of a South African theatre festival.  The festival is called Proyecto 34˚S, and is “is a theatrical and artistic exchange...between Buenos Aires, Argentina and Cape Town, South Africa, both located on the 34°S line of latitude....   Its primary objective is to promote and facilitate the exchange of African and Latin American performing arts, culture, heritage and literature.”

The show I saw was called Every Year, Every Day, I am Walking.  It was a “physical theatre” production.  I don’t really know anything about physical theatre, but the story was told mostly through movement, although there was some dialogue in English, Afrikaans, Xhosa, and French.  From the website:

EVERY YEAR, EVERY DAY, I AM WALKING traces the story of a young refugee in Africa who loses family and home brutally and irrevocably and is forced to journey to a new place through many dangers and uncertainties. It is a piece about dislocation, about what home means, about Africa, about loss and about the first tentative steps towards healing and recovery.

The performers were two women who both played a few roles, but the main roles were the young refugee and her mother.  The piece was incredibly moving.  The show opens with the family’s house being ambushed and burned, and the girl’s sister is killed by the attackers.  The mother sees this happen, but manages to hide herself and her other daughter until the men leave.  They hide for a week and then wearily walk until they find someone to take the to Capetown.  There was a part where the mother was carrying the daughter on her back and the whole thing was heartbreaking.  There was also a scene that took place in a English school, which I found very interesting.  The girl, who was not from South Africa, is taking English courses and the teacher (who is white) tells the class they have a new student from Africa.  This struck me as odd because South Africa, of course, is in Africa.  I know very little about African history (or African present, for that matter), but I felt like this was telling of South African attitudes towards the rest of the continent, at least among white people in the country.  I hope some of you who have spent time in South African will offer some insight.

I have to say, I’ve been doing my best to pretend that I’m not actually in school down here.  I’ve been going to class, but I’m a little behind on schoolwork.  I’m not necessarily proud of this fact, but that’s how it’s going.  I’m not particularly inspired by any of my classes, and I am very inspired by my internship and the other activities I’ve been doing.  In the future, I know what I will remember is things like working at La Alameda and the South African theatre fest.  I have a hard time thinking schoolwork is more important than things like that, and that has always been my problem with school.  However, I also know that I need to pass my classes, so I need to get on top of things.  I have an exam on Tuesday that I am completely unprepared for, so I think tomorrow’s going to be a long day.  Wish me luck!

In other news, my birthday is two weeks from today.  I’m not sure I’m quite ready to turn 23 (I know, I know, I’m still young…whatever, it feels old to me), but that’s how it goes, I guess.