Tu Peux M'Appeler Tata Julia

Tu peux m'appeler Tata Julia

Before I introduce you to the kiddos I have been hanging out with this week, I think it is probably important to address a topic that has come up a lot  recently. Both preceding and throughout my trip so far, the subjects of "white saviorism," "neocolonialism," and "voyeuristic voluntourism" have frequented dinner table discussion; the questions of whether or not it is a cliche to be a white girl going to Africa to work in an orphanage or to Central Europe to spend time with and learn about the social issues and ethnic minorities there when we have plenty of our own at home have been posed more than once.

Well, I have been traveling for a month now, and I think I have finally tacked down where I stand. In every corner of the world, people commit terrible atrocities against kids. In every corner I have been to so far though-and as you well know, I haven't been in many (yet)-there are good people working by the grace of God to give to who they can a break and a chance to pass on this grace to others. In Deva, Romania, I had the opportunity to stay at a care center for youth where kids would stay in "families" of five to ten with staff members or volunteers at the center. On the weekends, some were able to return to their families, but while at the center, they were guaranteed daily access to school, activities in the evenings, three meals a day, and a roof over their heads at night. Though the histories of the kids and their reasons for having to come to the center were sad, it was heartening to meet the staff and volunteers who have dedicated their lives to making sure that wherever the children go from this point forward, they are equipped with the opportunities to better their lives as they see fit. And, as the sister of a teacher and the daughter of a stay-at-home mom, I have witnessed first hand how sometimes the labor of people who have taken it upon themselves to live and work entirely for someone else goes unappreciated in today's society; though I know that the staff and volunteers at Deva hardly needed our approval, it was great to be able to recognize them without ever having to put it into actual words that "Yes, we see you, and we see what you do, and it is good. Thank you for whatever sacrifices you have made to be here instead of somewhere else." 

All of this also applies to orphanage where I am working here in Ouidah. The man who started L'Espoir D'Enfants spent most of his childhood with orphans himself, so when he got older, he wanted to create a place where other orphaned children would be safe from anyone who would try to take advantage of them or harm them in any way. The kids from the "orphelinat" are not adopted out to other homes, rather they are free to stay there--with the guarantee of food, shelter, education, medicine, and companions--until they are old enough to leave. Similar to the center in Deva, some of the kids have families or extended families near by that they see on the weekends, but the orphanage takes care of all of their basic needs while they are there. I am not there to change their program at all, just to be another pair of hands. I hope to take the example of Christ that I see in both the children and the adults in charge wherever I go after this, first back to my home, and then where God sees fit for me, to whatever corners of the world await. 

Now, on a slightly different note….

Holy crap, I love kids. 

When I first went to the orphelinat on Thursday, the kids were a little shy for maybe 4 seconds, but then I pull out "Les Oeufs Verts au Jambon" (Dr. Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham)-a gift from my friend Katherine last Christmas- and the ice was broken. Since Thursday, I have been there five times, playing soccer (ok, ok football), reading books (mostly in French), drawing and coloring pictures, teaching some English (we played "How-do-you-say…"), and playing a myriad of games that the kids have taught me that I can never win. I tried to explain the word "gonna" to one of the older boys, and not gonna lie, it was difficult. Maybe instead of trying to define slang, I will just teach more…any suggestions? What sort of English slang must every young English learner know? I was also asked by one of the younger kids if my university only had white people…trying to explain desegregation and diversity is a little complex with a language barrier and given the history of the slave trade between Benin and the United States. The kids are really good sports about my French though, slowing down so I understand them and putting up with the gobbilygook that I piece together and hope they understand. They all call me Tata Julia, which just reminds of Ruth May-my favorite character in Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible (if you haven't read it, what have you been reading all your life? Go get it now.)-who always referred to Jesus as Tata Jesus. "Tata" just means "aunt" so I am not really sure how that worked out in Poisonwood… However it works, I am looking forward to being Tata Julia for the next three and a half weeks, hanging out with the kiddos, practicing my French, and maybe eventually, even winning one of their games =D

Only two pictures, but only because I am literally being eaten alive by mosquitoes at the cafe right now...more to come!

Emmanuel et moi.

Milvine trying REALLY hard to carry around the baby who is nearly half her size.

For the honor and glory. 

Hey, I Just Met You, And This Is Crazy, So Let's Get Married

Thursday, June 21

So I made it through the "Second Day Slump"-the title I have dubbed the second day of any trip where you feel the most homesick because the initial shock of being in a new place from the first day is fading and the rest of your stay lies ahead, looming in its seemingly great length. During my stay in Central Europe, the SDS nearly killed me and was definitely the worst day of my trip so far, so I was glad to realize that today is my third full day and I breezed right through yesterday. 

And then I took it upon myself to reorganize and clean up my luggage and the SDS tried to catch up with me. I looked through a photo album, read all of the notes my family had left me, and vowed from now until I leave, not to go messing with my bags again because it just made me miss home a ton! I know that my family is having a lovely time frolicking on the beach in San Diego right now-probably digging lots of tiger traps (for some reason my family doesn't build sand castles on the beach, we just dig holes)- so I know that I don't have to worry about them. As for me, Brownie, Christian (my French professor), and I hammered out an incredibly busy schedule between two hours of French and three to four hours at the orphanage nearly everyday, plus guitar lessons at CIAMO during my last two weeks. It is going to fly by. I don't want to leave, and if I could relocate my family to be here with me, I wouldn't. Maybe we will come back someday to do some family volunteering.

Now I really must dedicate the rest of this blog to my two marriage proposals that I received yesterday. After I made myself some lunch, I decided to go find the beach which is actually sort of difficult because maps of Ouidah are hard to come by…possibly because most of the streets don't have names; people live "behind the post office" or "next to the market" as opposed to on a specific street. So, I headed in what I thought was the right direction, realizing after about 20 minutes that it was most certainly wrong, therefore, I flagged down a moto-taxi and arrived in five minutes. As soon as I got off the bike, I was snagged by a "tour guide" who I knew would be charging me for his expertise, but I also wasn't really sure how to convince him that I would be fine on my own. Twenty minutes of Franglais and 500 francs later, I knew everything there was to know about the Port du Non-Retour and the surrounding beach. When I asked about all of the pieces of glass and pottery on the beach, my guide took me to a pile of broken bottles which he said dated back to 300 years ago when the Portuguese brought whiskey for the king in exchange for people. And then he told me that before I go home, I should marry his brother. I told him I was way too young. He told me I could wait a few years and then come back. This was my favorite exchange in French yet. 

Only to be topped as I was walking back home when a young man started walking next to me. We chatted back and forth in French and then he asked me what I would think if he loved me. I could not stop laughing. He kept saying "Non, non je t'aime!" I told him no, he did not m'aime and tried nicely to end our conversation by telling him I would probably come back to the beach on Sunday. He was excited about this and said "Oh yes, on Sunday we will go to the beach together?" My laughing redoubled. I tried to pull the "je suis trop jeune" (I am too young) card again, but then he asked my age and what a coincidence, we were both 19. Truly, a match made in Heaven. I finally convinced him that he could walk me to the end of the road we were on and then I would be going on solo. 

So, 20 minutes of hot sun and humidity later, I made it home, hot, sweaty, but still single. Minus a power outage for about 45 minutes, the rest of the evening went on without event. Unless you count a gigantic storm during the night, complete with plenty of thunder, which I guess only a kid from the desert would count as a big event. I was just excited because the rain and thunder kept my neighbor's stupid rooster quiet for a couple of hours. I swear, there is going to be some rooster soup soon if that thing doesn't figure out when sunrise is pretty dang quick. Supposedly, in French, roosters say "coco-rico." It pretty much still sounds like "cock-a-doodle-doo" to me, but I don't really care either way, I just want it to "coco-shut-up-it's-two-in-the-morning-doodle-doo." =D=D=D=D

Welcome to Julia's Creative Clothes Drying.

 The view outside my door.

Also, be prepared, coming to a blog near you very soon are some freaking adorable kids! Until then, au revoir!

For the honor and glory.

Oh By The Way, You're Going to Need a Helmet

So that took a long time. 

And by a long time, I mean that in less than 24 hours since arriving here in Benin, I am already in love. 

Getting here to Ouidah however, may be a bit of a different story. It wasn't bad, but it was long and certainly not uneventful.

 When I blogged yesterday, I was sitting at gate A7 in the airport in Budapest. Everything was going great with my giant coffee (still not 12 cups, but bigger than an espresso =D) except for the fact that my plane was leaving from gate A5. No, I wasn't in such an oblivious state of joy from the coffee that I was unable to correctly navigate the airport; my boarding pass clearly read A7. It didn't wind up being a big deal though, the other travelers at the airport just all got to know that Julia King was not in the right place at the right time when they paged me over the loud speaker. I got on my first of two planes without a hitch after that. Unless you count how ugly of a sleeper I am as a hitch, which I sort of do because knowing that my wide open, mouth-breathing mug was visible to all of the other passengers around me was making me pretty self-conscious and unable to really fall asleep despite the fact that my 2 hours of sleep the night before was kicking my "bilateral ocular drift" (my self-diagnosed condition that I blame for all of the times I have fallen asleep in public) into full gear. 

Upon arriving to Charles de Gaulle in Paris, it dawned upon me that airports are an incredibly comfortable place to navigate even if you do not know where you are going because everyone else is lost too. If I was to make a documentary about signs and their effectiveness, I would start at an airport. Everyone knows where they want to be, but without the rocking signage, no one would really get anywhere. 

Anyway, the flight from Paris to Cotonou went great except for the last hour and 45 minutes where I could feel my old "I have been on this bus/plane/train too dang long" rage taking over. I managed to watch two whole movies--50/50 and My Week With Marilyn, both of which I would recommend--without going too nuts, but that is probably because I had French subtitles on both of them so I was more engaged than if I had just been sitting. When we finally arrived and got off the plane, my first thought was "Holy Bejeezis, it is humid." Then there was a breeze and I relaxed a bit. Only to walk into the luggage claim area where relaxation had probably not been seen in awhile. Basically the way you get your luggage in the Cotonou airport is to have the entire plane worth of passengers crowd around the conveyor belt so close that in order to get your bag, you have to "Excusez-moi"/push your way through all the people and then try to snatch your heavy bag off the belt without knocking out an innocent bystander in the process. Three times of watching my bag go by, with my firmest "Excusez-moi!" and the help of a nice man I finally grabbed it. Then it was off to meet Brownie-my Humanity Exchange country manager-, Edie-a current volunteer/flat mate from Nigeria-, Robin-a volunteer from the UK who was headed home on the plane I had just arrived on-, and one other very nice girl whose name I didn't catch who was waiting for me in the crowded lobby with my name on a piece of paper so I could find the rest of the gang. We headed for the parking lot to meet Sebastian, our fearless driver for the trip to Ouidah, about 40 km away.

This drive alone deserves its own paragraph. Benin and neighboring Togo are know as Motorcycle Countries, which translates into "You are driving along and then 'SWEET BABY JESUS' there's a motorcycle on your hood/bumper/windshield." Twenty minutes into our drive, literally just about when I was going to ask if there are a lot of accidents, we drove past a man bleeding and unconscious in the street from a recent crash. A small crowd was forming around him, but most people-including us- continued to just weave around, so I assumed this wasn't too out of the ordinary. I made up my mind right there that I would avoid the popular moto-taxis.

That lasted a long time…

After enjoying the most relaxed morning I have had in three weeks-eating food I made myself, journaling, playing harmonica, and reading Harry Potter in French- Sebastian returned and told me in French that I would need a helmet for later in the day. I said a quick prayer to the saint of not dying on motorcycles and then was relieved to see that for at least the beginning of my tour around Ouidah with Brownie and Sebastian, I would be in a car. We briefly visited the orphanage-where I will start volunteering tomorrow-, three different Catholic churches (one of which is across the street from the Temple de Pythons), CIAMO-the music/art school where I met the director, John Mark, and will be working at in July-, and the beach where the Port de Non-Retour stands ominously, marking the final point for African slaves before they were shipped from their homes to Europe, the United States and elsewhere. Though the rest of the beach looks like it could be a screen saver, knowing its history made standing there different from just any other beach I have stood on. Brownie told me that nearby there is also a memorial commemorating the fact that Benin was the first country in Africa to recognize that Africans also played a perpetuating part in the slave trade. 

From there, we headed to Brownie's house for lunch and mid-afternoon napping and reading children's books in French. Then it was off to the market with the two lovely ladies who live with Brownie (who told them to only speak in French with me, no English). And guess how we got there? 

Yup, helmet on and prayers being said, I got onto the back of a motorcycle while the two of them got onto the back of another. When we got to the market, I turned to my companions and said "Je suis vivant" or "I'm alive" to which they just laughed. They helped me haggle (by which I mean, they did all the haggling) for my lettuce, cabbage, green beans, tomatoes, onions, oranges, garlic, eggs, and red wine vinegar and then it was back onto motorcycles to my apartment. I decided that I rather enjoy this moto-taxi business and maybe I will buy one when I get home (bahahahaha, I only said that to make my mom mad…but seriously =D)

The French professor, Christian, was working with Edie when I got back, so I was able to meet him and do even more parlant en francais. We talked schedules, books (he loves Lord of the Rings, we are going to get along well), and movies, and planned how I was going to fit my 40 hours of instruction into the next four weeks. I had so much fun in the five minutes that we spoke entirely in French that I really cannot wait for the next 39 hours and 55 minutes. 

And now, I must finish this excessively long blog in order to go make my own dinner, which I also could not be more excited for. I am thinking an iced coffee (even though Europe doesn't seem to be on board with the concept of cold beverages, I am pleased to learn that Benin is all for them) and sautéed vegetable with a fried egg. And now I am drooling on the keyboard. Au revoir pour maitenant! 

For the honor and glory. 

The Port de Non-Retour that I mentioned above. 

Beautiful to look at, not to swim in. Unless you feel like drowning. I am not a big fan of water or rip tides though, so I should be safe.

Notice the footnote. You know you are close to the Equator when "hiver" or "winter" gets a special description below.

How Do You Say Stitches in Hungarian and Please Dear God, Don't Take My Bug Spray

And now for a joke.

Where do you go to get the best coffee in all of Budapest?

The airport.

Hahaha.

No really, 33.33% the coffee has been fine the past three weeks between Hungary and Romania, but honestly, the other 33.33% was actually compost water and final 33.33% was just too dang small. I love espresso, but at home I typically make a 12 cup pot of coffee in the morning and procede to drink it for the rest of the day until about 8 p.m. To drink the equivalent of 12 cups of drip coffee in espressos, I would have to order 2345678 espressos. And then my head would explode. 

Anyway, if you did not gather this prior to my rant, this morning at 5 a.m., I woke to my last few hours in Budapest. The past three weeks in the first two countries of my tri-country excursion have been a little bit beyond words for me. I know I whined about toilet paper, bathroom doors, toilets, bathrooms in general, but if I ever have the opportunity to come back here, I will. Of course, it really wouldn’t be the same without my Flinn brothers and sisters (flothers and flisters, anyone?? =D) who made this trip for me. I thought they were pretty dang cool before, but now I am sitting here wondering how I am going to get over withdrawals from those kids for the next 4 weeks (and beyond, damn all these world travelers...)

Before I get into my first entertaining story of the Benin leg of this trip (which literally started an hour ago, so the fact that there is already a story makes for a promising month to come), I have a few last tidbits to share from Europe:

1. Remember that blog about tripping and getting hurt all the time? Well, a really good way to perpetuate that injurious cycle is to try to use your multi-tool as a corkscrew replacement when opening a bottle of two-buck-chuck at a picnic on Gellert Hill overlooking Budapest. Ironically, I wasn’t even the one drinking said high class beverage, I was just trying to be a team player for the benefit of everyone else. My advice to any travelers reading this would be to definitely buy a multi-tool for your voyages, but make sure you buy one where the knife locks in place so it doesn’t close and slice your finger open when you try to stab it into a cork. Long story short, not having such a tool will lead to gaping finger wounds, a visit to a Hungarian hospital for stitches (which they opted not to give me), a bottle of liquid bandage (to make up for the lack of stitches), and the potential for coming down with a festering flesh eating virus during your future travels (not that I am worried or anything) 
2. Thinking way back to Romania...I think that was 4 days ago or so...my favorite experience was definitely my homestay in Petrini village, where I pretty much adopted my host mom’s daughter, Kinga. This kid spoke zero English, but that didn’t stop us from becoming best pals. We colored on her balcony, we swung on her porch swing, she brought me all of her cats to pet, she taught me how to folk dance...or tried at least... This cool little child just made me think even more about my rocking cool sisters at home who I miss like freaking crazy. I can’t wait to come home and lick all of them, then have a spinach/cereal/Mom’s spaghetti sauce party on the kitchen floor. Oh, and salsa. We don’t have to mix all those things. We’ll have them in 12 seperate courses...Hungarian style. 
3. Speaking of food, a couple of days ago while on an architecture tour of Budapest, our  group walked past a swanky juice bar which advertised fresh fruit and vegetable juices as well as a salad bar in their window. I tried to ditch the tour with my pals Cary Kelly and Katherine Richard in order to consume a massive spinach shake, but we were caught and shepherded back to the art noveau, baroque, yadayadayada of the surrounding buildings, none of which were offering spinach shakes. No fear though, we came back the next day and enjoyed spinach/beet/carrot/orange shakes AND a spinach salad. It was a very good day. 

Alright, now for this morning. I traveled to the airport with most of the Flinn kids, but then we had to separate and head for different terminals. I pondered the merits of bawling hysterically, and then walked into my terminal. Then I pondered the merits of sitting on the floor and bawling hysterically. Actually, I couldn’t do any bawling because all of the sudden I was by myself and shit just got real. Who has never traveled alone before? This kid. After waiting for 3o minutes in the wrong line for check in, I finally got headed in the right direction, toward security and my gate. Naturally, just like everyone else in the world, security is my FAVORITE part of air travel, so excitedly tried to get all of my liquids, electronics, shoes, etc off, out and in a bin to go through the xrays. As I was performing my “Security Rage Rush”--the process of trying to rapidly throw all of the items you took out or off back in or on in 4 seconds or less because there is a line of incredibly excited people behind you, all trying to savor their final seconds of their favorite airport activity--my bag got sent to the naughty list and the bag checker man told me to take out my stuff, then proceeded to confiscate my mosquito repellent.

I contemplated the merits of sitting on the floor and bawling.

But I didn’t. No, in fact, staring the face of malaria itself in the eyes of the bag checker man, I told him yes of course I would throw away my lifeline between health and a vomiting fever in the garbage can behind me, and then proceeded to smuggle it under my jacket as soon as he turned my back. And then I wanted to pee my pants in fear, but seriously, I am already at risk of flesh-eating bacteria with this finger of mine, do I really need malaria or dengue at the same time? No thanks. 

And now many pictures which I made an attempt to arrange chronologically.

 Me and Kinga and one of the cats. How could anyone not love that little toothless grin?

Ok, I feel rude and socially inappropriate for pos

 In Kinga's village, these storks are everywhere! I am not really sure how they make their giant nests work on the top of electricity poles, but this sort of Jenga-home building fowl skill is pretty impressive to view on every single pole in the village.

Ok, I feel rude and socially inappropriate for posting this, but I just wanted you to see what I am up against when I talk about the potential for flesh-eating diseases. This particular...issue...came from a fall while running in Kinga's village, probably because  I was too busy looking at the storks to pay attention to the road. What would Shanan, the virology guy in my Flinn class, have to say about this? Well, open sores are open doors, so I am probably going to die.

More odes to Hungarian/Romanian restrooms. First, the picture, just in case you can't figure out WC, here's a diagram of how to use this room. Second, every time I saw a "Defect!!" sign on a bathroom I laughed my butt off and said "Yes, welcome to your country, you really should put these on all of the restrooms."

Even though we just LOVED all of the fried cheese and potatoes we were served throughout the trip, Olivia, Katherine, and I were able to deprive ourselves of those delicacies one night in Cluj-Napoca, Romania, opting instead for Greek salad and fruit parfaits. Freaking yum.

Here is an artsy picture of nature.

Here are the "Fladies" in the nature. From left, Olivia, Jacque, Jasmine, Amy, Lily, Katherine, Julia, and Gaby. 

Interesting observation I have just made: it would appear that Katherine and I wore the same clothes on every single hike. 

Now for the Flen. Or Flentelmen. Whatever. From left again, Lee, Donovan, Dylan, Patrick, Ben, Paul, Nick, Aman, Shanan, Shantanu, and Eric.

Another cool find in Budapest.

From the courtyard of a very cool cafe in Budapest.

 The fabulous salad/shake lunch of my last day in Budapest.

And finally, the finger. This is called a splint made from a "readily available commercial device," a creation made by me, Ben, and Aubri, the lovely chaperones on this trip. This picture doesn't really do the gaping cut justice though, as I waited until I was superglued back together to pull out the camera. 

And now it is time for me to get onto a plane....shit getting realer as we speak =D

For the honor and glory.

To Budapest and Back: An Open Relationship

         My relationship with Budapest could be likened to a roller coaster. Or the stock market. Or one of the elevators here at the Medosz Hotel that can maybe fit a person and a half, but usually wind up with about seven occupants. If you aren't following, it's been up and down.
        I am sure I mentioned this previously, but Budapest has been our home base for the Hungary/Romania trip. The first time we left to tour around other Hungarian cities, I was insanely excited. In the four days that we were here initially, I think I learned that my comfort level in a new place is directly related to the height of the buildings. I am used to flat Mesa, Arizona, where yes, you are in a city, but any direction you look, you see mountains (as long as the smog hasn't eaten them up, but that is another story). Well, buildings are tall here--beautiful, but tall--so I started to go a little nuts. Once out of the city, I enjoyed some soul searching, nature time. Maybe it wasn't that intimate, but I definitely pondered the merits of setting up a shack in a few different fields and never leaving.
      When we got back to Budapest the first time, we were sedentary for only a night or so before heading out on our Magic School bus to Romania. As much as the 345678 different Romanian cities that we visited in 8 days was an incredibly interesting experience (Communism fell just over 20 years ago, all of the students we met with are the first generation of new democracy, bathrooms usually didn't have toilet paper, etc, etc, etc), never staying in one place for very long was exhausting. Also, it seemed like the last 15 minutes of every single bus ride (which ranged from 2-7 hours long throughout the Romania tour) involved me going into a bus rage because I wanted to get out of the bus so freaking bad. I believe I threatened to eat seat cushions and break through windows with my forehead if we didn't get to our destinations soon.
    So now, with three short days for this portion of my trip, I am so excited to be back in Budapest, staying in one hotel for a whole four nights in a row. The buildings may still be tall, but at least they don't take a 3 hour bus ride to get too. I am excited to continue exploring here even more--yesterday, my friend Olivia and I discovered a four-story book store, coffee shop, art gallery extravaganza. More awesome finds to come in the remaining couple of days I am sure.

         Katherine, Amy, and me pre three hour bus ride. See how happy we look? Notice the word PRE.

I saw this yesterday in Budapest and sort of freaked out. I can guarantee you that a year ago, this would have never been here. Good work, y'all.

T    Best "purchase" ever was the free panoramic picture ap on my phone. This is taken from the Citadel island between Buda and Pest, on the Danube River.

From the tippy top of the citadel. 

Paul and Cary. Does it look like Paul practices that smile? Because he does. (he is a theater major though, so cut him some slack)

Shannon and Olivia. Does it look like Shanan practices that smile? Well, maybe he should. 

For the honor and glory.

Blogging Like the Huff Post...Copy and Paste Style

As part of the Flinn portion of this excursion, every member of my traveling group has to blog a day. I view myself as more of a pacifist, but why not kill two birds with one stone? So, please enjoy my blog, copied and pasted so efficiently for your viewing pleasure:

The days here are very long. And not just, "Wow, what a long day" sort of long….more like "Three-lectures-in-one-day-and-then-how-about-a-four-hour-hike-followed-by-a-two-hour-tour-of-the-city" long. So after 12 of these days, it was more than a little bit relieving to have a free morning in Budapest. And where better to spend two free hours than at the Budapest Zoo with my esteemed colleague Eric Chang?

Right next to the zoo are the Szecheny Baths, where doctors actually send women to who are having difficulties getting pregnant; whatever minerals are in the water have been hailed for their ability to restore fertility for many the happy Hungarian mother. This particular jewel of information wouldn't have applied to Eric and I at the zoo, except for the fact that the water pumped into the baths is the exact same water given to all of the animals at the Budapest Zoo. I have never seen so many baby animals in my life. 

After petting camels, goats, and even a sloth, Eric and I headed back to the hotel in order to pack out with the group and leave for Romania. The six hour drive included a loaf of ice cream, a flat tire, a dog determined to eat our soccer ball, and more than a bag or two of our favorite Hungarian snack, Duci Puffs. With six hours being the same length of my typical annual drive to San Diego with my family at this time of year, I also had plenty of time to realize how far I am from home. 

So do I think that we are succeeding in one of the main goals of this trip, to teach us how to become independent travelers? At first glance, it probably wouldn't look like it. We will never again get to travel in a group of 20 plus. We will never have these people to rely on to always have a map and follow aimlessly wherever they may lead. We will never have a bus driver to drive forwards, backwards, and upside-down in order to deliver us from city to city in one piece. 

But the herd that this trip set us up with can't be condemned too fast. These are the kids that we learned how to do bathtub-laundry with; they are the ones that helped devise a system for figuring out which stray dogs should be avoided and which are okay to pet (mostly the only factor in this evaluation is cuteness, but if anyone asks, no of course we didn't find any that met the standards because obviously petting stray dogs if just way to dangerous and risky); these kids invented the "gelato crawl," treating every dinner-on-you-own (doyo) opportunity like a five course gelato meal. 

So at this point, we still look like goofy tourists when we travel altogether, looking far from independent. But in less than two weeks, this trip ends and the herd will be dispersed, some of us venturing out on our own immediately, some preparing still for future travels. We won't have the comfort of our giant group. But we will also remember how NOT to get rabies, how to always smell clean and shiny, and how to never go hungry. Sounds like a successful set of skills so far to me!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Of course, Flinn didn't get all my pictures; I saved those just for you =D

And then we kissed a giraffe.

I would like to bring home ten gophers in my suitcase, please. 

Maybe we were not actually supposed to be in this exhibit....

And last but never least....

A NEW PUPPY PICTURE!!!!!

=D=D=D=D

For the honor and glory. 

Call me Trip and "Why can't I just go pee?--An ode to Hungarian Restrooms"

I have 20/2400 vision. No, I didn't make a typo there, and no, that is not a European conversion. 20/2400. I can see both find with both eyes open, but on its own, my right eye would probably work better if it was made out of wood. I don't typically walk around in a permanent wink (sometimes though) so it really isn't a problem, except for the fact that I have the depth perception of a doorknob. In Hungary, there are a lot of curbs. There are also slopey streets. And random ramps. And stairs. Stairs. Stairs everywhere. What does this translate to for me? I trip a lot. Down flights of stairs while carrying luggage. Over curbs that I didn't realize were there. Into other people because I didn't realize that the flat ground was going to up and decide to become a ramp. I have a lot of bruises.

Anyway.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I went on a trip to San Francisco to study human geographical concepts between the different neighborhoods in the city. For example, we would go into different McDonald's and examine the way the culture of a particular area helped define the layout of the restaurant, the menu, etc.

Well, here in Hungary, it has been requested by my dear friend Katherine to place Hungarian restrooms under the same scrutiny as San Franciscan McDonald's. Here is where I am at with my study:

          1) Light switches? Good luck finding them. They're probably outside of the bathroom somewhere. This always makes the inaugural use of a toilet in a new hotel because each new room comes with its own "Have-Fun-Peeing/Showering/Brushing your teeth-in-the-dark-if-you-don't-find-me" switch scavenger hunt.

          2) Almost every toilet has a hight flow/low flow flush system. They are separated by proportionally sized buttons that may or may not always work. This system of saving water has probably caused me to waste more water than ever before in my life because I can NEVER make it flush on the first time. Ever.

         3) The next time you go to a public bathroom in the States, try to close the stall door from the top. This is what I always do at home. But in Hungary, bathroom stalls are usually complete boxes, with a bar going across the top of the door. The next time you go into a bathroom in Hungary, don't close the stall door from the top. Unless that is, you want to scream so loud when you smash your fingers between the door and the top bar that most of the people in the porcelain museum hear you from the basement bathroom....

          4) Sometimes, the toilet paper is covered in little colored designs. The different colors are different scents. Pink= rose, yellow=lemon, green= pine. I know, because I am doing a study on bathrooms and I smelled them all. The issue I have with this TP though is that the colors bleed when you stop investigating it and actually use it. Does anyone remember those kid's "paint-with-water" coloring books where the colors were already on the paper and you just smeared them all together with a wet paint brush? Here, that concept isn't child's play, it's toilet paper.

Now, all investigations aside, how about some pictures of the past couple days?

Here is the gorgeous Lake Balaton, hot vacation spot for pretty much all Hungarians and also 23 Arizonans who aren't used to seeing this much water in once place ever. 

Most of the time, when my family and I go to the beach, we just try to dig the deepest hole possible with no real point or purpose. In Hungary though, you must build castles.

The view out my window on our way to Obanya, where we stayed in the hostel. No one died, except for me from happiness when I got to help direct the cooking of French toast bake for 25 people. Not going to lie  though, when I saw this view from my bus window, I may have shed a couple of tears of unadulterated joy over God's creations. 

And it just kept getting better. I also got to help lead the group on this little (4 hours later) nature excursion, you know, because of all my experience with Hungarian wilderness....

Working the wild woman look with the Al Jazeera cap for the day. 

Meet Katherine. I don't know is she has a wild woman look...pretty much just always looks great =D

Now in Pécs. They recently installed this public art display with hundreds of tiles that citizens could purchase and paint. I wanted to take pictures of every single one. I settled for this one of a sheep.

I made this. Just one of the many skills I have picked up since arriving here. ;D

Sunday morning mass in Pécs. St. Istvans. I think everything is St. Istvans here. Anywho, the music was incredible...how could it not be with an organ the size of my house?

Oh, and on another note. Here is my dog, now two weeks old. Picture courtesy of the fam who visited the little guy for me. This creature is all I talk about. How do we all feel about the Hungarian name, Lyosh???

And now, I go to the Budapest Zoo =D

For the honor and glory.