For me? Not so much. Except for the tears part.

I spent the first night of my visit to Princeton University sobbing uncontrollably on my bed.  The day  also involved me temporarily losing the use of my limbs and a stranger entering my room. At no point did I feel sure of anything, and the day ended with me calling my mother and saying “I don’t want my PhD anymore.”

To be fair, my only previous experience with ivy was swinging from it, so there was bound to be a culture collision at first. Today, I’m absolutely confident in my choice of Princeton, so it’s only fair for me to explain.

The story begins with me, ironically, crying on my bed at home. Before you jump to the conclusion that I’m too emotionally unstable to pursue higher learning, let me say that this was two months ago. I had applied to 10 schools  in December and January and hadn’t heard back from anyone yet. I was agonizing about whether I should spend another small fortune for one more school, moaning on my bed. That’s when my first admission letter arrived. It was from Princeton University.

Then the flurry of graduate admission visits  began. Many PhD programs invite their prospective students to visit campus and meet with professors. I also had one visit at which I competed for a fellowship. During the visit I met a medical student who runs marathons and a track star who is a neuroscientist.  I was finally feeling quite accomplished about pursuing my PhD until someone asked me why I was pursuing an MD simultaneously. Wait…people do that?  Welcome to the academic major league.

Activities at these visits often start at 8 a.m. and go till 9 or 10 at night for two days. The process would really be fun for most people, but for someone who sometimes has nightmares about having to say “no” and disappoint someone (and about going to swim practice naked, but that’s for another post…), the experience is something of …well…a nightmare.

Princeton had to follow a few very tough school acts. I was panicking because I loved each place. Did I mention that one school let me get my first room service?!

*sidenote: Did you know that you have to open the door for room service? I didn’t.  Isn’t the whole point that you don’t have to be seen by other people to eat breakfast?! Apparently you have to open the door to sign for the food. I gave the lady delivering the food an enormous tip for having to see me–even though she started laughing at me when I opened the door.*

At any rate, I approached my Princeton visit already emotionally and physically tired. Then Princeton had the bright idea to book me on a 6 a.m. flight. On daylight saving time morning. The morning after a wedding.  When it was all said and done, I only got an hour of sleep and had to get up at 3 a.m.

I didn’t land in Newark, the airport nearest Princeton, until 11:30 a.m.  Then I had to ride the airport transit to the train station. Then I had to wait for the next train for an hour. Then ride it for an hour, standing up since there were no seats.

Newark is a terrifying place that made me feel like a woodland creature in an animated children’s film about pollution. The train was also brown and dirty, but as I got closer to my destination things started looking more and more green. When I got off in Princeton it was past 2 p.m. I saw no school in sight. That’s when a bizarre 2-car contraption on a track started clickety clacking my way, and a returning alum said tenderly, “Here comes the Dinky!”

Princeton Dinky platform (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What on earth is wrong with these people?

It turns out you have to take this thing through the woods to get to Princeton. Suddenly castle-like structures start poking their tops out over the woods. In normal circumstances, I would have been thrilled, but I felt like I had just seen hell and it looked a lot like the Trenton train line. I also hadn’t eaten all day. I stumbled into my hotel at 3. The fact that signers of the Declaration of Independence once stayed there was lost on me, if that is any indication of my need for food.

Food was not to be. I had a 4 o’clock tour I needed to be on. I had just enough time to look at my window and see a woman in full suffragette costume walking down the street  before I left again. There were children celebrating “Pi Day” and frolicking around a giant cutout of Albert Einstein in front of my hotel. Where am I? I met up with other prospective students on the tour, and we caught some dinner together. I ate a shocking amount of food. We walked around for a bit, seeing kids in “Harvard sucks” shirts. The only litter I saw was a few discarded Trivial Pursuit cards. I headed back to my room and collapsed on the bed.

Two hours later I woke up in the pitch dark to the sound of what appeared to be scratching along the hall and an elderly woman saying “are you OK?” in a plaintive voice.

Oh my gosh. It’s the ghost of a female student who starved because she couldn’t get into an eating club…wait…they only let women in 34 years ago…

I went through the same routine that I did when the power went out in the workout room in Zambia, and I was convinced that the serial killer my students had told me about was at the door: Breathe. This is your imagination. Listen. You see? Nothing there.

But there it was again. SCRRRATTCCCHHHH “Are you ok?”

Then my door opened. I kid you not.

I would have leapt out of bed, but I had been so deeply asleep that my arms were slow in waking up. I seemed to be temporarily paralyzed. WHAT THE HECK?! AM I FREAKING DREAMING?!

Bronze tiger sculptures by Alexander Phimister Proctor  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The only thing I could think to do was yell, “I’m in here,” which,  to think of it, was about the worse thing I could have said. It turns out that sometimes in nice  historical hotels they have the maid come in to turn down the covers–which is unnecessary if you are already under them. Why the scratching and creepy voice? We will never know. In her defense, it was only 7:30 p.m.

I needed to be up for drinks with current students at 8:00, so I rustled together a collegiate outfit and hustled downstairs.

I think I will save the description of what it is like to yell to a bartender that you want a virgin Shirley Temple in the middle of a room of debating Ivy Leagers, holding lagers, for the next post. Oh! You’ll also want to hear about me meeting my first Knight and Lady.

Oh well.

I’ve done lots of other things in year No. 22. You read about a lot of them, so this post is more for me. My year in 22 pictures so

Birthday

National Championship!

New York

First Broadway play

Scone Parties

Maid of Honor

New brother

Country Music

Swim Coach

Rocky mountains

Rodeo

Eastern Cape of Africa

Safari

Teaching in Zambia

Bridesmaid

Scott (happiness)

Running

Rhodes Interview

4.0

B.A. Journalism, B.A. History

Disney World

The next five years

That’s my year in a few pictures. My biggest wish on candle number 23? To be content right where I am. Not content with what I’ve done or with where I’m going, but with where I am. Because you know what? In that kind of assurance is where joy hides.

May today there be peace within

by St. Theresa of Avila

May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.

May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the

love that

has been given to you…

May you be content knowing that you are a child of God…

Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the

freedom to

sing, dance, praise and love.

It is there for each and every one of us.

My readers have been complaining about the recent dearth of posts, so I’ll rally from my sniffling, sneezing self for a horrifyingly belated year-end post. I might warn you, though, that I’m medicated.

It’s almost a month too late for a New Year’s post, but recovering from 2012 has taken a while. There were plenty of times in the last 12 months I really felt 2012 was out to get me and plenty of times I wished it would last forever. But who really wants to read about all of the good stuff? Admit it: You’d rather hear about how a crazed Jimmy John’s delivery boy and an African parasite tried to do me in than hear about my first Broadway play or the excitement of graduating.

Here it is, folks: The year that tried to kill me.

1. Attempted Death by Embarrassment 

When I realized that instead of advocating for a full-color spread on the national football team in front of my Zambian class, I was describing–in detail– a newspaper feature of male lower regions. The words are one very important syllable off.

2. Attempted Death by Firework

Opening my front door to a surprise firework display being set off at the end of my driveway would be lovely, if startling, under normal circumstances. The only problem was that the wind was blowing right at the house…and thus me in doorway. And the county was in the middle of a fire ban. The result was me opening the door, screaming, going into fetal position, and learning that if I ever were in a situation with a flaming object exploding toward me, I probably wouldn’t survive.

3. Attempted Death by (Wo)Man-eating spider

The Maneater of Mfuwe was a lion that killed 6 people in one month in Zambia. It is now on display at the Field Museum in Chicago. I did not know this when I set out for Mfuwe on my first game drive.

I also did not know that Zambia has freakishly large spiders.

I was pretty thrilled to see the lions on my first night drive. They were just so beautiful. Afterward, because my sleeping quarters were in the midst of lion terrain I was supposed to get a sweet elderly Zambian man with a flashlight to walk me to my mosquito-netted “lodge” each night–just in case another lion decided to go on a psycho killing spree. Considering how incredibly statistically unlikely this is, it would have been far more helpful–though considerably more awkward–for my Zambian lion body guard to escort me to my shower. You see where this is going.

Yes. A massive arachnid the size of a cookie (gross visual) by the place where my foot belonged in the shower. A cup of water thrown at him sent him back into the wall rather than down the drain–although in hindsight it was probably too big to fit down it. The resulting shower was one of the briefest in my life. Monster spider later appeared in the sink.  To anyone who can identify the spider I showered with I will give an autographed copy of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider Climbed Up the Shower Spout”–with “Itsy Bitsy” replaced with “Large, Athletic.”

4. Attempted Bodily Harm by High Heel and New York Sidewalk Grate

I’ll refresh your memory with this excerpt from May:

“I got stuck in a grate. Really badly. As in I was wearing 4 inch heels, and two inches of one of them was underneath New York City. I didn’t know what had happened at first. I just knew I was no longer moving forward and toward Phantom of the Opera. Lauren was going to the play with me and doesn’t really wear heels often, so when she saw me horribly wedged and unable to move my legs to help myself in my oh so cute but utterly debilitating dress, I’m sure she took it as a cautionary tale. I eventually mustered enough torso momentum to convince my leg to join me in the quest forward, but only after an absurd number of people walking by had seen me in my sad predicament. If  you do anything stupid in New York City, there will be an audience.” 

5. Attempted Emotional Distress by Sister’s Wedding.

My goal was to not cry. Southern ladies sweetly dab at their eyes with white lace handkerchiefs with wistful sighs at weddings. I get an overwhelming pressure between my eyes that relieves itself in bursts of uncontrollable tears–typically partnered with attractive snorts to hold back the accompanying drip. This isn’t the ideal look (or soundtrack) for a maid of honor. I did fabulously all day until my sister and father shared their dance to a song Daddy use to play for us on his guitar when we were children. I. Lost. It.

6. Attempted Vision Impairment by Reading.

Late-night study session. I had to keep up with three weeks of missed school while I was in Africa so I read on the plane…and in this really well-lit room.

This sounds lame, but it’s really not. Exciting, in a sad, nerdy way was that I read my height in stacked books this semester. Yes, I measured. I also had to go to the eye doctor for the first time in my life. The conversation went something like this:

Martha: “I’ve noticed my eyes have been getting really fatigued after reading. I’ll have trouble seeing clearly for a while afterward, my eyes hurt, and I see double.”

Optometrist: “Yes, it looks like you have eye strain! That’s one of those things about reading.” *starts preparing to make someone else’s pupils look like they belong on a Japanese animated cat*

Martha: “Ok…well is there anything I can do to help slow the process? I have always had vision that’s better than 20/20 and I’d like to keep it.”

Optometrist: “Not really! My vision was perfect until optometry school.”

True irony. 

6. Attempted death by crazed Jimmy John’s delivery boy

Driving in the rain in Kentucky is scary around here not because of the physical impact of rain, but because of the psychological/emotional effect it seems to have on everyone. For most, I would describe it as “debilitating terror.” For the Jimmy John’s delivery boy who nailed the side of my car at random I would call it “euphoric frenzy.”

Martha: *trudges through rain to young boy in car who just hit her and tries to muster maternal, gentle, kind instincts* “Hey, do you know what to do? I just called the police, and they should be here soon.”

Jimmy John’s boy: “Yeah, I know what to do. I actually just totaled my first car.”

7. Attempted stomach reversal by African parasite

All I know is that shortly after my return from Africa  something went horribly wrong. Of course I was two miles into a run when it happened. I began to itch all over my body. I mean “I just rolled around in insulation” itching. I was turned toward home when the first stomach cramp hit. Merciful heaven. Convinced that someone had drugged me and surreptitiously made me the surrogate mother to a full-term baby, I thought it best to head home for the delivery. Moving toward home in an erect position was increasingly difficult, however. Did I mention that it was 5:00 p.m. and everyone I know was cutting through my neighborhood to get home? Attempting to look like I was cooling down rather than breaking down, I limped home clutching my abdomen. Paroxysms of pain continued when I drug through the front door and onto the bathroom floor. BUT NOTHING HAPPENED. Just a sudden temperature and a wave of heat that made me feel like I was back in Africa. My lifelong inability to vomit makes stomach viruses a nightmare.

Every 20-something wants her father to come home from work and find her passed out on the bathroom floor in her underwear. I lost the clothes during the heat wave, I think. Wasn’t really myself. This was definitely a high point of my year. It got much better when I  suddenly rallied to hurl into the toilet repeatedly as he stood, startled and concerned outside of the now-mercifully closed bathroom floor. To top things off, the rest of the family arrived home and gathered in a concerned Italian huddle with the sister bursting into laughter at the sight of me, “Martha! I’ve never seen you look *hahahaha*so *hahahahaha* pathetic! You look like you’re dying!” The blood in urine came later.

Basically, you should be careful about what you eat when you travel.

Hey hey, l’m a graduate!!

Those are some of the low-point highlights from 2012. There were so many more high-point highlights. I got a brother,  graduated college, hiked in the Rocky Mountains, watched a dozen African sunsets, and defended a thesis.

So far 2013 has been uneventful. We are leaving the Rhodesian Ridgeback attacking me on my run yesterday out of this. And the  roadtrip…let’s just wrap this post up nicely while I still can.

When you’re in the midst of driving the twisty roads of life, it’s often impossible to see to the other side (or the teenage sandwich delivery boy who is getting ready to destroy your car). But one thing I do know: I have a friend with an aerial view who won’t be surprised by any of it. Nothing in 2012 caught Him off guard, and trust me–that’s saying something. 

One Direction (Photo credit: Eva Rinaldi Celebrity and Live Music Photographer)

“Which boy from One Direction do you think is cutest?” Ummm…

There is no good way for me to answer this question. But a teenage girl is standing there with a big grin. She thinks I’m cool. She won’t when I admit that I don’t know who the heck One Direction is. Is it the name of that singing group from Glee? No, dummy, that’s New Directions or something like that. What is it with these direction names, anyway? Wait… Is it that new boy band? Good grief, how old are those kids? Can’t I get arrested for even answering that question? 

The truth is, popular culture has never been my forte. I missed the NSYNC and Backstreet Boys completely, and

English: Justin Bieber at the Sentul International Convention Center in West Java, Indonesia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

thought  Justin Timberlake was the owner of an outdoor brand until recently (Ok, I’ve since realized that it’s Timberland and that I have some serious issues with names).

But I work with a lot  of young ladies I care deeply about…and they care deeply about guys who can sing. That means I schooled myself in all things Justin Bieber. I learned the little rap in the middle of “Baby” so we could sing together in the car. I went to his movie. Extended edition. In 3D. He was reaching for me and stuff. For three hours.

English: Greyson Chance performing “Fire” by Augustana on We Day, September 30, 2010 at the Air Canada Centre in Toronto, Canada. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I even have a Greyson Chance song on m ipod leftover from my attempts to be supportive of their short fling with him. So occasionally on a run I’m interrupted by “ So it’s over, yeah we’re through, so imma UNFRIEND YOU.. ‘Cause I should have known right from the start, I’M DELETING YOU RIGHT FROM MY HEART.” At moments like these, I’m thankful earbuds stick allll the way in your ears so no one else can hear.

Just as I was getting good at recognizing the symptoms of Bieber Fever and a Chance Romance, however, I noticed the signs of a new disease: One Direction Infection.

According to the ever-useful Urban Dictionary, the symptoms of One Direction Infection are  ”Excess Drooling, fainting and a major love for one direction; Harry Styles, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik, Niall Horan.” If you ask me, any drooling whatsoever could be defined as “excess,” but we’ll let it slide. Below are the results of my attempts to educate myself on the topic of the world’s new fetish.

1. You are not a child predator.

The five UK X-factor contestants who banned together to form One Direction, are not, in fact in middle school as I initially thought.  Louis  turns 21 on  December  24, Zayn  turns 20 on January 12,  Liam  turns 20 on August 29,  Niall turns 20 on September 13 and Harry turns  20 on February 1. And yes, I feel very creepy for knowing their birthdays. They still look like children, but they sound oddly old in their songs. This is disquieting.

2. Zayn Malik smokes.Literally. I’m not making a pun.

His nicotine habit has apparently really upset his little fans. He also has a Pakistani father, an Arabic tattoo, and a habit of dancing in the nude discovered by an unfortunate British maid. Maybe she also discovered his tattoo. Talk about awkward.

http://www.metro.co.uk/showbiz/886003-one-directions-zayn-malik-vows-to-quit-smoking-for-new-year-resolution

3. People hated Liam Payne’s girlfriend.

I should probably clarify that crazed fans hate any of the girls these guys start seeing. But Danielle Peazer in particular has received death tweets. “Death tweet” doesn’t sound as upsetting as it probably was.

4. Harry Styles is confusing.

Amid rumors that he dated a woman fifteen years older than him who gave creepy cougar mothers of young fans false hope, he also was at the center of “bromance” couplings with his bandmates. The random facts from “harrystylesfan.org” range from mundane to awkwardly personal. According to the site, “He once set out a bunch of candles on a bridge for his girlfriend, but she didn’t show up. For the rest of the night, Harry kept kicking the candles into the water.” And more to the point, “He has 4 nipples.” Most recently, he’s been rumored to be dating Taylor Swift (who hasn’t?).

5. Louis Tomlinson has lots of sisters (and tattoos and a chimp)

Charlotte, Felicity, Daisy and Phoebe. He also has a tattoo of a stick figure on a skateboard. And you don’t pronounce his name “Lewis.” If http://onedirection.wikia.com is to be trusted, “He spent his first ever paycheck on adopting a chimpanzee called Larry.”

6. Niall Horan is Irish. And has a dirty mouth.

Niall has made headlines for his foul language. Perhaps this is why he is one of the few single members of the band. He’s the blond one, FYI. He also recently sent some concerned tweets to fans who were chasing his car in New York City: “Don’t chase after cars and stuff!” I’m assuming the “and stuff” refers to himself.

Now that I have completely fouled-up my search engine researching boy band trivia, I feel  a little less out of the cultural loop. Let me say that I’m not sure One Direction has earned it’s reputation as a “squeaky clean” band. But they always do look well-bathed at concerts in those weirdly coordinating outfits. If you can make orange pants work, you deserve some sort of credit, in my book. 

I may never get the boy band craze, but you should be proud of me:

I finally figured out who Justin Timberlake is…

]]> http://muliebrousmartha.com/2012/12/05/one-direction-infection/feed/ 0 muliebrousmartha One Direction English: Justin Bieber at the Sentul Internati... English: Greyson Chance performing "Fire&... 32022_1433561728162_7411985_n http://muliebrousmartha.com/2012/11/24/the-oxford-games/ http://muliebrousmartha.com/2012/11/24/the-oxford-games/#comments Sat, 24 Nov 2012 20:44:16 +0000 muliebrousmartha http://muliebrousmartha.com/?p=3011 ]]>

I didn’t die in Zambia, despite what my lack of blogging suggests.

The pile of coursework awaiting me when I got home and a certain local teenage delivery boy wielding the company car like a weapon of death attempted to do me in, however.

I also had  a Rhodes Interview. It was like the Hunger Games of academia. Except the people who didn’t win didn’t get killed.

Rhodes divides the country up into regional districts. Each district has a number and, you guessed it–each district picks two winners.

Fifteen finalists were invited to compete for the two spots. There were 12 guys and 2 other girls. Harvard, Yale, Carnegie Melon, MIT…many of the best schools were represented. Rather than fight to the death, we started the Oxford Games with a cocktail party on the swanky top floor of one of the city’s high-rises. It was described to me in two ways before the fact:

1. “This is designed to simulate a social gathering at Oxford.” Me:”Right. At what point will I be chilling in a high-rise with the students I hope to edge out for a top scholarship and the committee that is preparing to grill me?”

2. “Your goal is to get an advocate.Someone who will like you.” Me: “Merciful heavens. This really is like the Hunger Games. They want me to get a sponsor.”

In the end, I decided to just be myself and socialize with the neat people I got to meet. We chatted comfortably, except for the fact that I was on my stilettos for well over two hours and there was no food (enter the hunger part). And I was also having a hard time seeing around all of the Suits, even with the heels. The gender odds weren’t exactly “in my favor.”Everything from the Petraeus case to my opinion of China’s change in government was discussed. I especially enjoyed meeting the other Finalists, who had some really interesting backgrounds.

They assigned our interview times at the end of the evening, and I got the fourth spot at 9:00 a.m. After a restless night, I went to the top floor of a different high-rise for my interview. Rhodes interviews are famously difficult to prepare for, because technically anything is up for grabs, and there is no way to predict what the Gamemaker has in mind (I should stop this analogy. It’s getting creepy). I was surprised to get a question about an old Kentucky basketball scandal for   my first question, the one that is commonly designed to emphasize your strengths. Basketball is definitely not my strength. I got to touch on some things I do feel strongly about, however, and pitch my ideas about tackling maternal mortality abroad. The interview was pleasant, covering lots of ground from my family to my opinion of Kristof’s use of celebrities in Half the Sky to what kind of quantitative analysis structures can be used on the humanities.

After lunch at a nearby restaurant with some of the other Finalists, we had to be back at the interview site at 1:30 for possible second interviews. There were no second interviews. There were, however, over three hours of waiting for the results. So what do Rhodes Finalists do to pass the time? We played music (Sweet Home, Alabama, and Jack n’ Diane). We played cards. We watched magic tricks. We tried unsuccessfully to set up the projector for a movie.We wished someone would bring us water. We paced. I tried to explain what forking is. We discussed philosophy. We philosophized about what we would do without the scholarship. Then 13 of us found out that we didn’t get the scholarship.

Now the Rhodes is something I have dreamed of getting since I was 12 years old, so it was hard to be so close to having my dream realized and be disappointed. It has been a recovery week of processing my experience at the academic Hunger Games, but life lessons come from experiences–all kinds of experiences.

In the aftermath of a dream unrealized, it’s easy to bemoan your privileged situation. As I drove home from my big weekend, I found myself mentally railing against the odds that had been stacked against me. My school hasn’t had a Rhodes scholar since the ’50s, while most of the kids I was competing against came from schools that have winners every year–and  that also have plenty of people used to helping finalists prepare. The academic opportunities they have had blow my mind–and I might add that some of them were telling me about how they are provided with PUPPIES during finals week to play with to relieve stress?! I’m provided with a parking ticket while I’m trying to run into McDonald’s to grab a coffee to keep my eyes propped open. It seemed so unfair–Oxford would utterly transform my life, and they had already had an academic life I couldn’t dream of.

But then somewhere along I-65 I was hit with a wave of shame. The faces of some adorable, malnourished, little girls singing and running to their one-roomed school pavilion in Ghana came into painfully sharp focus. I could dwell on the fact that I don’t attend an Ivy League school, or I could think about the fact that I am part of the 6.7 percent of the world that gets to go to college, period–and part of a much, much smaller percentage who get paid to go to college. How off-base can a person be? I don’t need puppies to calm me down during finals week. I have my own mutt at home who was saved from a bag of puppies someone left by the side of the road. I’ve met so many people around the world who can only dream of getting an education. Do I really have the right to bemoan my own disappointed dream?

Maybe we focus too much on our dreams altogether. Maybe…just maybe, my life is not about making my dreams come true at all–it’s about making someone else’s. According to the Rhodes website, I was selected as a finalist not just for “outstanding scholarly achievements,” but for “…character, commitment to others and to the common good, and for…potential for leadership in whatever domains their careers may lead.” How much character and commitment to the common good does it show to be nice when I get what I want? It says a lot more about how I choose to react when everything goes pear-shaped. Maybe the best judge of who I am isn’t a panel I talk to in a 20-minute interview. Maybe it’s the people who have gotten to see me at my worst in the past 22 years.

A week before my interview, I lost my beloved grandmother. Some of her last words to me before she lost her ability to speak were “Don’t neglect your education.” She was upset that I was missing class to hold her hand as she gradually lost the ability to eat and drink. How crazy is that? You know some of her other last words? “I love you, Martha-girl.” Standing by her hospital bed, I wasn’t resolving to wrack up more successes for myself. I was promising myself I’d dedicate my life to finding ways to make other people feel as loved as Grandma–the rural high-school-drop-out daughter of an abusive, alcoholic dad and a teen mother, who grew up in the poorest county in the nation–had made me feel for 22 years. That’s an ambitious enough goal to keep me looking far past Oxford, though I still hope my path may lead me there.

If I really do want to be someone who affects change in the world–which is why I applied to the scholarship in the first place– I have to care a little less about my own world.

I’m excited about wonderful things ahead. Not because of anything extra special about me, but because I’m completely OK with doing whatever God has planned for me–and that has always been better than anything I could plan myself.

I’m not about to give up. Rhodes would have made the road ahead much more direct and smoother–but let’s be honest: Kentucky girls are used to rough roads. They don’t scare me, and the view along the way is typically much more memorable than on the freeway.

“Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted. And experience is often the most valuable thing you have to offer.”
― Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture

Today we had to get up at 4 a.m.. When I woke up at 4 a.m. to see the sun rise over Angkor Wat, I was cheerful. When I woke up to beat the crowds to the Taj, I was ecstatic.  When I woke up this morning in cold South Africa for 13 hours of travel, I was not. But I knew at the end of the day I would be in ZAMBIA, so I drug my body out of bed for my morning workout, cursing the macchiato and starry night sky that kept me up far past midnight last night.

But I love macchiatos and starry night skies.

Our driver insisted on cranking up the AC because of the heavy morning fog on the Eastern Cape. I was already shivering, but the wall of white outside my window and occasional massive truck careening by on the “wrong” side of the road convinced me to keep my complaints to myself. I value my life more than a few fingers lost to frost bite.

We arrived at the airport after two hours and I stumbled into a breakfast place. I thought my eyes were messed up, but the menu really did say “macon and banana French toast.” At the moment, I felt equally up to eating a mid-sized city in Georgia as about anything else, so I ordered it. I later learned that macon is basically bacon made of mutton. This was a troubling revelation.

The next ten hours of travel were uneventful. Planes are much the same the world over. The only significant difference is the language they announce the rote seat belt and emergency exit script. One strange thing in South Africa is that they take the exit row seats VERY seriously. They had Dr. B. leave her exit row seat and go up to the main door to practice opening it and receive drilling on how to check for flames:

“Look outside. If you see smoke, do not open. Cross your arms on your chest and say ‘blocked exit.’”

Why is it that you feel much less safe after someone has taken obvious pains to make your safety a priority?

Arriving in Zambia was terribly exciting. For the first time, I really felt like I was back in Africa. I love it here. The airport was hot and crowded with people waiting to pay $50 for a visa. There was the distinct body odor of lots of heat and little deodorant. Everything was slightly dusty and slightly dated in the late afternoon light. There were long lines and a massive amount of people waiting in the diplomat line who were clearly not diplomats. I felt like I was coming home. My bags looked like they had been through it and were ready to go home.

We walked out into the hotter heat just in time to see our shuttle pulling away. I dropped everything and took out after it like I was a teenage girl who had just spotted Justin Bieber’s tour bus. No use. Feeling absurdly happy for someone who had just missed her ride, I got into a light blue taxi that agreed to take us the 30-some minutes to our hotel in the government district of Lusaka. We rolled down the windows for A.C., and I promptly got dust and at least one small insect blown forcefully into my eyes. Sunglasses. Oh! Here is Zambia!

Double bikers (Zambians are by far the best I’ve seen at this. Some can swing three to a bike. I want lessons), lavender jacaranda trees, street vendors–heaven. When we arrived at the hotel, we went to the bank to convert dollars to kwacha since very few ATMs take Mastercard here. The current exchange rate is roughly 5,000 kwacha to a dollar, meaning I left the bank feeling like an heiress.

After grappling with my air conditioner for about 30 minutes, it made a lovely purring noise and came to life. I got to Skype home, which was wonderful. I also got to go downstairs for some dinner. To Westerners, everything about this hotel would seem normal except for the fact that you eat around a pond with little baby crocodiles in it. I admit to checking around my ankles several times during my meal.

I was thrilled to find a workout room and beautiful pool, as well. Opting for a run, I felt like Supergirl for about five minutes until I remembered that everything was in kilometers. Oh well. Back at the hotel room, I began to break out in rashes on my arms and legs. This happened to me once before. I’ve learned that I sometimes react to my malaria meds with rash and nausea. Lovely, right?

All things considered, however, a day that I began shivering on the tip of the continent and ended roasting in the interior wasn’t half bad.

I love Africa.

Did I mention that Justina is 7 months pregnant with a very large baby boy?

Every time our Xhosa driver, laughing and clicking in his AMAZING language, hit a pothole, Justina clutched her swollen belly, laughing. I felt obliged to remind Juan (the baby already has a name) that it was not the time or place for an early arrival.There was no room for him in the back seat.

We discussed the Botswana president and his recent crack down on media while we drove from Port Alfred, where we are staying, to Grahamstown, the primary city of British settlement in the area. In Grahamstown, we are American International Health delegates to the Highway Africa Media Conference at Rhodes University. Our friend from Botswana rode shotgun.

Back to the Botswana president.

“He wants to eradicate poverty,” our Botswana friend said. “Not reduce it, but eradicate it.” Chuckles filled the bouncing castle car.Then he delivered the punchline: “He wants to do this through backyard gardens.”

All of the Africans in the van burst into laughter.

Many Xhosa live on the Eastern Cape, including our driver. When the British arrived in the Grahamstown area in the 1820s, the Xhosa were already here. The British seemed to have a special interest in the warlike Zulu more than the Xhosa. A  prophecy from a young Xhosa girl convinced many of the Xhosa to slaughter their own cattle, and the resulting food shortage reduced their numbers terribly. According to one book I’ve been reading, Making Empire by Richard Price, this contributed to the British ceasing to pay attention to the Xhosa chiefs as a serious threat. With typical British irony, Hall writes that “this  was to prove something of an error” since Mandela is Xhosa.  I love hearing the Xhosa people speak. I do not love trying to pronounce their names. This usually involves someone bursting into riotous laughter, me getting flustered and trying harder, me spitting on myself and anyone near me in the process, and at least one Xhosa clicking gratuitously to rub it in.

Our hotel in Port Alfred sits in the midst of a set of canals and residences that looks exactly like a resort community in Florida. I have a beautiful, large room that opens on the canals. The locks on my patio are somewhat shady, so I’ve had trouble falling asleep in the big room all to myself. But, in the morning, I get to wake up to weaver birds chirp outside of my door. Weaver birds make nests that look a bit like gourds. The males are responsible for weaving. During the spring (which is right now here), the females inspect their work. If they don’t like it, the males must destroy their work and start again. There are lots of busy males and choosey females outside of my door.

The water is undrinkable, not because it is contaminated, but because it is brackish. The gorgeous Cape Coast is tantalizingly close. Today I went for a wonderful stroll along the beach and got to dip my feet in the Indian Ocean. It’s hard to convince me to dip much more than my feet right now, partially because it is cold outside and partially because world-class Great White Shark diving is a big South African attraction.The Eastern Cape almost feels like rural England. The familiar townships on the outside of town would seem out of place in pastoral England, however. They form a stark contrast to the wealthy, British-styled main towns of Port Alfred and Grahamstown.

At the conference, I’ve gotten to hear from media communicators from India, China, Ukraine, Brazil, Russia, Britain, the U.S.A, and dozens of African countries. Hearing from female journalists from Sudan was a highlight for me.

So little of the world has a free press. It’s an awesome opportunity to hear from people who come from countries with restricted speech. In much of the world, regular censorship and oppression are commonplace, even in countries with healthy economies and stable governments.

It is ironic for me, the student delegate who has been drilled in the American journalistic principles of the sacred deadline, to find sessions regularly run over a half-hour to one hour behind, tea breaks interrupt the day until people mosey back together, and there is too often no working internet.

The most interesting discussion of the conference so far was an intense conversation on the role of media in development. It turned into a fascinating argument between an Indian media activist, BBC aid official, Afghanistan aid worker, World Bank representative, award-winning Ghanaian broadcaster, and a Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation worker. The fundamental disagreement was that aid organizations and donors wanted to work on finding unobtrusive ways to evaluate aid effectiveness while others thought that this evaluation was a form of Western control.

Today I got to drive to East London to meet up with a community health-based NGO and talk about how media projects might help their work. They have streamlined a traditional Xhosa notion of communities talking together and working out their problems. By having specially organized community brainstorming sessions, they are trying to shift civic responsibility back to the people and to challenge the people to not rely on the government to fix their problems. The NGO theme is “Subject to Citizen.” It seems to be working.

Meals have been delicious. Sunday night Dr. Barnes and I ate at an African chain called Spur. Interestingly enough, it is Native American themed. We talked for a long time about sailing in the Bay of Naples and watching plays in London while eating southwestern food in South Africa. I found this hilarious. Last night we had a meal put on by the Highway Africa Conference–including live music and dinner running over an hour behind. On the way back, I fell asleep looking at the southern hemisphere stars in the rumble seat of the jumping castles car. I woke up to Mulenga and Justina debating over whether or not the Zambian chief in their home area really drinks the cow’s blood when he performs a religious ceremony.

My word.

Tonight we have an early bed, because we are leaving at 4:30 a.m. for ZAMBIA!!!!

In a few hours, I fly to Africa. I’ve gotten several confused questions about where on earth I’m going for 18 days, probably because I’ve been in a study coma trying to get everything done in order to leave. The few times I have emerged from my bedroom to reload on tea and chocolate, I have been unrecognizable to the outside world in an oversized hoodie, knee socks, and a wide-eyed, haunted expression. It hasn’t been pretty.  But I really am done and going to Africa now.

This all came about rather suddenly a few weeks ago.  Let me recreate the scene for you….

A child tugs on my sleeve as I stand on the pool deck. “Miss Martha, why is he changing on the pool deck during practice? I saw PARTS.”

I absent-mindedly look up to confirm that, yes, there is, in fact, a young buck changing on the deck in the middle of practice, and my mouth formulates the response, “I don’t know, dear. I’m sorry you had to see that.” My mind drifts away to distant lands and the travels I was planning at this point last year. Shortly afterward, an unexpected call from a favorite professor interrupts my day-dreaming to ask me if I am interested in accompanying her on a trip to Africa. Even favorite professors sometimes ask silly questions.

I will be attending a journalism conference in South Africa (Highway Africa 2012), teaching a journalism course while in Zambia, and maybe even spending a few days on a game drive in Mfuwe. To say I am excited is a severe understatement–sort of like when I said, “this is scaring me” while I was watching Psycho.

After receiving final confirmation that I’d really be going, I was doing the travel dance (a happy combination of making airplane wings, stamping imaginary passport books, snapping fake pictures and rolling luggage), when I jolted to a stop. AFRICA. SHOTS. Then I smugly remembered that I got that hellish business done last summer. Ha! Take that Yellow Fever! In case you want to read about the traumatic experience of getting vaccinations for my trips to Ghana and South Africa last year, click here.

Now that we have gotten rid of all of the people who secretly wanted to see me suffer through five massive needles loaded with small doses of diseases that could kill me thrust into my arm, we can continue.

My next  travel dance interrupter was the realization that I will be teaching classes on newspaper design taught on some new Mac computers that will arrive at my destination before I do. For 5 hours a day. If you know me at all, you can see why this is a roadblock. My battle with technology is rivaled only by the personal vendetta Macs seem to have against me. My first experience with a Mac occurred in college when I sat down on my first day as an editor at the school paper and asked my boss why the mouse had no buttons. I should have called the mouse a rat right then and there. It was a long haul.

Macs don’t have shortcuts. But we all pretend like they do. “Oh, you want to do that? Don’t click it. Just hit Apple+backslash+Z+shift.” The resulting finger aerobics are just a way Apple figured out to make your fingers burn calories. This is one of the many reasons I feel entitled to have chocolate after using a Mac. 

I totally understand not quickly grasping things like clicking and dragging. Why? Because someone had to be really patient with me (Ok, so it took more like an entire newspaper staff).

I really hit it off with girls I have met from Zambia. We talked journalism,travel, school, babies, clothes, food and men. I think we covered the basics. They tried their first American pizza, and I tried my first Nyanja word. They were more successful than I was.

The last interrupter to my travel dance was the idea of being in the air for 18 hours to get to my destination, then over 19 to get home. I’m not super good on planes. That’s part of the reason I did all of the traveling last year by ship. There is just this idea that I can’t get out of my head that I have a better shot at swimming away from a sinking ship than crashing from 20,000 feet into the water, then swimming away. Add this to the fact that Delta recently made headlines when flights to Amsterdam reported needles (!) in several passengers’ sandwiches  (as if airline food couldn’t get any worse), and that our flights were originally scheduled on Delta through Amsterdam. I think we already covered the fact that I am afraid of needles. Needles, flying over the Atlantic, AND airline food? Sign me up for another 19 hours, please! 

I know very little about Zambia except that I think its shape looks like a lion typing on a typewriter and it boasts Victoria Falls and a history with David Livingstone. Oh, and that it entered the 1964 Olympics as Northern Rhodesia and exited as Zambia. I have never been to the regions of South Africa we will be seeing…so you can expect lots of random information as I learn. Get ready…

I’ve got 12 hours of classes to keep up with at U.K. while I’m gone, or I won’t graduate in December; I don’t know how many students I will have in Zambia, what they will be expecting, or how their English will be; one of my classes at home has 15 required books to read, and I’m going to dislocate an elbow if I do any more writing tonight, but I don’t care. Tomorrow I’ll be back in Africa!

London 2012 banner at The Monument. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When the Olympic Opening Ceremonies crashed during my viewing party, I threw a  fit. I looked like Michael Phelps when he failed to medal in the 400 I.M. Except I had a shirt on.

I love the Olympics. Maybe it’s because my family never watched much TV growing up. Unless it was Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman or Prince Valiant it probably wasn’t on. Then there would be the Olympics. We have Olympic viewing parties…plan our schedules around Olympic events…

However, some things crop up every year that are just odd about my beloved event. I really want to know that someone else has noticed…

• 1. The Olympic Swimming Commentators sit way close together. Sometimes they almost kiss.

Ok. I know people really pick on commentators. And I probably shouldn’t because I’m a journalism student. But really? These guys stand practically on top of each other. Their faces are so close together, then one of them will lick his lips. It makes me feel intrusive. Is Rowdy Gaines gay?  It’s a major internet hit, but I think not. Just so you know, his real name is Ambrose. That’s pretty cool.

• 2. Male gymnasts sometimes look like they are wearing onesies.

This is not intended to insult these guys at all. They are so freakishly ripped that I am sometimes concerned that their veins will extrude through their skin. So why would you dress them in Jasmine pants with little booties? This seems unfair.

• 3. Beach volleyball players have to be so uncomfortable. 

Have you ever been to the beach? Have you ever gotten sand in your suit? Then you know what I’m talking about. Now imagine doing that on national television when you are one of four people in a packed arena wearing a swim suit. Awkward.

• 4. I have aged more than Bob Costas in the past four years. 
  

  WFUV Gala 2012: Bob Costas (Photo credit: wfuv)

Bob Costas (I call him Tuck Everlasting) is pretty incredible. He came to my school once and gave a presentation to the journalism students. One of the major, well thought out academic questions he was asked was “How old are you?” The answer is shocking. DO YOU REALIZE THIS MAN IS 60 YEARS OLD? Kudos, Mr. Costas.

• 5. Female gymnasts obsessively hug each other. 

I know you have to have noticed this. It must be exhausting! They hug more than my Italian family saying goodbye. Or maybe it’s a wash…16 cousins+8 aunts and uncles +1 patriarch x 1 hug= 25 hugs. Five gymnasts+4 or 5 coaches and miscellaneous people we can’t identify+a few competitors from other countries pretending they are happy for you x 4 events=40+ hugs. Yup. Gymnasts win.

• 6. Female gymnasts have awesome eye makeup.

Have you seen all of that glitter? So cool. Maybe its just because they usually come on after the poor swimming girls who are forced to mount the podium after swimming in the pool, usually with goggle circles still imprinted on their eyes, soaking hair, and a cap line. Maybe it’s just that their hair is so slicked back that it emphasizes their faces. Either way, it’s pretty razmataz.

• 7. Water polo guys look like Rambo in a Speedo.  
  

  Water Polo player at the USC campus pool circa 1993. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

They are huge. They have beards. They almost all weigh over 200 pounds. One of their positions is called “attacker.” And yet, they wear tiny little Speedos and caps that look

suspiciously like bonnets designed for Princess Leia’s hair. Is anyone else confused?

• 8. Divers get a hot tub. 

I’m not saying they don’t deserve it. But they climb those diving board stairs…they do a dive…they swim a few feet to the wall…then they seem to have a marvelous time in the bubbling league of nations.

• 9. The pommel horse flirts with disaster. 
  

  Ivan Ivankov on the pommel horse at the 2000 summer olympic games. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Really all gymnastic events do. But consistently straddling a large padded log with handles? I realize I’m not a guy, but that wouldn’t be fun for anyone.

• 10. There are people on bikes following the rowing team on shore. 

Who are they? I must know.

It’s only the third day of the games. You should hear the questions I have about Trampoline Gymnastics and Judo. Those can wait. I have to go watch the 16th video documentary on Ryan Lochte NBC has broadcasted today.

I almost knocked over a plate of low-fat cookies. I also have new bruises from my sister’s panicky inability to get through the rose ceremony.

Here’s the assessment:

The viewing party has divided into three distinct camps. Team Arie, Team Sean and Team Jef. It’s like Twilight, but a lot less scary because the men aren’t vampires and a lot less cool because I’ve never actually read those books. At various points last night, all three teams were panicked as their pick for Emily scraped through the most awkward episode of the show, the Fantasy Suite Episode. I’ll attempt to be non-partisan in this recap…

Emily traveled to Curacao for her final heart-breaking elimination ceremony before she gets to turn a guy on one knee with a massive engagement ring down. Yipee!! She soulfully walked along the beach, writing “Emily+?” on the sand. She clearly forgot the “Emily+Ricki+media frenzy+?” equation that seems more accurate. Not enough sand. A wave wiped the question mark away, anyway.

Sean got to go first, which is our first tip-off that he wasn’t going to make it through the night. They got into a Bachelorette date go-to, a helicopter, and we were are all left wondering once again what it is that is so romantic about this date idea. The loud engine? The huge earphones? Yelling at your sweetie whenever you try to talk? Fighting over the tiny window? She took him to a secluded island that looked something like Kentucky during a drought with no trees and surrounded by septic drainoff. It seemed to be better from the ground, but Sean definitely looked anxious to get into the water to cool off.   Emily, ignoring his pale blonde glory, used the “baking” method to try to get him to spill his emotions. As skin cancer became eminent, he said enough to placate her for the moment, and they decide to go for a dip.

Later at dinner, the poor guy finally gave in and told her he loves her. After expressing his willingness to be a “Soccer Dad” (“Hey guys, this is my former football player/model/role model step-dad. Oh yeah, he throws logs and looks good in a kilt.” This non-partisan thing isn’t working out.) by reading an adorable letter he had written for Ricki. Emily invited Sean for an evening of “talking” in the suite. We all cheered. Yeah! Shrapnel of classiness on the Bachelorette! Sean left early, further confirming his sweetness. The only thing he did wrong is wear a really, really deep v shirt. He was doomed.

Jef showed up for his date looking thoughtful–and thoughtfully groomed. His signature hair swoop was  perfectly in place. Our resident hipsters swooned. I tried to figure out his hairdo, which always seems like a posh relative of the mullet. Yeah…I just said “posh” and “mullet” in the same sentence. Jef and Emily had a typically adorable date, sailing on the blue water. He paddled her on his surfboard, adding “surfing” to the list of skills the mystery guy has going for him (he can even spin pillows on his finger. I just saw a video. Odd). Jef scored massive points when he asked Emily some questions. She wore a dress that looked a little like  beaded Indian pouch with straps. He said he isn’t going to spend the night with Emily because his family and Ricki will eventually see the footage and that’s awkward ( I paraphrase). This broke the fourth Bachelorette wall (What? This isn’t just the two of us on a tropical island? Other people will see this?). My conservative viewing party stood up and cheers. Instead, they decided to “talk” for the evening. We learned that the only requirement for “talking” is using your mouth. Words are unnecessary.

Oh my. Next we had Arie. It’s difficult to think of anything other than the hours of my life I have lost to watching them kissing at this point in the season. Those are hours I desperately want back. She said “hi,” then they kissed. They jumped onto the catamaran, then they kissed. The camera man apparently doesn’t have much footage with dialogue, because he resorted to using post-recorded interviews in which Emily talked about kissing Arie–that he played while showing footage of her kissing Arie. They swim with dolphins and Emily got scared. She said he is protective of her, though I’m not sure how he would defend her from a crazed or rabid dolphin. Can dolphins even get rabies? MOVIE IDEA.

The two went out for dinner, and managed to have a serious discussion. I will translate.

What Emily asks: What do you do on a Tuesday?

Translation: Are you normal in real life? Because scary dolphins and Dolly Parton are making it hard for me to picture on our dates. That and me kissing you.

Arie says: I sleep till nine, hang out with friends all the time because I’m lonely and eat out every meal.

Arie means: I’m a hardcore bachelor who burns Ramen noodles and doesn’t like being alone with himself.

Arie says: I’m really good with kids. I want to be Ricki’s buddy and earn her trust.

Arie means: You’ll always be the heavy, honey.

Emily says: I get up way before 6:30 a.m.

Emily means: It takes a long time to look this good.

Emily then decided not to even invite Arie to the Fantasy Suite to “talk” because their chemistry is so strong. There was an awkward interview clip where she seemed to be tearing up about this. We weren’t sure if she is really that upset about missing out on extra kissing time with her Dutch lover, or if something else was getting her. Suspicion: She knew he, unlike the other two, would have no problem whatsoever with spending the night with her. She didn’t want him to have a chance to disappoint her, so she just said she couldn’t handle it.

For the next 30 minutes, we got to watch Emily fret over her decision between the three men. Chris Harrison suddenly seemed to have a dog in this fight as he repeatedly grilled her about how hard sending someone home was going to be. No sympathy for her tears. We all asked for the hundredth time, does Chris Harrison like Emily Maynard? I googled and found that we aren’t the only people who suspect something is up. Wow. That would be a plot twist. “Gentleman, the final rose. PSYCH!! I get it. You’re going home. We’re taking the limo, too. Let’s kick it, Em.”

Emily chose Jef and Arie. Team Jef looked smug. They weren’t even worried. Team Arie gave each other fist bumps. Team Sean started googling flights to Texas.  It was predictable. Why? Jef was the guy she knows she should choose, and Arie was the guy she knows she shouldn’t. Sean was somewhere in between, ie, in perfect zone. She’s scared of perfect.

She took Sean out to talk (This time she really meant talk). Neither one of them said anything at first, which is awkward. She didn’t explain and instead asked him questions like “How do you feel?” This was akin to the Olympic reporters who come up to an exhausted athlete who has just lost bronze by .01 seconds and say, “How do you feel right now?” He handled it well (ie, not smashing her microphone with his brawny arms). He looked sunburned from their deserted island date during which she pumped him to express his emotions. He handled it like a man, with no tears, no meanness and no apologies. Team Sean almost cries when he said he thought of her as his wife. Then we realized there are now several thousand American women who want him to think of them as his wife.

Next week? The Men Tell All episode. This gives Team Sean a chance to regroup and pick sides, Team Jef some time to practice spinning pillows and Team Arie a chance to research Dutch terms of endearment.