Saltwater Reflection

saltwater stings

the torn flesh

the torn wounds

are invisible

to the naked eye

the sea heaves

and

sighs

signs its name

on the empty space

with a single drop

the sunlight beats

down on the salt

beats

loops around

and

chases

the moon away

the sun-warmed earth

can be

so cold

The Ups and Downs of Freelancing

Today in one fell blow (well, two), I lost about $650 worth of regular monthly income. I guess this illustrates the insecurity of the line of work I've currently opted for.

The first case was an incident of having dissimilar visions for what the job entailed, exacerbated by what I felt was somewhat unclear communication from the client about what she was looking for exactly. However, these things happen; sometimes a contractor gets hired on by a client and it turns out the two are just not compatible.

The second case was a job I got hired for on a two-week trial basis. After the two weeks were up, the site manager told me that he would like to keep me on and that I would hear a confirmation from the person in charge of hiring within a few days. He told me to keep working. Two weeks later, I suddenly got an email from her saying they were cutting back on expenses. So that's it and fair enough. I would love to work for this client again, as I felt we had a good relationship and I did quite enjoy the job.

The point of all this is that I suddenly find myself with very limited work. On the one hand, this is great, since Jason is getting here on Tuesday, so I might have more time to spend with him in the first few days. On the other hand, though, this means that I have to return to the job hunt, which I had been able to lay down thanks to the steady work I had. This will eat mostly unproductively into my time. It also cuts into my budget, of course, at a time when I'm already stretching my funds.

In happier news, I've been hired on a by a translation agency for German-French-English work. I did one project for them already and they were quite pleased with it (in fact, they found zero errors!). They've offered me another job, if they get it, which will be much longer and on a tighter deadline, but it will somewhat make up for the loss I suffered today. If I can get steady work from this agency, then I shouldn't have to spend too much time looking for other jobs.

Luckily, I'm still writing for World Record Label, which is one of my all-time favorites. For the next edition, I interviewed Rick Hayward of Hayward Amps.Check out my article on the 16th to learn more.

The Trouble with Occupy

If the Occupy movement eventually flounders without achieving its goals, it will likely do so because of self-righteousness.

Let me explain that statement. As most of you probably know, I have been a supporter of Occupy from the beginning, even before it caught on in mainstream media (luckily, one of my professors had picked it up on his radar and shared it with the class). I believe that our global society has major flaws and I also believe in the human ability to come up with something better. Contrary to those who see Occupy as a negative, complaining crowd, I experience it as a positive expression of faith in humanity's power for good. I see examples of this goodness every day and it inspires me to keep learning and growing and working for a better, more equitable future.

But what frustrates me about Occupy is that there are many supporters who have their hearts in the right place and yet suffer from a sense of self-righteousness akin to religious zealots. Now, this mindset is not always present and it's certainly not exclusive to Occupy. You see it just as strongly among people who are forcibly opposed to the movement for no other reason than that they are opposed to it (as far as I can tell from conversations I've had with them).

The problem with Occupy is that this mentality can be lethal. Not only will it repel others who haven't made up their mind about the movement, but it is also counterproductive to the movement's own professed goals. Democracy doesn't come from me telling you that anything you have believed thus far is a lie and that you're ignorant and wrong, after which I walk off, smug and secure in my own self-confirmation.

To build something new, we all have to change our minds. All of us. We can't build something new while preserving something old. It's uncomfortable to change (for me as much as for anyone), but the more you do it, the easier it gets. It's like stretching, as Jason would say.

I believe that this self-righteousness stems from assumptions about an imaginary Them and Us. If you are not agreeing with me, you must be on the other side. Clearly (or not), this is counterproductive, since it doesn't allow for new ideas to grow or for the emergence of a more inclusive society. It just shifts the power imbalance in someone else's favour.

Although stemming from a different context, I believe the following quote holds true for Occupy and any group trying to make communal decisions:

The members thereof must take counsel together in such wise that no occasion for ill-feeling or discord may arise. This can be attained when every member expresseth with absolute freedom his own opinion and setteth forth his argument. Should any one oppose, he must on no account feel hurt for not until matters are fully discussed can the right way be revealed. The shining spark of truth cometh forth only after the clash of differing opinions. If after discussion a decision be carried unanimously, well and good; but if, the Lord forbid, differences of opinion should arise, a majority of voices must prevail.- Shoghi Effendi (emphasis added)

Belgium Update

I figured it's about time that I update my blog, for its own sake and because I haven't really given anyone an update since I moved to Belgium

So here I am. It's been not windy and much less cold than Newfoundland. I'm living in my mom's apartment, which is on the second/third floor (depending on which side of the pond you're on). It overlooks a park and you can see several churches and other towers out the window. The living room has floor-to-ceiling glass windows on that side, so that's pretty cool.

I've been pretty busy since I got here, mostly with this major translation project I'm working on. 163500 words. That's a lot of words. But it's good practice and I'm getting quicker at it. I'm also still writing for World Record Label and Cute Copy and picking up random editing, writing, and transcription jobs. (If you need anything done along those lines, hit me up!)

I bought a bike today. It took me just over an hour to walk out to where the guy was selling it and about 25 minutes to get back. Needless to say, it's going to be great having it. Good exercise too.

The most interesting things I've done since my arrival are probably going to Flanders Fields (pics below, and more on Facebook) and visiting a couple of the free festivals they've had around town here. The first weekend that I got here was very busy with that sort of thing, and I even got to see some professional trapeze artists!

Other than that I've mostly been stuck behind my computer changing English into German.

By the People?

Maybe Canadians don't deserve clean water, paved roads, the CBC, snow clearing, free public education, or any of the other glorious things we're so used to enjoying in this country. The reason I say this is because the majority of citizens don't seem to be too concerned about holding our government in check. If you can't even write a letter to your MP, perform a protest song, hold an information session, call in to your radio station, or even read the news to form your own opinion about what is going on, then you are failing in your civic duty. Therefore, you have failed as a citizen, which means you have failed your community, which means that you don't deserve a democratic government.

Democracy means government by the people, right? If that is true, then it means we have to do a little work to keep everything going smoothly. We run the country. We are the CEOs of the country. Right now, we are the worst CEOs in the world. We sit back and expect our employees to do their job without any sort of supervision or direction; we expect them not to steal money or slack off when we're not looking. And then we expect them not to lie about it.

What manager or CEO would let their employees do whatever they want, unsupervised, without at least reading some sort of report (the news) to make sure things were going well? And if things were not going well (the government has money for prisons and a glass dome for the House of Commons but not for Old Age Security), they would get involved, punish those responsible, and possibly even fire a few employees.

I understand that it can seem daunting and difficult to grasp the inner workings of politic and government, but you can't expect everyone to do all the work for you. Do some reading; watch a few documentaries. The information is out there. Talk to people, even people you don't agree with. Especially people you don't agree with. Keep an open mind but use logic and reason to figure out where you stand. Care a little about your future and your family and your community.

I promise it's not that hard, really. If I can have some sort of understanding of how things are connected, there's no reason you can't, unless you're afraid of work; you don't want to be one of those people who expects everyone else to serve them. That's called royalty, and royalty is antithetical to democracy.

Showbiz

A lot has been going on in my life since my last post. As most of my friends know, I am now the manager for Jason Hayward's music career. That's been an interesting road so far. My experiences and what I've learned are going to be fodder for a new joint blog with the man himself. I'll be focusing on the business and marketing side of things, while he'll talk about the creation and performance aspects of musicking.

I've also finally seriously decided to start looking for writing and editing jobs. It's the only saleable skill I have (yes, saleable is a word, I promise). My plan is to learn to sail and create enough of a steady income through freelancing that I can live on the boat and not be tied to one spot. Jason has a very similar plan, except it has to do with music, not writing. Or at least not as much.

I've learned a lot in the past eight months or so. I learned a lot before that too, but this year has been one of transformation. I'm not sure if it's good or bad; sometimes I feel like I'm becoming dumber, more forgetful, and much more easily frustrated.

I also feel like I've discovered a whole world that was happening around but without me. I'm referring to the music industry, of course. Ever since I moved to this town, I've been asking people to introduce me to the local music scene, because I could see it was vibrant. I received many promises to fulfill that wish, but it never actually happened.

Sure, I discovered a few bands on my own and more or less figured out which venues had the best shows and so on. But since becoming Jason's, I've had to make direct contact with bar owners, music store owners, and other musicians. I've since organized a number of shows and learned a million things about marketing and things like social media and fan-artist relations.

I've also learned about song forms, composing, and myriad other things (that word always makes me think of Jillian, who managed to use it in a cover letter a while back).

But this stuff will be in my new blog, which will go live next month! Hope to see you  there!

Heat Death

Ajax wasn’t afraid of his own death; it was the heat death of the universe. “I’ll be fine if I know the universe will go on. But if it ends...” He didn’t tell us what would happen if it ended. He just slurped his fruity Crayola-red smoothie through a straw.

This was before he knew he was allergic to gluten. And milk.

This was before the heat death.

His parents named him after the Shakespearean Ajax, but he liked the Iliad ones better. The one he liked best of all was “Ajax the Lesser”, the son of King Oileus of Locris and a nymph named Rhene. They called him lesser because he wasn’t Ajax the Great, the heroic Ajax.

He was the swiftest of the Greeks, other than Achilles, of course, and he was great with a spear. The goddess Athena tried to kill him in a shipwreck, but he managed to survive by holding onto a rock. Then he got cocky and said even the gods couldn’t kill him. That pissed off Poseidon, who split the rock in half with his trident. Ajax the Lesser drowned. This was after he led forty Locrian ships against the Trojans in the war.

It was all foolishness, but it made us laugh for some reason. Ajax the Lesser was a dick. He was accused of raping the priestess Cassandra (which is why Athena was mad at him), but he took an oath of innocence and hid in a temple, so they let him live because they didn’t want to destroy the temple and have two immortal beings mad at them, instead of just the one.

They said after he died, his spirit hung out in the island of Leuce and he was worshiped as a hero. They even put him on some coins. Not too bad for a pompous ass.

“Of course, it’s not supposed to happen for a few billion years.” He adjusted his sunglasses. He always wore them inside, even in the mall.

“You’ll be dead before then,” I said. He nodded and swiveled his stool. We were sitting at the ‘bar’, where you can overlook the generic Chinese food take-out, right next to the generic greasy, diner-style hole in the wall. Generic, but they were ours.

We were still teenagers. We thought sunglasses indoors made you cool, especially when coupled with long rock star hair and a stonewashed leather jacket. Ajax was all that. He was Ajax the Lesser incarnate: a badass, god-dissing local hero.

“So what is heat death?” Only Max would ask. Me and Corey, well, we just liked to be with Ajax; we didn’t care what he was talking about, as long as he was talking to us. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether he was or not.

Those midnight sunglasses hid his eyes, adding mystery to the cool factor. He’d been places, man, seen things. Or so we imagined. We had no idea where he came from, just that he appeared in our class one day. He was in and out of detention, left a trail of girls in his wake, and showed up at school when he felt like it. The epitome of cool.

He also smoked, and I don’t mean cigarettes. He never charged us for it; he wasn’t a dealer. He threw house parties that his mom came to, which was fine with us because she had him when she was sixteen and she was hilarious when she got high (“I didn't really name him after Shakespeare, you know. I named him after the cleaning stuff.”). She was hilarious when she was sober too, but more in an Ajax-get-yer-arse-outta-bed-and-help-me-find-my-pantyhose kind of way.

“Heat death is what’ll happen when the universe reaches entropy.” No one knew what the hell he was talking about, but we listened eagerly. He laughed at our blank faces and leaned in, as if we were ten years old and he was telling a ghost story at a sleepover, all of us under a blanket with a flashlight shining up past his chin to distort his features.  I imagined him with sunglasses even in that situation.

“Eventually, it’ll reach a point where all the reactions that can happen will have happened, and all that'll be left is the heat from the reactions. What’ll kill everything off will be that nothing’s happening. Literally.” He clasped his hands behind his head. “All the energy will have spread itself out equally. It’ll be a perfect balance. So perfect that the universe stops. The end.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Max was a chubby little kid, but we let him hang out with us. He wasn’t really a kid any more than the rest of us, but we always called him that. He was the youngest in our grade, which seemed like a big deal at the time.

Ajax shrugged. “Let’s go check out the X-Store.”

This we understood. We slumped off our stools and sauntered over. Of course, what we were really interested in was the corner of the store that sold sex stuff. Not porn, nothing like that. You had to go downtown for that. But lots of stupid toys and games and explicit mugs with dicks and boobs on them. Candy panties and all that.

Eventually, we graduated – or, well, some of us did. Ajax decided at some point that school was a waste of time, and then he did become a dealer, but still not to us. We were his friends; our highs were free. So were his mom's, I guess, since she let him grow it in the basement and never said a word as long as she could have a taste every now and then.

I went to university. I was the only one who did out of the four of us. I got into Dal and my parents helped me get a student loan, so I moved to Nova Scotia. I didn’t have a clue what I was studying or what I wanted to be, but it seemed like the thing to do. My sister was going to MUN to learn business, and now it was my turn to make something of myself.

I came home at Christmas, and the morning after I arrived, my feet hit the frozen dew in the schoolyard beside my house. I flipped open my cellphone and called Ajax. I wanted to get together with the gang.

“Come over to my place tomorrow afternoon,” Ajax said. “I’ve got a homecoming present for you.”

Dinner with my folks was as you’d expect: good food, lots of questions about school, lots of gossip about my mom and dad’s friends, people I hardly knew but sort of remembered. We laughed and talked, and it was a good time all around. My sister broke out the wine to celebrate, and it was good to be home, but I really wanted to see Ajax and Max. Corey had sort of drifted off to Alberta by now.

I picked up Max in my parents’ silver Subaru Legacy. He’d thinned out, but still had that pasty blond look. His hair stuck to his hood. I cranked up the radio, even though we were listening to the two o'clock weather report.

Ajax still lived with his mom in their cranky pink jellybean house just up the hill from the harbour.  We drove around for twenty minutes looking for a place to park.

“Just park here,” Max kept saying, pointing out every illegal parking spot downtown.

Ajax's mom was passed out on the couch, wrapped in her tattered blue housecoat. We let ourselves in, since the door was open, but our boy was nowhere to be found. We sat at the table, passing a joint back and forth, but when he hadn’t shown up for two hours, I got bored and woke up his mother.

“Hey, Mom.” We all called her Mom. “Where's Ajax to?”

Her blurry eyes settled on me and she sat up, coughed once, and spread her arms. “Give me a hug. How's our college boy doing?” I obliged and sat on the couch beside her.

Ajax never came home. We waited all evening, but his mom wasn't worried. “He'll be around, you'll see.” But he wasn't.

The cops came by around eight o'clock. They found Ajax at one of the big houses up along Rennie's River. He broke in and took a dip in the hot tub. They said he was on some drug, so he never noticed a thing. He fell asleep but he never drowned. It was hyperthermia, they said.

“What's that?” Max asked.

“His body overheated,” they said.

Ajax’s mom cried. Who am I kidding; we all did. His funeral was a mess. Only a few of us showed up but the ones who did loved him like crazy. We cried during the ceremony and then at the grave-site, and then again on the sofa at his house.

Another version of Ajax the Lesser’s death said he was killed by Athena with a flash of fire to the chest. It was still during a shipwreck, but in this story, the Greek hero was raised up on a whirlwind, blasted with fire, and then slammed into some sharp rocks. The Locrians, who lived on the island of Leuce where his spirit was worshiped after he died, always left a place open in their military ranks because they believed that Ajax the Lesser was fighting with them, even though they couldn’t see him.

 “He wasn't scared of dying,” Max said. “At least the universe goes on, right?”

I stared at him. It took me a long time to figure out what the hell he was talking about, but when I did, I started to laugh. I laughed and cried and laughed and choked. He pounded me on the back, which only made it worse, and then I lay down on the couch and sobbed for Ajax, but really for us, the ones left behind.

My Personal Heroes

The Online Oxford Dictionaries define a hero as "the chief male character in a book, play, or film, who is typically identified with good qualities, and with whom the reader is expected to sympathize" and "(in mythology and folklore) a person of superhuman qualities and often semi-divine origin, in particular one whose exploits were the subject of ancient Greek myths." 


I mean neither of these. Nor do I refer to the sandwich, also known as a hoagie (who knew?). Instead, my definition is closer to the third option offered by Oxford: "a person, typically a man, who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities," without the "typically a man" bit, of course.


The people listed below have either had a profound positive impact on some aspect of my life, creative, personal, or otherwise, or they present qualities that I admire and sometimes envy (because I'm immature like that).


Without further ado, here is my list of personal heroes (in some sort of rough chronological order):

• Reggie Baskin: Reggie was the first person I ever interviewed. I must've been eleven or twelve years old at the time, and I had an assignment for my English class to conduct an interview. I chose Reggie because I knew he had been to Vietnam as a soldier during the war, and also that he was a Baha'i and therefore fighting and violence had to have been against his conscience. The interview went well and he told me some fascinating stories that I still remember. One in particular sticks in my mind: he got separated from his group and met up with a group of about twenty Viet Cong soldiers. He figured he was about to be killed, but the CO of that group recognized the symbol on his Baha'i necklace. This man was also Baha'i, greeted him with "Allah-u-abha" (the universal Baha'i greeting), and took his men on their merry (or not) way. Who says religion always causes conflict? In this case, it saved a man's life.
  He also told me how he was struggling with alcoholism post-Vietnam and how the war and other issues affected his life. I believe this interview was the beginning of two things for me, a fascination with soldiers and the psychological burdens they bear, and the realization that interviews are pretty easy.
  Afterwards, he told my mother (who was also my English teacher at that time) that he had told me things he didn't normally talk about to people, because I was a good interviewer. I don't know how true this statement is, but at the time, it had the effect of boosting my confidence as a listener, which led to my interest in journalism and probably anthropology.
  Years later, I heard that he'd had a heart attack. I understand that he pulled through, but I could be wrong. I have no idea where in the world he is today. 

• Hugh Featherstone Blyth: Where to begin. Hugh is one of the wittiest and most pragmatic people I know. I respect that a lot. As a pre-teen in Belgium, the dance theater group that he helped run was the core of my social life. School was hell, but I found some form of friendship in the dance group. However, he didn't run it alone, and as grateful as I am for the other adults in charge, Hugh made a particular difference to me.
  It could be said that he acted as a sort of father figure. He offered advice, he took time out to see how I was doing or just to chat, he shared some of his weirdest wit, and gave me the best writing advice I've ever gotten ("Cut it down to the bone, both in terms of what you take out and in terms of what you leave in"). He never said things that I produced were good unless he meant it. I could trust him to tell me the truth about myself.
  He also taught me the first thing I ever learned on guitar, the opening to Dust in the Wind, by Kansas. Without that informal one-hour lesson, I may never have started playing. I used to love listening to him play and sing, and he taught me that a musician wants to be heard, not be part of the wallpaper as background music.
  Hugh also made me feel safe. I have felt generally secure physically and intellectually throughout my life, but I learned early on that the world is full of emotional traps and pitfalls.

•  Madame Brebois: I forget her first name, but she was my "Morale" (loosely translated as ethics) teacher in junior high in Belgium. She is definitely one of my intellectual heroes, but I have some reservations about putting her into the hero category on a personal level.
  Regardless. She taught me to be skeptical about the media, about politics, and about discourse. She was really my first anthropology instructor, even though she probably doesn't know exactly what that discipline is, like most people.
  We watched the original footage from the concentration camps, met Holocaust survivors, experienced and discussed the impact of discrimination based on eye colour (just as arbitrary as race, sex, age, or anything else), and when 9/11 happened, she taught us about terrorism and the many applications of the term, as well as the history of the tactic. She helped us compare French right-wing presidential candidate Le Pen to Hitler, and showed us how to come to our own conclusions in a world where everything is more complicated than it may first appear. We studied Milgram's Study, and read books about pyschology and sociology.
  From her, I learned never to accept things at face-value, but instead, to always try to get inside the question and discover the substance of life's pieces.

•  Frau Gawrilow: I don't think I ever knew my high school German teacher's first name, but if I did, I have since forgotten it. We locked horns so many times throughout the two years she taught me, but in the end, I believe that we acquired mutual respect. This respect was based on a recognition of intellectual equality. We made great sparring partners.
  The reasons I respect her are more difficult to express than the three people I've already mentioned. She made me cry once (not in class) and consistently pressured me to speak up more in class. The class was in a foreign language that I wasn't completely comfortable in and the discussions were more or less staged, as we talked about things that most of us really didn't care about. I could see that as a teenager already and since I'm stubborn, I engaged in passive resistance. She even told me I couldn't get an A if I didn't speak at least three times each class. That didn't work either.
  Towards the end of grade twelve, she had us prepare speeches as if we were the German equivalent of valedictorian for our class at graduation. When I presented mine, everyone applauded, including her. Then she announced that she had come to the realization that some people should just be left alone to learn in their own way, and that they will flourish just as well or better that way.
  So I won that war, which is one reason I remember her so well, but the victory wasn't the point. The point was that she recognized me as a human being, and I have since come to recognize her as one too. And it turns out we are pretty similar, even though I was in the math stream at that point. If I ever see her again, I will thank her for helping me learn to be strong and independent, as well as for teaching me to stand up under pressure.
  And for being inspiring. I know this is vague, but it's the best I can do.

•  Steffen Bau: Steffen is a doctor now. The last I heard, he was living in Namibia with his wife. He didn't have any specific impact on me, but I shared a lot of special moments with him. One of my most memorable memories (yes, I just said that) was at the Sommerfest when we stayed up two nights in a row as a night watch, to make sure nothing got stolen. I was so tired I hallucinated. It was fun.
  He was always dedicated to what he believed in, even to the point of having to say goodbye to some of the people in his life. I respect that, even if I don't necessarily see eye-to-eye with him on everything.
  He brought a lot of music to our youth gatherings, and we spent some good times playing guitar and singing. His solo part in the national choir was beautiful. I learned how to love the little things in life from him; he also made me watch The Matrix for the first time.
  And I learned how to massage. (Begone, ye dirty thoughts. It was nothing like that. We were always friends.) I was able to learn from him because he was both truthful and tactful. That's not a common combination, for the most part.

• Ginny Ryan: Ginny is my boss at the Writing Centre, and she exudes "noble qualities". First of all, she hates being called "boss", partly, I think, due to her natural humility, and partly due to her strong sense of justice and human equality.
  Ginny is another one who stays strong under ridiculous amounts of pressure, and not just deadlines and budgets. I've seen her struggle with important ethical questions and although she is flexible and open-minded, she never bends on the crucial issues that make us human.
  Her door is always open to others and her ear is always ready. At the same time, she shares of herself, but wisely, and only with those who are interested. I've known her for five years now, and in that time, I have come to appreciate how rare her managing philosophy is in an increasingly corporate world where employees are only kept happy because they are more efficient and profitable that way.
  When she hired me, she took a chance on me, and I'm glad she did. I will always be grateful for the skills I've developed, the friendships I've experienced, and the ability to have a home base on campus.
  Another thing about Ginny that I admire (and envy a little) is the vault of amazing experiences she has had. Since she's so humble, she usually only hints at them, but once in a while, you get to learn about where her life has taken her so far. She has never been afraid to try new things, and remains so today. That's why she had the confidence to bring out her first album at this stage in her life, in the face of great difficulties.

• Justin Brake: I first heard of Justin through an anthropology department email announcing a fundraiser for his trip to Sudan. I was aware of STAND at that time, Students Taking Action Now - Darfur, a campus group that he helped initiate, if I'm not mistaken. I was impressed by his email then, and the reason for his journalistic travels to that genocide-ridden region. He explained that he didn't want his kids to ask him in fifteen years, "What did you do about the genocide?" and his answer to be, "Nothing." Something to that effect.
  Since then, I have gotten to know him better and even had the opportunity to take a course on Engaged Anthropology with him. He is one of the most humble, passionate, and loving people I have ever met. His eloquence in both speech and writing never cease to amaze me. From a friendly distance, I've watched him struggle with the darkest parts of humanity that he witnessed first-hand in Darfur and Haiti, I was overjoyed last night to hear that he had made peace with himself and with the world.
  His focus and dedication to his work (making the world a better place), as well as his realistic approach to this work, stem from sincere empathy and an innate affection and love for everyone who crosses his path. It's impossible to be in his presence without feeling improved by it. Or at least the desire to improve.
  Justin remembers everybody, even after the most insignificant interactions. He has respect for those whose opinions contradict his, and can readily admit that he still has much to learn. If only we could all be this self-aware.

• Rebecca Champion: Rebecca and I share a lot of the same opinions about people and the world. We hit it off right away.
  Rebecca takes care of everyone in her life, including people she just met (unless they're harassing her or her daughter, in which case the shotgun might come out). She gives so much of herself and her time that some people might take it for granted. At the same time, she is pursuing what she really wants to do for herself, which is photography and writing. She even managed to go back to school, in spite of opposition, to finish up her English degree.
  She is the surrogate mother to a gaggle of children her daughter's age, now grown. Her house is like a commune where friends of friends can wander freely about, sleep on the couch, or eat the food, as long as you're willing to reciprocate and respect her boundaries.
  The same goes for any animals that might wander through. If they are injured or suffering in some way, she will make sure they get better.
  I believe that this woman is highly undervalued by many of her peers, but those who've seen her golden heart will never forget her. "Touch lightly for you never know the impact you may have." This is one of her favorite sayings, or some version of this. She is a very wise woman who lets people learn and decide things for themselves, but is always there for guidance when asked.

•  Robin Whitaker: What can I say about Robin? She's one of my academic heroes for sure, and she's pretty cool as a person too, although I mostly know her from the ivory tower. (Just for the record, she's not an ivory tower type at all - one of the great things about her.)
  She is my Honours thesis supervisor, which I'm grateful for, because she's both organized and insightful. We have a similar sense of humour too, which helps in communication. I've taken a number of courses from her because I know she will always draw out more and more from my mind, and help me discover new ways of thinking. If I have a hard time living in the world, it's partly thanks to Robin. But that's a good thing. It's very liberating to see human society as an artificial construct.
  Beyond academics. Robin has done some amazing things in her life, most of which she probably keeps to herself. She's not one to brag, at all, or badmouth others. She maintains professionalism but you can tell that she has a lot of passion for her research and her students. And she knows how to have fun as well. Well-rounded, I suppose.
  She was involved in the Peace Accord negotiations in Northern Ireland in the 1990s. Seriously. She's realistic in her approach to anthropology and to life, which allows her to be involved in the world around her without becoming entangled in it. I should be so lucky.

• August Carbonella: Oh, August. August was going to be my supervisor, but then he went away on sabbatical (the nerve). It worked out well though, because I got to be all excited when he came back. It also enabled me to take more courses from him because if he had been around, I might have graduated already.
  August is a Vietnam war vet like Reggie (remember Reggie?). He became a war resister while deployed in Vietnam, and even without all the other cool stuff about him, this single action commands my unending respect and admiration. The courage it takes to stick to what you believe in the face of the prospect of losing everything is a rare thing indeed.
  In spite of this courage, and the other actions he took because of it, he remains extremely humble, and sometimes even silly. He implicitly presents himself as a student of life, a little out of his league, but doing his best to stay afloat. (How's that for a mixed metaphor?*)
  In the 1990s, he engaged in counter-recruitment activities in high schools, where he and other ex-soldiers would visit classes and tell them what being in the military and at war is really like, as opposed to the glory the recruiters liked to conjure.
  He can talk about his own experiences with honesty and compassion, and he'll let you know how he really feels about something without forcing that view on you. He has taught me to never stop questioning and never stop striving for positive change. If he can persevere this long, who am I to give up?

• Bruce Lilly: Bruce is one of my best friends in Newfoundland. He is a fellow writer, and probably the person who gives me the truest encouragement in my own writing. He also makes me frustrated by being so goshdarn good at writing himself. It makes me green. It also makes me strive to be better. Not to imitate, but to develop my own writing to the point where I can express things as well as him, albeit differently. And make interesting stories.
  But my friendship with Bruce is not just an attempt at improving my skill by osmosis (or diffusion, if you want to be technical about it). Bruce cares a lot about the people around him, and he shows it through giant bear hugs and snide remarks. Wit and crushed bones are the best way to show affection, in my opinion.
  All kidding aside, though, Bruce really has a warm heart. He wants his peeps to be happy and have a good time. He wants the world to be great, but since it isn't he's developed coping mechanisms that are more or less effective, and mostly non-destructive. Like Hugh, he also makes me feel safe, partly because I know that he is just as cynical as me. He also understands the concept of speaking with no filter (which he may or may not have introduced me to) and how when the filter is off, nothing you say should be construed as absolute.
  He also understands when I use words like "construe" and "absolute".
  Bruce is inspiring because he's doing his best. He's trying his hardest to do his best with what he has and what the world has allowed him. That says a lot. He hasn't given up yet, even though the ridiculousness of life can be a bit of a downer when you're super intelligent and see through all the veils.

So that's my main list of heroes. One obvious person who is not on here is my mom, Blanche Moyaert. She has taught me more than fits into a short (or long) blog post. She has taken care of me and always put her children first. Her sacrifices have brought me to where I am, her audacity has taught me not to back down on the important things but also how to pick my battles, and her tenacity and organizational skills have shown me that you can never give up. Most importantly, she let me know that the world is what we make it, and she was never afraid to teach us the skills and information we needed to understand, no matter how young we may have seemed to others. I could go on and on, but your eyes may already be burning from staring at the screen.


There are many other people in my life who I admire and respect, but not everyone can make this list. The list may change over time. People who I haven't known long enough for me to understand their impact didn't make it on here, even if I considered you.  So now it's your turn: who are your heroes?
 
 *I looked up the expression "out of one's league" and it turns out my metaphor may not be mixed after all. If it refers to sports, as some argue, then my remark on mixage was correct; if, however, the origin is maritime, which is the other suggestion, then it makes perfect sense.

Nearing The End

Group H disbanded today, as the last of the organized stops came to an end at the original Western Pilgrim House, which was actually quite close to our hotel. Astrid and I got lost on the way there though.

But first we went to the buildings on the ark. This is an arc shape beside the terraces, where the administrative buildings are. It's a metaphor that comes from Baha'u'llah's Tablet of Carmel, where it says, "Ere long will God sail His Ark upon thee." Metaphorical writing.


These buildings include the International Teaching Center, the Seat of the Universal House of Justice, and the Archives Building, that I mentioned in some of my earlier posts. The fourth one is the Center for the Study of the Texts, and not yet built is the International Library. They mark the rounded border of the Monument Gardens, where I went yesterday.


I was able to sleep in a bit today, because ours was the last group to go see the buildings. I forgot my phone, but I got pictures from Astrid, so I'll be putting those up alongside my own from the past two days and tomorrow, once I get home. 


I learned that to build the Ancient Greek style buildings, they had to call up retired marble carvers, because it's a disappearing art. I'm glad they did, because the buildings are amazing, and they will last forever. They're pretty cool inside too, very elegant and beautiful, but not overdone at all. And most of the contents were donated or even bought from second-hand stores, and yet it fits together so well.


One cool thing that happened today is that I saw an original painting (not a replica) done by Marion Jack, the person I was named after. I got Astrid to take a picture of me with it. It depicted the Mansion of Bahji and was done in 1914. That was a long time ago. In case you didn't know.


I also learned, yesterday actually, that she taught English to the kids that lived at the House of 'Abdullah Pasha in 'Akka, where we went yesterday. That means she probably taught English to Shoghi Effendi, which is kind of cool. She's Canadian, so I wonder if he spoke with a Canadian accent.


I also wonder if there are any recordings of him speaking. You'd think there would be, with all the speaking tours he did, and yet I've never heard of any audio or video recording. He died in 1963, so they had the technology for it. Hmm...


It rained today, which is great for the people of Israel since they've been suffering from a drought, as I mentioned before. We had some wind yesterday, but not so much today, until this evening. 


In the morning, we were mostly inside, looking at the buildings and then visiting the Public Information Center, or somesuch, where scholars and others can pre-arrange visits if they want to learn specifically about the Baha'i Faith. Remember, Baha'is aren't allowed to teach their religion in Israel, unless asked direct questions.


In a circular room, they had some quotes from Baha'u'llah up on the walls, and each one was decorated with a border that ressembled the artistic style of various cultures and regions. They were all done by the same artist, and whoever it was did a good job.


After that, we went back to the hotel for lunch, and we had almost four hours before we had to be at our next and final stop. I took a nap, because I'm cool like that. When it came time to leave, I set out with Astrid. Glennys was nowhere to be found, so we figured she'd make her own way there, which she did.


On the way to the house, which is literally five minutes from the Port Inn, Astrid and I walked around the area for much longer than necessary. Finally we asked a guy who spoke barely any English, and he pointed the way. We arrived five minutes late and our group was involved in some sort of impromptu prayer session. Some people sang and one guy read a prayer off his iPhone, which I found amusing for some reason.


The Western Pilgrim House was built to house the early pilgrims from the West, because the original pilgrim house was too small to fit everybody from everywhere. There are a lot of photographs from people's visits, so when you go outside, you can see exactly where they were taken. That's different from most of the other places we've visited, and it gave me a weird feeling as I walked around.


We didn't get to go into 'Abdu'l-Baha's house, because it's being renovated, but we were still pretty lucky overall, compared to some pilgrim groups. We got to see every single other place in the region that is owned by the Baha'is.


In the garden next to the Western Pilgrim House sits the grave of Amatu'l-Baha Ruhiyyih Khanum, originally Mary Maxwell. She was the wife of Shoghi Effendi who died in 2000. It was dark by the time I gpt out to see it, so I couldn't read the script on it very well. I took picture though, so maybe I'll be able to make it out. I think it just said her name and date of birth and date of death.


Back at the Port Inn, we'd arranged to meet the others and have supper together, since it's our last night as a full group. Erik, Julie, and Glennys aren't leaving until Wednesday, but Astrid and I have to head out tomorrow night. Teddy, another person staying here who I've hardly spoken to, partly because she's gone a lot and partly because she seems to think I'm too young to converse with, wasn't around when we got back, so it was just the five of us.


Teddy actually had a nasty fall in 'Akka yesterday. Some people do this thing where they count forty waves coming in and each time one comes in, they say "Praised be God". I've never heard of this tradition before (and it's not a Baha'i tradition, at least not an officially condoned one). Apparently, after forty waves, you're absolved of all your sins, past, present, and future. Seems a bit odd to me, but I guess if some people believe it, then that's their prerogative.


So she was rushing up the steps of the seawall to do the forty waves, when she slipped on the uneven steps and fell on her knees. She sprained her wrist and finished her pilgrimage in a wheelchair, but she claims to have had a miraculous recovery. Also, one of the people working here at the World Center just happens to be a bone surgeon, so he had a look at it. 

She was already having some health issues and was praying for healing during her pilgrimage. So much for that.


I'm not sure where she was, but the five of us headed out to this Chinese restaurant. I had pat thai noodles and they were delicious. There was some sort of badly acted Chinese historical drama on the tv, so that was a little distracting, but overall it was really enjoyable. We ended up with a good group at the Port Inn.


Everyone except Erik then cabbed to the ITC for tonight's presentation. It was pouring out at this point. We had the best cab driver ever. He fed us almonds and dried apricots. Julie started singing and he said if she sang, our trip would be free, but only if she sang in Arabic. I sang something in Farsi, but it wasn't good enough.


He had us laughing the whole way there, and I don't think he took us a very roundabout way, unlike some of the other drivers. I'm not sure. It could've all been a grand scheme to trick us into not paying attention to how long it was taking.


After the talk, I met a guy from Tanzania who's been working here since July. He's on a twelve-month service contract, or whatever it's called. I also chatted with a couple other people I've met here, since I may not be seeing them again.


Tomorrow night there's a farewell to the pilgrims, but I might be on the train at that time, which sucks. I imagined that the last day would end relatively early, when I booked my ticket. Shows how much I know.


It's thunder and lightning out now, and the rain is really coming down. The window's open in the dorm because it gets stuffy otherwise, but it's a bit chilly tonight. Good thing the blankets are made of fleece. 


Tomorrow I'm meeting a friend for lunch, who I haven't seen since I was thirteen. We were Baha'i pioneer (sort of like missionary) kids together in Benin in the late nineties. I'm looking forward to that!

Four in One

This morning I woke up to a partially flooded dorm room. The drain in the bathroom has been slow all along, but I guess it's been getting worse. Luckily none of my stuff got wet. Astrid was using the rubber water pushing device to get it back into the bathroom.

I pulled myself out of bed around 7:30. We had to be up at the bus stop at 8:30, so I pulled on some clothes and ate breakfast. They had this vegetable casserole thing that was pretty yummy, although I think it was left over from yesterday, so it was a bit stale. Still good though.

We bussed out towards 'Akka again. Today we were visiting the Ridvan Garden, which was designed by 'Abdu'l-Baha as a replica of the Garden of Ridvan outside of Baghdad, in Iraq. That garden is on an island in the Tigris River; this one has a manmade stream around it, to sort of give the impression of an island. It was nice, and one of the original mulberry trees was still there. Baha'u'llah used to sit under that tree.

When we left, we got oranges and pomegranates. It's orange season. The last group of pilgrims got a lot of pomegranates, because it was pomegranate season. Which reminds me. I have a pomegranate to eat.

Then we went to the House of Abdullah Pasha, where 'Abdu'l-Baha lived with his family and where his grandson Shoghi Effendi was born. We got to go to the room where that happened, and our guide set the scene: "Just imagine being in 'Abdu'l-Baha's presence, and imagine Shoghi Effendi being born here."

That's not really something I want to imagine, but if you insist...

It's a big house, with a huge courtyard. The places we've visited have been in chronological order, except for the shrines, of course. Baha'u'llah never lived in this one, because he had already passed away.

This is where they hid the remains of the Bab for years before they were able to find his final burial spot on Mt. Carmel. It was in 'Abdu'l-Baha's sister's room, and nobody knew except the two of them. Imagine sleeping with someone's remains in your room!

We also saw the place where 'Abdu'l-Baha met with the first Western pilgrims, and the dining room where they all sat together to eat. I guess there weren't as many pilgrims in those days. There's a book called Some Answered Questions which is a compilation of 'Abdu'l-Baha's answers to pilgrims' questions. These discussions also took place in that dining room.

I took pictures with my phone all day, because my camera's broken. I figured out the problem: one of the three prongs that are supposed to connect to the battery is missing.

The house is right beside the prison, and from one of the windows you can see the two windows of Baha'u'llah's cell, framed between two buildings. 'Abdu'l-Baha lived in that prison too, so it must've been strange to view it out the window, thirty years later.

One of the guys in our group was telling me about his motorcycle escapades, both as a kid in Tehran, Iran and as an adult in the US. He used to ride around on a dirtbike at age sixteen, before he could legally have a license, and he'd taunt the police who were on foot. He also gets a lot of speeding tickets, apparently. In the US, his riding group has nicknamed him "Quick Nick". They call him Nick because, like many North Americans, they refuse to even try to learn his actual name, which is Nadjmi. Pretty hard, eh. Or not.

He gave me all his contact information, and if I ever go to Atlanta, he said he'll teach me how to ride well. He gave me a bunch of advice about motorcycle types and the best ways to learn to ride. Harleys are to be avoided; on a tour with about thirty people, only the Harleys needed to go to the shop.

He and another man in our group from the southern or midwestern States somewhere, judging by his accent, decided to walk to Bahji (about forty minutes), because 'Abdu'l-Baha did it when he was in his seventies. The rest of us hopped back on the bus.

I sat in the library in the Visitors Center and read A Traveller's Narrative, which is 'Abdu'l-Baha's account of the life of the Bab, though the translator didn't know he had written it at the time. Hence the obscure title, I guess.

I didn't go to the Shrine of Baha'u'llah, because yesterday I thought it was our last visit, so I sort of already said my goodbyes to the whole place.

Normally the bus lets people out close to the Port Inn, but I decided to go up to the PRC to get the key to the Monument Gardens. This is where Baha'u'llah's mother, daughter, son, and daughter-in-law are buried. The son is the one who fell through the skylight at the prison when he was twenty-two, if you remember from my earlier post.

They were doing some work on the garden, so it was a bit noisy, but still enjoyable. I got some cool views (and pictures) of the buildings on the arc, which we're going to see tomorrow, by the way. That's the Seat of the House of Justice, the Archives Building, the Center for the Study of the Texts, and the International Teaching Center. They're in an arc. On the mountain. Beside the terraces. You'll see what I mean when I put pictures up.

I slipped into the upper terraces because a guy was coming through the gate. Normally you can't go in on the side without a key. I walked up to the top, and I've gotta say, the upper terraces are much more breathtaking than the lower ones, at least for me. Maybe because you have a view of all the terraces, or because every time you look behind you, you see the glittering golden dome of the Shrine of the Bab, with the city of Haifa panned out around you until it reaches the sea.

There's also more variation from terrace to terrace. The fountains weren't running today, but a lot of birds were flying and walking around. I have no idea what kind of bird they are, but they were interesting.

At the top, I met up with Astrid and Glennys who were on their way down. I wanted to hang out for a few minutes, so they went on ahead. But I caught up with them farther down and we took some pictures. Glennys left her camera on the bus yesterday, so we were in the same boat, both resorting to taking photos with our phones.

The terraces close at five, because it gets dark then. It's a safety precaution, because some of the paths are a bit steep. It was getting dark and the lights were coming on as we descended, and the guard who let us in to the lower terraces told us to take our time. He was taking a few photos himself and then making his way down to the bottom gate, so he could let us out once we got there. He was nice. Young guy from Nebraska.

It's so international around here. Everyone's from somewhere else. I love it.

Malena, the little girl from Greenland, was hanging around me a lot today. I don't know why she likes me so much. I can't even speak to her! But then again, no one else even tries, so maybe that's it.

We grabbed supper at the seafood restaurant where we ate before, but I got a kebab this time. The cat we'd been feeding was back, with another cat. The little one sat on my backpack under the table for most of the meal. Must've been the most comfortable seat it has had in a long time.

I got home and climbed onto my bed. I'm on the top bunk, in case you were wondering. I chatted with our new dorm mates; there's people in and out every day. One is a girl named Apple, born in the Philippines, but grown up in Florida. The other I spoke to more briefly, but she's from Russia. They both seem very considerate, so that's good. It's nice to have considerate people sharing a room with you.

Tomorrow's not quite as early, but we do have to go up the mountain to the International Teaching Center to start our tour of all the buildings. That's going to be really interesting. The architecture alone is astounding, so learning about the things that go on in each building will just be an added plus. It's supposed to rain tomorrow, too, so it'll be good to be inside.

Our afternoon schedule is indoors as well, at the Master's ('Abdu'l-Baha's) house, where Shoghi Effendi's wife Ruhiyyuh Khanum lived until she died about ten years ago. It's close to the Port Inn, so it'll be nice to walk home after. Unless it's raining, of course. But either way, it'll be close.

I finally bought some postcards. No point in sending them now. I'm just going to deliver them when I get back home. Sorry to those who wanted one. If you really want one with a stamp, let me know.

I also bought some wooden nine-pointed stars. I'm going to ask a friend of mine who makes jewelry to make them in to earrings. You know who you are.

The store also sold decorative plates with what Baha'is call the Greatest Name on it, a calligraphic representation of the name of God in Arabic. Baha'is often put this symbol somewhere high in their house, to show its importance. I was wondering if people who don't know what it means come into the store, buy six plates, and use them to eat off of. "Oh, look at the cool Arabic writing!"

Hehe.

Birth of Baha'u'llah

We've been having incredible weather, but it's not great for the people of Israel. It's been sunny with almost completely blue skies since I got here. Too bad that means it's a drought and the country's running out of water.

Today was the celebration of the Birth of Baha'u'llah. Normally, the Baha'i World Center commemorates Holy Days according to the lunar calendar, so it would not have been today. But for some reason, this year is special, so we ended up celebrating it during our pilgrimage, which is good, because it was one of the reasons I picked these dates. Someone said something about the Ascension of 'Abdu'l-Baha and the Birth of Baha'u'llah falling on the same day in the lunar calendar, so they wanted to be able to keep the two days separate.

By the way, I don't understand the lunar calendar. I'm just glad it worked out.

In the morning, my Port Inn-mates (see what I did there?) planned to take a sherut out to the Junayn Gardens, which I'd never even heard of before this trip. Apparently, that's where Baha'u'llah and his family used to go for picnics and meetings with officials and stuff. Also, and I'm not sure this is correct, I think this is the place where 'Abdu'l-Baha took the officials of 'Akka to negotiate Baha'u'llah's release from the prison city.

The Junayn Gardens were completely destroyed at some point, so they only opened them up to the pilgrims this year. Since we're the second group of pilgrims for this year, we're also only the second group of pilgrims to set foot in these gardens. So that's kinda cool. Like, totally.

It also means they are very young. All the plants are small and there's a lot of sand in between. It still looks very desertic, not quite like a garden. In some of the old photos, you can see big trees and streams, so I was a little disappointed. It was still interesting to go there though.

Erik (with a "k", as I learned today) and I walked around outside the gardens a bit, just up and down the streets. It looks like a new subdivision, with construction all around. I took some pictures, which you can see on Facebook, with the rest of my photos.

I saw a synagogue, only the second one since I got to Israel. However, I'm not sure synagogues have specific architectural features, so they may not always be recognizable to people who can't read. Like me. For all I know, I've seen hundreds of synagogues.

Our sherut came back at twelve to take us to Bahji, where the Holy Day celebration was going to be. It didn't start until two, officially, but tea and cookies were served outdoors at around twelve thirty. At that time, I was somewhere in the gardens around the Mansion of Bahji, or possibly behind the original Pilgrim House. I didn't realize last time how extensive these gardens are!

I caught the tail end of the refreshments, though all the cake was gone. They told me it was really good too...

Then we went to take our seats in the "Most Holy Precincts", the area of the garden where the Shrine is. I heard that about a thousand people attended, including all the staff, pilgrims, and visiting Baha'is. Most of the pilgrims are over thirty, so it was a different vibe with all the youth volunteers around. Also, they all knew each other well, whereas the pilgrims obviously don't have the same kind of long-term relationships with one another, for the most part.

Prayers were read and chanted in English, Farsi, and Arabic. One guy who chanted had a beautiful voice. I could've listened to him all day. Unfortunately, I was exhausted and nearly fell asleep during the hour-long prayers. I was sitting next to my Veterans for Peace friend, so I hope he didn't notice. I felt bad, but I really couldn't help it; the atmosphere was so relaxing.

It was supposed to rain, but didn't. We did see a thunderhead somewhere over Galillee, so I guess it rained there. That's good, because apparently that's where they're hit the hardest with this drought.

After prayers, a thousand people circumambulated the shrine. That was a site to see. I can't even describe it, and my pictures don't capture the silent movement of that many people. People were heading back to the Visitors Center, while others hadn't even started their circumambulation yet. So many people in one spot.

And a lot of them were crying. There's been a lot of that on this pilgrimage. Emotions run high and everyone's tired. A lot of the holy places have tissues outside them to bring in with you.

I went back to the Mansion of Bahji, but it was starting to fill up with people. I went into Baha'u'llah's room, the one with his taj and shoes, and also an original oil lamp from when he lived there. (Everything else was taken away by the side of the family that didn't follow him.)

I also went into the Shrine for a bit, but it was overcrowded, so I didn't stay long. I hopped on one of the buses to take us back in to Haifa, and it filled up completely. Some guy, possibly from the Universal House of Justice, or maybe the custodian of Bahji, got on and told the staff members that the buses were for pilgrims and they needed to get off if pilgrims wanted the seats. I'm pretty sure it filled up with pilgrims.

A woman from Uzbekistan sat beside me, and we had a grand ol' chat on the way back. She hardly spoke any English, but it was more than my Russian. Still, we managed to talk about our families and she told me that her husband really doesn't like that she's Baha'i. I'm not sure, but she seemed to be saying that he fights with her about it; I don't know if she meant physically or verbally.

She got carsick on the way back, though luckily not enough to throw up. She pulled out a piece of orange peel and held it to her nose on the way back, because she was feeling ill because of the stale air on the bus. I can relate, and this is the first time in my life that I've connected my strong sense of smell to my proneness to carsickness.

When we got back into town, I asked the driver to let me off near the Port Inn, which he did, though not where they usually drop us off. I walked back to the hostel, and then Erik and Jordan, this guy from New Zealand, invited me to go hang out with them. We went back to the same place where I went with Abby a few days ago, where we ended up never paying.

You meet a lot of interesting people when you travel. Jordan says he's "a disciple of Jesus" and he's trying to learn as much as he can about him. He's travelling around to all the Christian lands now, but he doesn't belong to a church. It's more of a personal thing. He listens to Bob Marley and seems to live a compatible lifestyle. And yes, we discussed whether Jesus would have listened to Bob Marley.

Back home at the hostel, I went to the common room to write this blog. A guy sitting there greeted me, and we started talking. He's the first actual Israeli that I've had a chat with. The receptionists and cab drivers et al. don't count.

He's from Tel Aviv and teaches computer stuff to office workers around the area. His name is Itzrat. We talked about what I was doing here, and Glennys and Astrid joined us. We told him about the various gardens around, and he was surprised because he thought there were only two. I said he's going to think that all Baha'is do is make and visit gardens.

That's probably what you think to, judging by the activities I've described in this blog.

We also talked about the various places we've each been to. Quite a few between us all. Itzrat had only been to Los Angeles and New York, other than places in Israel, but Astrid and Glennys have been all over. I guess when you're a traveler and you meet other travelers, they will have been around too, because they're travelers. That was a convoluted sentence.

Time for bed now, methinks. Full day again tomorrow. This trip is wearing me out. I'm also dismayed because my camera battery seems to have completely given up the ghost. I may not be able to take any more pictures. I'm hoping it'll magically fix itself. Sometimes that happens.

I may be able to use my phone, as one of my friends suggested, but I think it charges me roaming fees whenever it's on, even if it's not in use. So I don't really want to risk that.

Sigh. Well, other people have cameras, so I can get some shots if I really need to, I s'pose.