Going to the U.P., and getting tighter on the comment moderation

Later this evening I'll be heading up to Michigan for about a week and a half, and chances are I won't have much Internet access, so while I'll be writing, there won't be any posts for a while.

I also wanted to let you know I changed my comment moderation so that I have to clear your comments before they appear on the blog - this isn't because I don't love comments, on the contrary I ADORE them! Its just that lately I've been getting some really weird comments in Chinese, and when I get them translated in Babblefish they come out like this, for example:

Before the being frustrated person, do not discuss the self-satisfied matter; Before the self-satisfied person, do not discuss the being frustrated matter

This seems innocuous enough, but then there's always a link hidden in the comment in the form of an ellipsis that takes me to a page of Chinese ladies in underpants, and well, I'd just really prefer not to have that kind of content linked to my blog.

Have a good week, and I'll get back to posting soon.

JP

The Scavenger to Capitalism

My supervisor at the children's museum asked me if I wanted to end the assignment a week early so I could have time off before my full-time job started. I said I'd had plenty of time off, and we decided to take my last week (which is only Monday-Wednesday) on a day-by-day basis and see how much work was left to be done.

Over the weekend I attended CPR training at my new job, and was so taken by the fact that I'll be able to walk to work - in a part of Chicago that's so pretty it doesn't even look like itself, that I was loathe to get out of bed Monday morning to make the shlep down to Navy Pier. I told myself Monday would be my last day, but there was enough work left to bring me back Tuesday, and Wednesday too. I could have just punked out, but they'd been so nice to me there (they even gave me two trays of miniature cupcakes on Administrative Professionals day, can you believe it?), and it's always good to network with people who might be able to help you out down the road, so I came in for the full three days.

Wednesday morning I dragged myself out to Navy Pier one last time, savoring the view from the #82 Kimball-Homan bus as it coughed and farted its way south. This time of year the buds on the trees lining the avenue burst forth in a bright chartreuse, and I felt nostalgic knowing that this would probably be the last time I'd see them from the height of the #82. Just below Addison, the bus driver got into a yelling match with a car that was trying to make a right turn into the parking lot of Home Depot in front of her. Finally she let him go, saying "well, go on, before you tear somethin' up!"

I descended the bus onto the uneven and potholed intersection of Kimball and Belmont, and ventured underground to catch the blue line train. At the Grand Avenue stop I exited the accordion-doored subway car and ascended the stairs to the turnstiles, where a blue uniformed CTA employee stood, as he did every morning, greeting commuters with a wave, a smile and a genuine "good morning". Aboveground again, I waited for the #65 Grand Avenue bus, and rode it one last time as it wound its way east on Grand, then onto Illinois, underneath Michigan Avenue, and finally docked itself at the end of the line at Navy Pier. I wound my way through the maze of the children's museum, using my key card three times to gain access to both service entrance doors, and the door to the office suites above the third floor of the museum. At my desk I set to work on moving some electronic files onto a new server. The computer I was working on was unbelievably slow, I had to restart it several times because it kept freezing up, and I finally went to the food court to get some coffee while it rebooted.

I got in line at Starbucks (the only place to get coffee at Navy Pier, unless you count McDonalds) behind a group of students who looked like they were in the 8th or 9th grade. The kid in front of me, a doughy boy whose head bore an asterisk of hair circling the spot where his head had, until recently, been resting on his pillow, ordered an iced venti machiato. This struck me as the most ridiculous thing a 13 year-old had ever ordered - an opinion I firmly held onto until the kid behind me ordered a double chocolate mochachino. "I am not going to miss the atmosphere of Navy Pier" I thought, and mumbled something to that effect out loud as I added cream and two packets of turbinado sugar to my perfectly sensible 12 oz. coffee while the young machiato addict waited for his confection.

It was a gorgeous day, my computer kept freezing, and by noon I could restrain the urge to goof off no longer. I got my timesheet signed, faxed it over to the temp agency, and headed to Michigan Avenue to do some shopping.

After a year of self-restraint, I anticipated a full-blown shopping spree, but my habit of not spending turned out to be one that I couldn't shake. I browsed the shoes at Nordstrom, but just couldn't bring myself to spend $70 on something I could probably get online for half the price. I tried on a pair of dark-wash blue jeans, but couldn't justify the expense. In the end I bought things for M, since he hasn't gotten many gifts from me over the past year, and if anyone should be shopping on Michigan Avenue on a Wednesday afternoon jut for the hell of it, it's him. I bought him some fancy shaving products and some very expensive chocolate, and then, longing for a familiar anchor keep me from floating away in a vast sea of consumption, I headed to the Chicago Cultural Center.

A calmness came over me as I walked through the familiar doors of the mighty edifice, which was once the original home of the Chicago Public Library, and features - among other things, the world's largest stained glass Tiffany dome. The building has served as a resting point for me when appointments and interviews draw me downtown, and I'm so familiar with it at this point that I know where the best bathrooms are (2nd floor), I have a favorite table in the reading room (against the western wall, next to the display of Chicago Publisher's Gallery books), and I know the view of Millennium Park from the second floor gallery windows by heart.

You really can't beat the Chicago Cultural Center; they have free film screenings, free wifi, free art exhibits, and the only bust of a city planner I've ever seen - that of Ira J. Bach, 1906-1985, with the inscription "In developing a general plan, we must look at the city as if it were going to be entirely rebuilt, because a healthy city naturally rebuilds itself in the long run." You'd be hard pressed to find a more sensible, down-to-earth inscription on a bust. Mr. Bach's pinched face and stern molded haircut is not one that will ever be recognized by school children, or appear in profile on treasury-issued coins, but it makes me happy to know that his years of service (noted as 1940-1985) will forever be on display in this enclave, this quiet space on a sprawling avenue in the middle of America's 3rd most populous city.

I walked through the reading room, noting the admonishing word "Silence" that hangs on a wood panel one wall, and the anagram "License" that hangs on a wood panel directly across from it. I had some time to kill before meeting some former colleagues, so I walked up the double staircase to the second floor to see the current art exhibit: Christine Tarkowski's Last Things Will Be First and First Things Will Be Last. Her work included a dome inspired by Buckminster Fuller, and a room covered in broadsides made to look as though they had been printed long ago in obsolete fonts. "Thirsty woman," one began, "If you drink this water you'll never be thirsty again!" "Magic bullet faith cafeteria style 'service' I wanna eat from your buffet," decried another. "Praise the scavenger to capitalism bio/wind/hydro/solar the garbage man is the rational hero," said a third.

My mind settled on the message of the scavenger broadside - was this what I had become? Over the past year I've learned to make do with less, and have developed money saving habits: I get my hair cut for $16 by students at the Aveda Institute; I go bowling on Mondays, when it costs $1 per game at Diversey Rock 'n Bowl; and I'm a card carrying member of the Kerasotes five buck movie club. Shopping on Michigan Avenue made me anxious, it's basically against my religion at this point. I'd found my way back to a space where the only things for sale are a few trinkets in the gift shop, and the goods in the cafe on the first floor. In the corner of the room a 45rpm record spun on a turntable playing the same song over and over, a recording of people singing the words to the thirsty woman broadside. I stayed in the room for a few minutes reading posters, listening to music, and thinking about my near future.

The post that took almost a year to be able to write

I got a job. A real job. Not a temp job - although I've been doing that for about a month now and it's going well, and not as an enumerator for the U.S. Census, although I was contacted by them recently for work, but an honest-to-goodness nine to five with benefits. I start May 1st for training. In actual calendar time, I've been unemployed since June 1, 2009, although I was notified on May 12 and only came back into the office a couple times after that. Any way you slice it, its been about a year since I've been gainfully employed. I've probably written this list up before, but I'm willing to repeat myself - since May 12th 2009, here's what I've done:

• Participated in a mini-triathlon;
• Worked odd jobs as a babysitter, housecleaner, marketing study participant (I got paid $100 to talk about lotion for 90 minutes), and French language test-taker;
• Served in a volunteer capacity as: a librarian for the Alliance Française de Chicago; info desk staffer for Chicago's Green City Market; concert usher for the Old Town School of Folk Music; tutor for 826 Chicago; and construction worker for Habitat for Humanity;
• Traveled to France, Spain, Portugal and Senegal;
• Traveled to Boston four times, three times to Michigan, twice to New York City, once to Vermont, and once to Cape Cod;
• Became a staff writer at Gapers Block; and
• Interviewed for 11 jobs, 1 internship, and 1 informational interview.

Being unemployed has been so central to my identity over the past year that I almost don't know what to do with myself now that it's coming to an end. Although I'll be taking a pay cut from my last position, my new job is walking distance from my house, something I've always dreamed of, the people seem really nice, and the benefits are great. Since I'd already secured my dates for traveling to the U.P. next month, my boss is letting me take the time off, as well as a short trip to Austin in June that M and I recently planned.

Here comes the mushy part where I thank my wonderful husband for all the support he's given me over the past year - unemployment is generally considered one of the biggest stressors that can happen to a marriage, but over the past 11 months my husband has done nothing but encourage me to pursue all the crazy dreams that I suddenly had the time to follow. While he stayed home and worked, I spent most of my severance pay traveling to distant corners of the world, developed my writing technique, and connected with my community in meaningful ways through volunteering. Aside from one or two poorly timed cracks about not pulling my weight financially, he never made me feel bad about my employment status, or complained about having to cut back in areas like home improvement (which we desperately need) or postponing major purchases like a new car (which we need just as badly as a renovation of our basement). He's really pretty great, that husband of mine. I hope he never loses his job, but if he does I'll think back to my year of unemployment and all the experiences I gained from being able to take advantage of the time off, and I'll remember that none of it would have been possible without his support.

Thanks also to my network of unemployed friends: TS, who introduced me to $1 bowling Mondays at Diversey Rock 'n Bowl, and despite himself gave some of the sagest advice on the subject of unemployment; AP, who came as my plus one to numerous events; GV, whose acerbic sense of humor could pierce through anything; AB, who told me it would be the best thing to happen to me; and CF, who connected me with countless babysitting jobs that helped fill my pockets.

Of course, my employed friends were there for me this past year too: MamaVee, who convinced me to participate in a mini-triathlon; AM, who went to some of the best and some of the worst theater I've ever seen with me, and helped me to think of ways to write about it; HD, who kept in touch the whole time, and never treated me like I should feel sorry for myself; NM, who mailed me a birthday gift she'd bought in Bangladesh which was waiting to be opened when I came home from two weeks in New York and Boston right after I lost my job; DW, who always made time for lunch; and my upstairs neighbors, who included me in countless family dinners when I could easily have eaten alone in front of the TV while M worked.

At the risk of making this sound like a tiresome Oscar speech where the award winner has gone on too long so the music swells, causing the award winner to start talking really fast, thanks also to all of you who've read my blog and followed my adventures over the past year. Its great knowing you're out there, and I hope to keep telling stories that you want to read.

Temp.... sigh.

A couple weeks ago I met with a woman at an agency that specializes in finding temp, temp-to-perm, and permanent job placement opportunities for nonprofit professionals. I had recently been rejected for the fourth time by the same prospective employer, and was running out of ideas. I haven't kept track of how many resumes I've sent out, and I'd have to stop and think about how many interviews I've been on - somewhere in the range of ten to twelve, but I keep not getting hired. Its staggering; twice I haven't been hired for jobs that I had really good networking connections to, with former colleagues submitting glowing recommendations on my behalf, and none of the other jobs I've interviewed for have been offered to me either. I even took the aptitude test to work for the U.S. Census, and haven't heard from them. Aside from a growing number of hours spent babysitting, I seem to be unable to secure employment on my own. Coincidentally, I just received a notice from the Illinois Department of Employment Security stating that my unemployment benefits are almost exhausted, although my case will be reviewed for an extension. If that weren't enough of a sign that its time to change my approach to employment, I've slowly become disinterested in all my volunteer gigs. What used to be fun diversions and a way to connect with the community has over time become inconvenient or boring.

The agency called me early last week to discuss a possible placement - 3 days a week in the development department at the Chicago Chidren's Museum, would I be interested? I said sure, send them my resume, secretly hoping that like all the other prospective employers I've come into contact with in the past year, they wouldn't want me. The museum is located on Navy Pier, which is possibly the biggest tourist trap in Chicago, and unless I drive it takes me two buses and a train to get there. My contact at the agency called me the next day as I was finishing a babysitting gig to say that the museum wanted me to start the next day.

I haven't temped in 12 years. The last time I worked as a temp I had very few marketable skills, and as a result got assignments at the very bottom rung of the temp ladder. Some placements were tolerable, but some were just awful. I wrote about the experience in a long-defunct zine called Temp Slave, and one of my stories made it into the book The Best of Temp Slave, which includes a blurb from the king of work stories himself, Studs Terkel, a fact that I will be eternally proud of:

"The temps, in their own words, let us know what it is all about. Let's not kid ourselves. Temp is a euphemism for day laborer. George and Lennie are no longer merely ranch hands. They work in law firms, banks, insurance companies and in your own workplace."
--Studs Terkel

I've always felt a special connection to Studs; we share the same birthday (different years, but still!), and like Studs I was born on the East Coast and then made my way west to the City of the Big Shoulders. As thrilling as it was to have my name included in a book that got a blurb from Chicago's most celebrated storyteller, temping is a world I was eager to leave and never planned on returning to.

I was glad that the job was only 3 days a week, at this point I'm virtually feral where office life is concerned and I wasn't sure if I could handle the transition. Given the right situation I could very well run and hide from my new office mates, spitting and hissing at them if I feel cornered, and scavenging the remains of their lunches when their backs are turned. As it turned out, it wasn't that bad. The offices are one floor above the museum floor in a kind of loft, and all day the sounds of kids running and playing fill the air. At one point on my first day some staff members descended the office stairs with instruments in hand and enticed the kids into participating in a karaoke session; I sorted correspondence into donor files to the sounds of chestnuts like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Happy Birthday. For temp work, its not bad: my supervisor is really nice, trusts me to do my work without looking over my shoulder, and nobody gets very dressed up for work. If it weren't for the commute and the tourist zone, it would be the ideal temp job.

Until next time,

JP

Next Up - Senegal

When it comes to Senegal, I'm not really sure where to begin. I didn't take very careful notes while I was there, and it was so different from my regularly scheduled life that I hope I can do justice to the experience in words. When I first committed to the trip, I was under the false impression that my travels to Morocco almost five years earlier would prepare me for the experience; I quickly discovered that simply was not the case.

About a month before the trip, a dinner celebrating my West African Dance teacher's birthday was held at the home of Nancy, a long time student of his who had been to Senegal on one of his previous tours. In attendance were a mixture of people who had been on one of his tours already, and those who'd signed up for the upcoming one. Advice was sagely passed on from previous tourists, pieces of paper and pens handed out to the newbies for note-taking. I scratched out a few details on a scrap of paper, consisting mostly of useful Wolof phrases (written phonetically) and items to consider bringing as gifts for people we would come into contact with:

Wolof phrases:
nanga def - hello
mangi fireck - I'm fine
djere jeff - thank you
no tudu - what's your name
mangi tudu - my name is
wao - yes
dedet - no
balma - sorry
soor na - I'm full
lekka - eat
nyoko bok - you're welcome

Gifts to bring:
mint toothpicks
chapstick
crayons, paper
burt's bees
can openers
peelers
board books w/o words (or in French)
gum, chips, cookies
flip-flops

About the only thing I kept track of regularly in my notebook during the tour was sightings of t-shirts with English phrases printed on them. The ones I managed to jot down in my notebook are:

That's How I Roll (printed above a graphic of toilet paper)
Kiss Me I'm Irish
West Coast Family Reunion 2005
Add Some Fun To Your Fantasy
College
No Money No Lover
Catch Me If You Can

Hands-down the best t-shirt on the list is That's How I Roll. I wish I had a picture of that guy, but as it turns out its really quite difficult to take pictures of people in Senegal - at least it was for me. People really did not want their candid photo taken by a stranger, and there was pretty much no chance that I was going to blend in to my surroundings. Senegal isn't the most off the beaten track that you can possibly get to, but its as off the beaten track as I've ever been, and I just didn't want to become that big fat jerk who comes from another country and disregards the local customs to the point of offending locals, all in the name of getting a few snapshots. I did take some pictures, but a lot of them didn't come out that well because it turns out that my little point-and-shoot camera was designed for Chicago lighting (a lot of gray tones) and not so much Dakar lighting (extremes of very bright sunlight, and near-total darkness).

Sitting here in Chicago two months after the fact, my most striking memory of Senegal is how different the experience of time was. I'd been told about this aspect of Senegalese life, that nothing would happen in the amount of time I expected, that I'd have to throw away any and all expectations of timekeeping and its attendant properties. Someone told me about the acronym W.A.I.T., which stands for something like West African Itinerant Time. The example I heard to describe what this means is how public transportation supposedly works in that part of the world - instead of being on a schedule, a bus will wait until every seat has been filled. You could get on the bus and quickly move on to your destination, or you could wait all day.

My experience of Senegal, in addition to being amazing and beautiful, was extremely disorienting and at times quite stressful. In an attempt to re-create this experience I've decided to experiment with the way I tell this story; instead of going in chronological order as I did with my travels in Europe, I'll tell it in whatever order I remember it.

One thing I learned in Senegal it is that no matter how modern the world is, there are places where daily life is so different from my own that it overwhelms me to consider what life is like the world over. I was in Senegal for two weeks, it felt like two months. It opened my eyes in ways I didn't expect, and changed how I feel about life in my own part of the world. Don't believe it when people say the world is getting smaller. The world is big, really big, unimaginably so. It only feels small when you stick to a small portion of it.

More to come...

Monday, Technically Spring, Still Unemployed

This is my fourth post in as many days, I haven't been that productive on this blog since this time last year, when I attended Story Studio's In-Town Writer's Retreat. The best thing to come out of that weekend was connecting with the women who I've met with regularly over the past year for writing dates: Ms. Angelica, and Johanna Stein. This past Friday, in celebration of 365 days of writing (or at least thinking about writing), we had our own version of a write-a-thon, which involved cupcakes, wine, and tapping away on laptops.

A lot has happened over the past year: I lost my job; participated in a mini-triathlon; traveled to France, Spain, Portugal, and Senegal; volunteered with the Green City Market, Alliance Française de Chicago, Old Town School of Folk Music, 826 Chicago, and Habitat for Humanity; and became a staff writer at Gapers Block. I still don't have a flippin' job, but not for a lack of trying. For the most part I've kept busy enough not to let it get me down, but from time to time it's been hard to stave off negative thoughts. I've had my share of days spent oversleeping and lounging on the couch, wondering when the hell I'll be invited back into the grownup society of the working world. January and February were particularly bad months, I'd had several promising interviews, none of which turned into job offers, and the disappointment combined with winter weather really slowed me down. I didn't post much. I kept hoping I'd be able to publish a really optimistic post with a title like "Guess who just got a job?" or something like that, and when it kept not happening, well, it got me down.

It helps to have a project, one that doesn't involve cleaning the house (turns out, I'm a terrible housewife.) Having scratched my itch for international travel, I've started thinking about how much of this country remains unexplored to me. While visiting my sister in Boston last summer, I happened to see a flier at R.E.I. for an organization called the American Hiking Society. They have something called volunteer vacations, where for a nominal fee you can spend a week or two at a national park clearing brush and readying trails for the tourist season. The trips are assigned various levels of ruggedness, ranging from "easy" to "very strenuous" and you can decide how hard core you want to go. I managed to convince Ms. Angelica to join me on a volunteer vacation in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, which gets a "moderate to difficult" rating on the work level scale. It wasn't hard to convince her, she's from Michigan and loves the outdoors. I tried getting Johanna in on the fun too, but she has parental duties that cannot be ignored. We'll be working at Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, which is so far north its on the shores of Lake Superior, which is practically Canada.

In the coming weeks, in addition to my usual work search and writing activities, I'll be preparing for this trip. I have plenty to write about between now and then - I haven't even begun to touch on Senegal, and maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to publish a heroically optimistic post announcing my re-entry into the working world.

Thanks for reading,

JP

Portugal Part VIII - Epilogue

I. Porto

By the time Frances and I had woken up the next morning and gotten ourselves ready to explore Porto, half the team had already begun their journeys home. Cher was in the lobby with her copious luggage when we descended the staircase, and moments later a cab arrived to whisk her off to the airport. John had left a few hours earlier, as had Bebe and Catherine. Nicholas was scheduled to take a train heading north back to his parents' house in France. I wasn't leaving until the next day, as was Frances, and Lili had scheduled three extra days in a bed & breakfast on the Rua de S. Nicolau near the river. The participation fee I'd paid only covered one night's stay in the Porto hotel, but Frances let me share her room an additional night without charging me.

We handed our heavy room key to the grumpy desk clerk and walked out into the drizzling city to find breakfast. The rain had slowed, but it had been a near-constant for two days now. We settled on a cafe that had a pastry display in the window, and enjoyed the novelty of what felt like big-city bustle. On the street, people walked past the cafe at a brisk clip, and inside customers engaged each other in lively conversation. I looked out the window I saw the familiar figure of Shirley blending in with the locals, and waved to her. She smiled, waved back, and approached us.

"I'm glad I ran into you," she said, "I have something for you, and I was going to leave it at the front desk - my flight leaves in a couple hours and I'm heading out soon." Shirley had spent the past couple hours shopping for a gift for Frances; back in Braga, before watching the soccer game, we'd decided to pitch in €5 each and buy a gift for Frances as a gesture of our appreciation for leading the team. Frances had been just as taken with tile as I was, and we'd planned on buying her some as our group gift to her. Unfortunately, by the time we got to Porto there hadn't been time for shopping, and since today was Sunday hardly anything was open. Shirley had settled on a hand painted ceramic platter instead. I decided then that once I got home I would send Frances one of my tiles - I'd accidentally bought two of the same kind, and while the platter was nice, it wasn't the same as a piece of antique Portuguese tile.

We met up with Lili for lunch at the Majestic Cafe, a belle epoque building that featured leather seats, mirrored walls, and served expensive tea in fine china. We split up for the afternoon, each of us exploring our own interests. I spent some time at an Internet cafe that had reasonable rates and explored the city on foot, marveling at the buildings, and naturally, the tiles that covered them. We connected again at dinner, meeting at a three table restaurant called A Grade (pronounced ah grahday) that was owned by the B&B where Lili was staying. We dined on the most exquisite cod, squid, and Portuguese wine I've ever tasted. It was easily the best food and most fun meal of the entire trip.

Unsolicited, the owner of the restaurant came out from behind his station at the bar, approached our table with an ornate looking bottle and three shot glasses, and poured us all a serving. We toasted each other and downed the shots. It was surprisingly pleasant, whatever it was, and a moment later the owner returned and served us a second round. We hesitated, and finally Frances said "Oh alright." I lifted my glass up and said "If Frances is having one, I'm having one." A small boy at the next table began to parrot me: "If Frances is having one, I'm having one," he said, and then repeated the phrase. I took out my notepad to write down the name on the bottle label when a man at the next table - the father of the little boy who was parroting me, turned in his seat and began speaking to us in perfect English. He explained that the owner of the restaurant used old bottles for his own homemade hooch, and I'd only be writing down the name of what was originally in the bottle. By the time we left the restaurant we'd regained our sense of wonder that had been lost the day before. I was grateful for the chance to recuperate after the miserable day we'd just survived, and couldn't have found two better people to spend an extra day in Porto with than Frances and Lili.

II. The Journey Home

When Frances and I arrived at the airport in the wee hours of the morning, it appeared to be closed. "Cerrado", the taxi driver had said to us after unloading our luggage from the trunk, and "cinco horas". It seemed he was speaking Spanish. The lights were off inside the airport, and a few people were waiting outside on benches. We sat down, and peered through the glass walls into the darkened airport. After a few minutes I saw movement, there were a couple guards walking around, and I thought I saw the figures of people sleeping on the floor here and there. We tried the sliding doors and they opened, inside the only sound was the squeaky wheel of a cart piled with luggage that a lone traveler was pushing across the floor in slow motion, like a zombie in a horror movie. A flashing green pharmacy sign was the only source of light. As our eyes adjusted to the dark I began to make out the figures of more people sitting on benches, or asleep on the floor. The lights came on at about 5am. My flight was first, Frances and I said our goodbyes and I went through the security checkpoint.

I had a four hour layover in Frankfurt, where I experienced severe sticker shock. I'd become so used to Portuguese prices that €3 for an individual serving of yogurt and €16 an hour to use an Internet kiosk seemed beyond outrageous. I sent M the most expensive email of my life, struggling to use the German keyboard that seemed to be nothing but W and Z keys. A timer counted down the minutes of Internet access that I'd paid €2.50 for, so I didn't bother trying to spell anything correctly. The resulting communication was as follows:

Im in the Frankfiurt airport using a kiosk that costs 16 euros an hour, and II onli paid for 15 mins. the kezuboard is messed up so I cant spell. Mzu phone card ran out of minutes while we were talking in Portugal. Whz does the German kezboard have a Z where a Y should be? Annozing.

See zou soon, love zou, miss zou,

J

I had coffee at Starbucks because it was the cheapest thing I could find, and ate granola bars that I'd brought with me from Chicago and were still in my luggage. Looking around I couldn't help noticing that I was the worst dressed person in the airport. Everyone around me was neatly dressed and coiffed, I had a red bandanna on my head and wore the same underwear I had on the day before. I smelled a little ripe too. Whoever sits next to me is going to wish they paid for an upgrade, I thought as I lifted my €3.80 latte to my lips.

Before I could present my information at the check-in counter a woman with excessive mascara and white eyeliner rimming the inside of her lids asked me a barrage of questions: where had I traveled - Marseilles, Barcelona and Porto; how did I get from Marseilles to Barcelona - by train; did I have any checked luggage - no; who had I visited - my father, a high school friend, and a Habitat for Humanity project; why did I say I'd flown from Barcelona to Porto, but the records indicated that I'd flown to Lisbon - because I missed the flight to Porto; and did I have access to laundry facilities? When I answered affirmatively to the laundry question the woman relaxed a degree and said "That explains it, no woman would travel with such little luggage."

From there I searched the mammoth airport for my gate, stopping to ask directions from a stout, mustachioed man dressed in a security uniform and carrying an assault weapon. When he didn't understand my question he looked me in the eye and said simply: "a-gaaaain" in a flat tone that reminded me of Lurch from The Addams Family. Behind him a photocopied flier with names and mug shots of wanted terrorists was fixed to a pole.

At the gate all passengers went through security twice, once on entering the gate area and again before boarding the plane. There were two aging stewardesses on board, one had bleached blonde hair and a ponytail extension, and wore bright red lipstick. The other reminded me of Selma Diamond from Night Court. The aircraft was strangely empty, no one sat next to me, I spread out and slept most of the way home.

III. Chicago

Back home, things were pretty much as I'd left them. There was only one voicemail waiting for me on my cell phone - my chiropractor's office had called to remind me of an appointment I'd scheduled for the day after my return. I was so used to straining to understand what people were saying around me that it was an assault on my ears to hear English being spoken everywhere, on the train to my appointment I felt as though people were speaking two inches from my head. Michigan Avenue seemed ridiculously wide, the sidewalk a massive platform of cement under my feet. In addition to a chiropractic adjustment, I had a massage scheduled with Chris, one of the Romanian masseuses on staff. He asked me what was new, I told him I'd just returned from Portugal, and our conversation turned to soccer. I've never heard Chris say so much in all the years I've been going to that office. The second qualifying game between Portugal and Bosnia was in progress, and Chris had been checking the score (Portugal won). We discussed Portugal's chances at making it to the World Cup, the team's star player Christian Ronaldo, and how nice it would be if the office installed an espresso maker in the waiting area.

I stopped by a drug store before getting back on the train, and overheard a cashier say: "the penny is the brown one" to a customer. A wave of sympathy came over me as I realized the customer was a guest from another country, trying to figure out what all the coins in his pocket represented.