For some reason, I have spent a great deal of time the last few years trying to figure out how to amuse myself while driving long distances. The incredible commute here is nothing compared to what I used to have to drive when we lived in Europe. Although I telecommuted to work then, at times I did have to actually show my face at the office, which meant driving four hours (one way) at least once every two weeks. On top of that, I also managed to conduct a research project that involved driving to schools in countries across Europe. If I ever want to make up for my carbon footprint, I probably need to plant a forest the size of a small European country.
Anyway, when driving long distances, especially on the highway, I get bored quickly. Maybe it's me, but once you've seen ten miles of half-empty highway, you've seen it all. When it comes to entertainment, the radio isn't much help. You lose signal after at most 45 minutes, and then spend every ten minutes looking for a station without static. CDs are great, but unless you want your car to look like a music store, there are only so many you can take with you, and you don't want to end up listening to the same music or book over and over again. So I discovered my absolute favorite pastime while driving: license plates.
Before moving to Georgia, Germany was my absolute favorite country to drive in. Not just because the drivers are actually courteous (unlike some unnamed countries) or pay attention to what they're doing (unlike other unnamed countries), but because of their tags. In Germany the first letters on your license plate indicate the city or county where your car is registered. So as a fellow driver, you can spend hours trying to figure out where someone with the letter "D" is from (Dusseldorf), or "HOM" (Homburg), or "NE" (Neuss). I would take great pride in figuring out which combination stood for which town by looking at names on the road signs, and seeing where cars would get on and off the highway (I was very bored). And if I couldn't figure something out, I would go home and look up the code in our "Find-it Guide" (I'm also a little over-zealous). It became quite the game for me.
Moving to Georgia meant giving up that little game of "tag". I was certain I would never find anything as entertaining. Reading off counties on people's plates just isn't as interesting, and the very few personalized license plates around here aren't enough to keep me occupied. But it wasn't long before I discovered that Georgia plates, and cars in general, actually offer a cornucopia of activities to keep my brain happy.
First, Georgia has an enormous array of special plates: university plates, military plates, and special interest plates. When you're driving down a long boring country highway, it really is strangely rewarding to figure out what the strange tag is on that car in front of you. However, this can also prove to be slightly risky; the other day I pretty much tailgated a car for over a mile, almost crawling into their trunk before I was able to see that their tag supported pediatric cancer research. What is the point of making a special interest tag if no one can read it? I also saw my first purple heart license plate just last week - when you think about what that actually means, it's quite chilling. And whenever I see an "educator" license on a car that seems to drive quite haphazardly, I always wonder what that says about our teachers :) I've seen more "support our wildlife" tags than I can count, and only the day did I learn that the cute plates that say "animal friend"are actually in support of cat and dog sterilization. I've looked online, and there are about a hundred special plates out there, and I'm guessing I'll be occupied for at least another six months.
Georgia drivers also love to put bumper stickers all over their vehicle. Coming from the woman who hated putting the parking decal on her car, I have to tell you, reading them is fun. There is the ubiquitous, but dull, "My child is an honor student at...", the more challenging "my dog is smarter than your honor roll student", the ancient political bumper stickers (this is I believe the only state where I have seen "W 04" stickers four years after the election), and if I were to get a quarter for every "support our troops" ribbon, I would be a rich woman now. There are the American Pride stickers, American flag stickers, and the "fish with crucifix". And sometimes I see a real beauty, like my old-time favorite: "cover me I'm changing lanes"
Finally, the lack of a tag in the front. In Georgia, cars only require a tag in the back, which means that most cars have an empty tag holder on the front of the car. The majority of the drivers here chose to put a personal plate in the front, and these are a lot of fun to look at. I've seen an enormous collection of sorority and fraternity plates (which sure helps me keep my Greek alphabet to date), as well as Georgia Bulldogs (the University of Georgia mascot) tags. Some people chose to express their religious views on these tags with words like "Blessed", while I've also seen John Deere tags, military plates, and those license plates that have the owner's name craftily spray painted on them. It's fun to look at the tags, and then at the driver, and try and figure out what kind of person they are - is the Bulldog-tag-man really a raging fan who tailgates every weekend? And I'll never forget the few times I saw a car that had a name like "Tracy" or "Mychelle" on the front tag, and then had a male driver.
Although I don't have a special tag, and no bumper stickers, I did contribute to this phenomenon by putting a bright pink John Deere tag on the front of my car. As a tree-hugging academic who shies away from anything country and who drives a a fuel-efficient city car I can honestly tell you I did this to amuse all those people out there like me - this will sure give them something to think about!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The beauty of teaching
There are days when I wonder why on earth I decided to become an educator. Days when all of my students show up late to class, when I hear a thousand-and-one excuses about why a paper couldn't be turned in on time, when students refuse to listen, refuse to try to understand, and refuse to find anything interesting. Days when I wonder why I settled for such little pay (relatively speaking) for so much stress. Days when I'm just plain tired, and don't want to explain the principle behind statistical significance a fourth time.
Fortunately, every one of those days is usually punctuated with little bright spots that remind me why I chose this career. It's a student who all of a sudden sees the light and writes a brilliant paper. Or a student who comes in to talk to you about personal issues, and then thanks you for making them feel better. At times it's finding the perfect book for a paper I'm writing, or having an entertaining and constructive class discussion.
But sometimes, and these days are very rare, something so wonderful happens that I wonder why I would ever question my career choice at all. Last week we had one of those days.
Besides teaching, one of my jobs here at the university is to serve as co-adviser to the student newspaper. Usually it involves no more than paying bills, overseeing meetings, interviewing new staff members, and appointing the new editors. But last week, my job suddenly took on a whole new angle.
It started when the PA to a high-up administrator came into my office, wanting to know if I had a copy of the newest issue of the newspaper. Apparently, the students had written a heavy critique of the administration, and the administrator wanted to read this article himself. Now the staff had forgotten to give me one, even though that is one of our rules. Students forgetting something, anything, is one of my pet peeves, so grumbling, I made my way downstairs to get my own copy. Ready to have a serious talk with our editor in chief, my anger slowly made way for astonishment when every single student that I ran into in the hallway was reading the newspaper. When I finally got my hands on a copy of the newspaper, I understood why. Two students had each written an editorial fiercely criticizing our administration for taking certain financial decisions. I don't believe the newspaper has ever published anything quite so critical, or anti-administration. Usually our student paper is an innocuous collection of stories about campus life, wire stories, music, book, and movie reviews, and a sports section, and steers clear of campus politics. Although our students are quite vocal about their issues with the school, they usually keep quiet towards administrators and most of the faculty. Not this time though. The students had finally taken a stand, and taken up their pens to protest what they felt was a gross injustice. Although at the time I had no clue what the repercussions of their actions would be, I felt what could only be described as pride. The students had finally taking all of our harping about critical thinking, persuasive writing, the power of the press, and standing up for what you believe in, to heart.
Yes, not all of the administration was equally thrilled with their writing, especially when a local television station devoted a brief news item to the story. But the students have finally shown me that all of my nagging, pushing, and ranting about developing principles, making them known to the world, using the power of the media, and standing up for your rights is worth every second of my effort.
Fortunately, every one of those days is usually punctuated with little bright spots that remind me why I chose this career. It's a student who all of a sudden sees the light and writes a brilliant paper. Or a student who comes in to talk to you about personal issues, and then thanks you for making them feel better. At times it's finding the perfect book for a paper I'm writing, or having an entertaining and constructive class discussion.
But sometimes, and these days are very rare, something so wonderful happens that I wonder why I would ever question my career choice at all. Last week we had one of those days.
Besides teaching, one of my jobs here at the university is to serve as co-adviser to the student newspaper. Usually it involves no more than paying bills, overseeing meetings, interviewing new staff members, and appointing the new editors. But last week, my job suddenly took on a whole new angle.
It started when the PA to a high-up administrator came into my office, wanting to know if I had a copy of the newest issue of the newspaper. Apparently, the students had written a heavy critique of the administration, and the administrator wanted to read this article himself. Now the staff had forgotten to give me one, even though that is one of our rules. Students forgetting something, anything, is one of my pet peeves, so grumbling, I made my way downstairs to get my own copy. Ready to have a serious talk with our editor in chief, my anger slowly made way for astonishment when every single student that I ran into in the hallway was reading the newspaper. When I finally got my hands on a copy of the newspaper, I understood why. Two students had each written an editorial fiercely criticizing our administration for taking certain financial decisions. I don't believe the newspaper has ever published anything quite so critical, or anti-administration. Usually our student paper is an innocuous collection of stories about campus life, wire stories, music, book, and movie reviews, and a sports section, and steers clear of campus politics. Although our students are quite vocal about their issues with the school, they usually keep quiet towards administrators and most of the faculty. Not this time though. The students had finally taken a stand, and taken up their pens to protest what they felt was a gross injustice. Although at the time I had no clue what the repercussions of their actions would be, I felt what could only be described as pride. The students had finally taking all of our harping about critical thinking, persuasive writing, the power of the press, and standing up for what you believe in, to heart.
Yes, not all of the administration was equally thrilled with their writing, especially when a local television station devoted a brief news item to the story. But the students have finally shown me that all of my nagging, pushing, and ranting about developing principles, making them known to the world, using the power of the media, and standing up for your rights is worth every second of my effort.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Gratitude I
When moving overseas, there are always a lot of really "big" things to get used to. Like speaking another language, living in a different climate, and trying to figure out how on earth your new sprinkler system works. But sometimes it's the little things that seem to make a world of difference. Those small, seemingly insignificant differences that make you smile. If I were to think hard, I could probably list a hundred little things that have changed my life in a good way. But today I am going to limit myself to just a two: doors and public restrooms.
First of all: doors. I should have specified that: doors in public buildings. For those of you who have been to Europe, you are probably all to familiar with this little scenario. You walk up to a building, try to pull open the door, and can't. You peer in through the glass, and the fact that there are people inside staring back at you make you realize that, yes, they are open, and yes, you do look a bit odd. So you yank at the door again, only to find that it still won't budge. At this point you're starting to wonder if maybe the door has been accidentally locked. But then it dawns on you, maybe, just maybe, you need to push at the door. Carefully, you push against the door, and lo and behold, it opens. You have now learned your lesson, and make a mental note that in Europe, doors in public buildings open inwards. But then you come upon another building, only to go through the entire scenario again, only this time in reverse, because here the door opens outward. There is no logic to doors in public buildings in Europe. They open inwards and outwards, completely at random. I've always wondered who decides these things; the architect? The construction engineer? The man who screws in the hinges?
Anyway, you can imagine my delight at discovering that here in the US all doors open outwards. When you're on the outside of a public building, you have to pull at the door to get in. When you're trying to get out, you push. This is the same for all fifty states (or at least the twenty or so that I've been to), and I've been told it's actually a federal law. For a country which cannot agree on a national elementary curriculum, or national driver's license requirements, this is a little miracle. But a miracle nonetheless, because people like me no longer have to surreptitiously pull at a door to see which way it opens, we can just confidently yank at the handle, and never look like an idiot again!
Second, public restrooms.
I can't tell you how happy it makes me that here in the US there are a) public restrooms everywhere, and b) they are all free. I have yet to go into a store where there isn't a customer restroom easily available and for no charge. Honestly, and not to get abrasive here, but what is up with restrooms in Europe? I can't count the number of times I would walk into a store, even larger multiple-story clothing stores, and there is not a bathroom to be found. When you ask the employees, they look at you as though you have just absolutely lost your mind, and off-handedly point out that there is a McDonald's a few doors down. And then when you do find a bathroom (such as inside the afore-mentioned McDonald's), you have to pay to use it. Sometimes a quarter, but sometimes closer to a dollar. And there's no getting out of paying either: most of these restrooms have a stern-looking older man or woman man sitting at a tiny little table with nothing on it but a small saucer and a sign listing the amount you must pay, preferably before using the facilities. The man or women in charge pretend to be reading an old magazine, but should you try to sneak out without paying, they will call you back in. The worst part is, some restaurants sometimes even make you pay. So you're enjoying dinner, you want to use the restroom, and you have to pay to do so. It's a bizarre world.
So thanks to the man, or woman, who decided that all American customers have an unalienable right to life, liberty, pursuit of happiness, the free use of public restrooms, and one simple way to open a door.
First of all: doors. I should have specified that: doors in public buildings. For those of you who have been to Europe, you are probably all to familiar with this little scenario. You walk up to a building, try to pull open the door, and can't. You peer in through the glass, and the fact that there are people inside staring back at you make you realize that, yes, they are open, and yes, you do look a bit odd. So you yank at the door again, only to find that it still won't budge. At this point you're starting to wonder if maybe the door has been accidentally locked. But then it dawns on you, maybe, just maybe, you need to push at the door. Carefully, you push against the door, and lo and behold, it opens. You have now learned your lesson, and make a mental note that in Europe, doors in public buildings open inwards. But then you come upon another building, only to go through the entire scenario again, only this time in reverse, because here the door opens outward. There is no logic to doors in public buildings in Europe. They open inwards and outwards, completely at random. I've always wondered who decides these things; the architect? The construction engineer? The man who screws in the hinges?
Anyway, you can imagine my delight at discovering that here in the US all doors open outwards. When you're on the outside of a public building, you have to pull at the door to get in. When you're trying to get out, you push. This is the same for all fifty states (or at least the twenty or so that I've been to), and I've been told it's actually a federal law. For a country which cannot agree on a national elementary curriculum, or national driver's license requirements, this is a little miracle. But a miracle nonetheless, because people like me no longer have to surreptitiously pull at a door to see which way it opens, we can just confidently yank at the handle, and never look like an idiot again!
Second, public restrooms.
I can't tell you how happy it makes me that here in the US there are a) public restrooms everywhere, and b) they are all free. I have yet to go into a store where there isn't a customer restroom easily available and for no charge. Honestly, and not to get abrasive here, but what is up with restrooms in Europe? I can't count the number of times I would walk into a store, even larger multiple-story clothing stores, and there is not a bathroom to be found. When you ask the employees, they look at you as though you have just absolutely lost your mind, and off-handedly point out that there is a McDonald's a few doors down. And then when you do find a bathroom (such as inside the afore-mentioned McDonald's), you have to pay to use it. Sometimes a quarter, but sometimes closer to a dollar. And there's no getting out of paying either: most of these restrooms have a stern-looking older man or woman man sitting at a tiny little table with nothing on it but a small saucer and a sign listing the amount you must pay, preferably before using the facilities. The man or women in charge pretend to be reading an old magazine, but should you try to sneak out without paying, they will call you back in. The worst part is, some restaurants sometimes even make you pay. So you're enjoying dinner, you want to use the restroom, and you have to pay to do so. It's a bizarre world.
So thanks to the man, or woman, who decided that all American customers have an unalienable right to life, liberty, pursuit of happiness, the free use of public restrooms, and one simple way to open a door.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Racing through the blossoms
"This is the best smelling race I have ever been in."
When running a 15k race through the pouring rain, that is probably the last thing you expect your running mate to say. However, it happened to me early this morning, and I actually found myself agreeing. We were running along a tree-lined road, and the blossoms, pink, white, and purple, were dripping with rain, and exuding a lavender-lilac-cherry scent that not even the best potpourri or candle could compete with.
Now why would anyone voluntarily get up at 6am to spend almost an hour and a half pounding through the rain in clothes and shoes that are heavy with water? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how that happened either. A few months ago, after a very successful 5k (for me) and half marathon (for husband-dear), I decided it was high time to actually work towards a bigger race instead of just running bigger and bigger loops around the neighborhood. So we picked a 15K Cherry Blossom Run in early April, positively convinced the weather would be much better than our last run where we had icicles hanging off our hats.
Well, we were wrong. It started dawning on us this morning when we found ourselves getting up to lightning and thunder reverberating through the house, and rain beating on the windows. Now it was six in the morning, so we were hopeful the weather would improve. By the way, this getting up early thing is starting to get out hand. Anyway, coming from an incredibly rainy part of the world, I wasn't about to let some foul weather ruin my plans, and my husband believes that fair-weather athletes aren't real athletes, so we packed ourselves, a change dry clothes, and a cooler full of ice and water into my car. We happily hydroplaned down the highway, all the while noting that the weather wasn't exactly letting up. When we got to the location, the rain only intensified, and we dismally noticed that far fewer people than expected were showing up. But you know, you're there, you've got your bib pinned to your shirt, so you just slap on a cap, put on your waterproof jacket and go.
So that is how we found ourselves sloshing through the rain at 8 this morning.
The rain never really let up, but it did not take away from the beauty of the area we were running through. We ran up and down gently rolling hills, and along beautifully tree-lined streets. The rain had left everything green and blossoms were thick on the trees. At one point we actually ran beneath a canopy of fuschia flowers, which felt like something out of a fairytale.
Now I don't mean to get too romantic here. After all, at the end of the day you are still running a good nine miles, which it does still hurt, and the rain still has you soaked to the bone at the end of the run. But, admittedly, racing through the blossoms is a beautiful experience.
p.s. For those of you who wanted to know; I ran a 1:23:30 which earned me third place in my age category. Another award for my dresser!
When running a 15k race through the pouring rain, that is probably the last thing you expect your running mate to say. However, it happened to me early this morning, and I actually found myself agreeing. We were running along a tree-lined road, and the blossoms, pink, white, and purple, were dripping with rain, and exuding a lavender-lilac-cherry scent that not even the best potpourri or candle could compete with.
Now why would anyone voluntarily get up at 6am to spend almost an hour and a half pounding through the rain in clothes and shoes that are heavy with water? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how that happened either. A few months ago, after a very successful 5k (for me) and half marathon (for husband-dear), I decided it was high time to actually work towards a bigger race instead of just running bigger and bigger loops around the neighborhood. So we picked a 15K Cherry Blossom Run in early April, positively convinced the weather would be much better than our last run where we had icicles hanging off our hats.
Well, we were wrong. It started dawning on us this morning when we found ourselves getting up to lightning and thunder reverberating through the house, and rain beating on the windows. Now it was six in the morning, so we were hopeful the weather would improve. By the way, this getting up early thing is starting to get out hand. Anyway, coming from an incredibly rainy part of the world, I wasn't about to let some foul weather ruin my plans, and my husband believes that fair-weather athletes aren't real athletes, so we packed ourselves, a change dry clothes, and a cooler full of ice and water into my car. We happily hydroplaned down the highway, all the while noting that the weather wasn't exactly letting up. When we got to the location, the rain only intensified, and we dismally noticed that far fewer people than expected were showing up. But you know, you're there, you've got your bib pinned to your shirt, so you just slap on a cap, put on your waterproof jacket and go.
So that is how we found ourselves sloshing through the rain at 8 this morning.
The rain never really let up, but it did not take away from the beauty of the area we were running through. We ran up and down gently rolling hills, and along beautifully tree-lined streets. The rain had left everything green and blossoms were thick on the trees. At one point we actually ran beneath a canopy of fuschia flowers, which felt like something out of a fairytale.
Now I don't mean to get too romantic here. After all, at the end of the day you are still running a good nine miles, which it does still hurt, and the rain still has you soaked to the bone at the end of the run. But, admittedly, racing through the blossoms is a beautiful experience.
p.s. For those of you who wanted to know; I ran a 1:23:30 which earned me third place in my age category. Another award for my dresser!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Over Brinta, drop, en terrasjes
Terwijl ik op een student wacht, die alweer te laat is voor een afspraak, wilde ik toch nog even een stukje in het Nederlands krabbelen. Mijn broer belde vanmiddag tijdens de lunch, en daardoor kreeg ik de smaak voor het Nederlands weer te pakken!
Zoals ik al eerder schreef, heb ik een lange reistijd naar mijn werk. Naast luisteren naar de radio en telefoneren (ja mam, met bluetooth dus handsfree hoor! :)), heb ik ook veel tijd om na te denken. En vanochtend zat ik te denken wat ik nu, naast familie, echt mis uit Nederland.
Natuurlijk was "drop" het eerste dat in me opkwam. Ik ben een enorme snoepkont, en ik mis de Jamin echt enorm. De bakken met tikkels, met die bruine boerderijdrop, met dubbelzout...hhmmm.. Ik weet dat je deze ook online kan bestellen, maar kieskeurig dat ik ben, zijn het nooit de goede dropjes. Daarnaast ben ik ook nog eens een zuinigerd die meer dan een paar dollar voor een pondspak drop al snel te veel vindt:)
En Brinta. Vroeger toen ik klein was, was er een reclame op TV van een man die eerst een bod brinta at, en toen ging hardlopen. Ik zou bijna gaan roepen dat televisie dus wel effect heeft, want afgezien van het feit dat ik geen man ben, kan ik werkelijk zeggen dat ik de verwezelijking ben van dat spotje. Zonder brinta begint mijn ochtend gewoon niet goed. Ik moet namelijk een stevig ontbijt hebben, dus dan vallen cereal al af, maar kauwen is echt teveel moeite. Dus vandaar de Brinta.
Oh ja, en laat ik de pakjes Conimex niet vergeten. Godzijdank hebben we een hele gevarieerde commissary die zo nu en dan Conimex producten heeft, en die ik dan meteen per dozijn insla.
Maar goed, dit zijn allemaal producten, dingen waar je zonder kan leren leven. Als ik een poos geen drop heb gehad (zoals nu), dan mis ik het bijna niet meer; ook al krijg ik er wel weer zin in door al dit schrijven. En voor dingen zoals Brinta en Conimex zijn vervangers te vinden. Zo las ik laatst dat Cream of Wheat een soort Bambix lijkte zijn (ook goed). En ook al passeerden deze producten zeker als eerste mijn gedachten, wat toch vooral in mij op kwam waren dingen die je hier in het zuiden in ieder geval nooit echt zult vinden. Dingen die ik, misschien, wel altijd zal blijven missen. Ook al hoop ik van niet natuurlijk.
Het kunnen fietsen of lopen naar de stad bijvoorbeeld. En dan bedoel ik niet naar een shopping plaza of strip mall, maar echt naar "de stad", waar je dan al lopend bij -alle- winkels kan komen. Hier moet je toch altijd weer de auto in, en dat vind ik toch veel meer moeite dan even op de fiets springen (ook al zal menig Amerikaan het vast met mij oneens zijn).
Afspreken met mensen in de stad is ook zoiets. Ik heb hier nog nooit met een vriendin in de Target of de BX afgesproken. Het is gewoon niet zo gezellig om samen door de gangen van de lokale Walmart te struinen als het is om door een straat met winkels en bomen en buitenlucht te banjeren. Ik weet dat steden zoals Boston en Georgetown dit wel hebben, en heel soms ben ik daar ook wel een beetje jaloers op.
Wat ze hier ook bijna niet kennen is buiten zitten bij een restaurant of een coffeehouse. Wij hebben laatst ontdekt dat een Starbucks een waar terras heeft, en dat ook de lokale Moe's een buiten eetgelegenheid aanbiedt. Meteen een reden voor mij om daar naar toe te willen. Ik vind persoonlijk dat er weinig dingen heerlijker zijn dan op een terrasje zitten en dan de wereld aan je voorbij zien gaan. Ik snap dat het hier in de zinderende zomerhitte eigenlijk niet te doen is, maar zoals nu zou het ideaal zijn. Maar de restaurants die het doen zijn op een hand te tellen. En als je dan buiten gaat zitten, dan word je toch wel drie keer gevraagd of je niet liever naar binnen wilt, want daar is de AC aan. Buitenzitten dat doen ze hier blijkbaar liever niet. Manlief en ik trekken ook altijd de aandacht van de hele buurt als wij op zaterdag avond lekker buiten in de voortuin gaan zitten. Glaasje wijn er bij, en onze avond kan niet meer stuk. Mensen komen allemaal langs om te kletsen, maar erbij zitten, dat doen ze niet. Misschien als we maar lang genoeg volhouden, dat ze vanzelf wel overstag gaan.
In Europa stond ik er eigenlijk nooit zo bij stil dat dit zo'n vast onderdeel was van mijn leven. Lekker rode wangen van het fietsen, of in het prille lentezonnetje op een terras zitten. Het zijn dingen die ik hier waarschijnlijk met moeite zal vinden. En soms, heel soms, word je daar een beetje melancholisch van.
Zoals ik al eerder schreef, heb ik een lange reistijd naar mijn werk. Naast luisteren naar de radio en telefoneren (ja mam, met bluetooth dus handsfree hoor! :)), heb ik ook veel tijd om na te denken. En vanochtend zat ik te denken wat ik nu, naast familie, echt mis uit Nederland.
Natuurlijk was "drop" het eerste dat in me opkwam. Ik ben een enorme snoepkont, en ik mis de Jamin echt enorm. De bakken met tikkels, met die bruine boerderijdrop, met dubbelzout...hhmmm.. Ik weet dat je deze ook online kan bestellen, maar kieskeurig dat ik ben, zijn het nooit de goede dropjes. Daarnaast ben ik ook nog eens een zuinigerd die meer dan een paar dollar voor een pondspak drop al snel te veel vindt:)
En Brinta. Vroeger toen ik klein was, was er een reclame op TV van een man die eerst een bod brinta at, en toen ging hardlopen. Ik zou bijna gaan roepen dat televisie dus wel effect heeft, want afgezien van het feit dat ik geen man ben, kan ik werkelijk zeggen dat ik de verwezelijking ben van dat spotje. Zonder brinta begint mijn ochtend gewoon niet goed. Ik moet namelijk een stevig ontbijt hebben, dus dan vallen cereal al af, maar kauwen is echt teveel moeite. Dus vandaar de Brinta.
Oh ja, en laat ik de pakjes Conimex niet vergeten. Godzijdank hebben we een hele gevarieerde commissary die zo nu en dan Conimex producten heeft, en die ik dan meteen per dozijn insla.
Maar goed, dit zijn allemaal producten, dingen waar je zonder kan leren leven. Als ik een poos geen drop heb gehad (zoals nu), dan mis ik het bijna niet meer; ook al krijg ik er wel weer zin in door al dit schrijven. En voor dingen zoals Brinta en Conimex zijn vervangers te vinden. Zo las ik laatst dat Cream of Wheat een soort Bambix lijkte zijn (ook goed). En ook al passeerden deze producten zeker als eerste mijn gedachten, wat toch vooral in mij op kwam waren dingen die je hier in het zuiden in ieder geval nooit echt zult vinden. Dingen die ik, misschien, wel altijd zal blijven missen. Ook al hoop ik van niet natuurlijk.
Het kunnen fietsen of lopen naar de stad bijvoorbeeld. En dan bedoel ik niet naar een shopping plaza of strip mall, maar echt naar "de stad", waar je dan al lopend bij -alle- winkels kan komen. Hier moet je toch altijd weer de auto in, en dat vind ik toch veel meer moeite dan even op de fiets springen (ook al zal menig Amerikaan het vast met mij oneens zijn).
Afspreken met mensen in de stad is ook zoiets. Ik heb hier nog nooit met een vriendin in de Target of de BX afgesproken. Het is gewoon niet zo gezellig om samen door de gangen van de lokale Walmart te struinen als het is om door een straat met winkels en bomen en buitenlucht te banjeren. Ik weet dat steden zoals Boston en Georgetown dit wel hebben, en heel soms ben ik daar ook wel een beetje jaloers op.
Wat ze hier ook bijna niet kennen is buiten zitten bij een restaurant of een coffeehouse. Wij hebben laatst ontdekt dat een Starbucks een waar terras heeft, en dat ook de lokale Moe's een buiten eetgelegenheid aanbiedt. Meteen een reden voor mij om daar naar toe te willen. Ik vind persoonlijk dat er weinig dingen heerlijker zijn dan op een terrasje zitten en dan de wereld aan je voorbij zien gaan. Ik snap dat het hier in de zinderende zomerhitte eigenlijk niet te doen is, maar zoals nu zou het ideaal zijn. Maar de restaurants die het doen zijn op een hand te tellen. En als je dan buiten gaat zitten, dan word je toch wel drie keer gevraagd of je niet liever naar binnen wilt, want daar is de AC aan. Buitenzitten dat doen ze hier blijkbaar liever niet. Manlief en ik trekken ook altijd de aandacht van de hele buurt als wij op zaterdag avond lekker buiten in de voortuin gaan zitten. Glaasje wijn er bij, en onze avond kan niet meer stuk. Mensen komen allemaal langs om te kletsen, maar erbij zitten, dat doen ze niet. Misschien als we maar lang genoeg volhouden, dat ze vanzelf wel overstag gaan.
In Europa stond ik er eigenlijk nooit zo bij stil dat dit zo'n vast onderdeel was van mijn leven. Lekker rode wangen van het fietsen, of in het prille lentezonnetje op een terras zitten. Het zijn dingen die ik hier waarschijnlijk met moeite zal vinden. En soms, heel soms, word je daar een beetje melancholisch van.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Niceties and nuisances
"Hey, how are you?"
"I'm pretty good, happy the week's almost over, how are you?"
"Oh, not bad at all. Everything OK over at the office?"
"Sure, yeah, great."
"Cool. Listen, I was calling to see if you could..."
This little conversation is one I have at least a few times each day. Whereas at my old job I would just call someone and immediately address the matter at hand, here all requests, large or small, convenient or inconvenient require a nice little introduction. Without that little introduction, there's a small chance of getting anything done.
So up in the North, or in Europe, a conversation with a secretary about requiring a toner will probably go something like this:
"Hi, my printer is out of toner, do you have a new one?"
"You have an HP (insert model number here) right?"
"Yes."
"No, sorry, we just gave our last one away, but they are on order."
"Huh. How long will it take for the new ones to come in?"
"About a week. I can shoot you an e-mail when they come in."
"Great, thanks. I appreciate it."
Down here, I had a conversation about that exact same topic not too long ago, and it went something like this:
"Hi, how are you doing today?"
"Oh, I am great, the week is almost over so I am one happy camper."
"That's great."
"How are you?"
"Fine, yep, happy the weekend's on its way. "
"Good"
"So, I was wondering, my printer is pretty much out of toner, do you have a new one for me?"
"What kind of printer do you have?"
"(insert printer type and number here)"
"Hhmm,...I would need to go and look"
(insert long pause)
"No, we're all out I think."
"Oh. Hey listen, I really need one though. Do you think you could order them for me?"
"I don't know. I think so. Yeah, I guess so."
"OK, that would be great. When would you have them?"
"Oh, I don't know. It depends."
"How long does it usually take?"
"You know, I'm not sure. We got so much going on down here, sometimes I can't keep track of everything."
"I bet!"
"I want to say a week or two, but I really just don't know. Let me ask Ms. M"
(pause)
"No, she doesn't know either. It's just one of those unpredictable things you know!"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. So could you let me know when it comes in?"
"Sure honey. Could you e-mail me the name and type again?"
"Of course, and thank you so much."
"No problem."
As you can see, it's not just the extreme amount of niceties, but also the roundabout way in which everything is taken care of. Down in the south, people like to take their time. In everything. You don't just come out and ask something, you show interest in the other party first, build a relationship and then phrase your request, always keeping the other person's interests in mind. If anyone has ever read a Jane Austen novel; living down here sometimes reminds me of the conversations in her books; they're very polite, very charming, very long, and not always to the point.
And you know, when dealing with people in a social setting, it's fine. You quickly get used to having to address things in a less direct manner, and having to frame everything in a bed of politeness. I would even go as far as to argue that in a society where things become more and more fast-paced, it's good to slow down and show some respect and friendliness to the person you're talking to. And the abundant friendliness is very comforting somehow.
But it's when it permeates into the work setting that it becomes slightly annoying at times.
In Europe, if someone would have told me they had no idea how long the toners would take to come in, I would further emphasize that that meant that I would be without a printer for an indefinite amount of time, and that that is not really acceptable. Here, I need to express understanding of the other person's plight if I want them to do anything for me in the future. Sure, you could tell them that this inefficiency on their part is causing you problems, and the other party wouldn't say anything about it to your face. They would just smile and carry on. That's the thing; people down here are always nice and friendly, even if they don't like you. So you will never know if you committed a social gaffe. But when you do, and you cross that unspoken line of what southerns consider rude, they will be very unlikely to ever help you out again. They may be slow to return calls, not smile as much, and stall any request if they feel like it.
But hey, they'll be nice about it:)
"I'm pretty good, happy the week's almost over, how are you?"
"Oh, not bad at all. Everything OK over at the office?"
"Sure, yeah, great."
"Cool. Listen, I was calling to see if you could..."
This little conversation is one I have at least a few times each day. Whereas at my old job I would just call someone and immediately address the matter at hand, here all requests, large or small, convenient or inconvenient require a nice little introduction. Without that little introduction, there's a small chance of getting anything done.
So up in the North, or in Europe, a conversation with a secretary about requiring a toner will probably go something like this:
"Hi, my printer is out of toner, do you have a new one?"
"You have an HP (insert model number here) right?"
"Yes."
"No, sorry, we just gave our last one away, but they are on order."
"Huh. How long will it take for the new ones to come in?"
"About a week. I can shoot you an e-mail when they come in."
"Great, thanks. I appreciate it."
Down here, I had a conversation about that exact same topic not too long ago, and it went something like this:
"Hi, how are you doing today?"
"Oh, I am great, the week is almost over so I am one happy camper."
"That's great."
"How are you?"
"Fine, yep, happy the weekend's on its way. "
"Good"
"So, I was wondering, my printer is pretty much out of toner, do you have a new one for me?"
"What kind of printer do you have?"
"(insert printer type and number here)"
"Hhmm,...I would need to go and look"
(insert long pause)
"No, we're all out I think."
"Oh. Hey listen, I really need one though. Do you think you could order them for me?"
"I don't know. I think so. Yeah, I guess so."
"OK, that would be great. When would you have them?"
"Oh, I don't know. It depends."
"How long does it usually take?"
"You know, I'm not sure. We got so much going on down here, sometimes I can't keep track of everything."
"I bet!"
"I want to say a week or two, but I really just don't know. Let me ask Ms. M"
(pause)
"No, she doesn't know either. It's just one of those unpredictable things you know!"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. So could you let me know when it comes in?"
"Sure honey. Could you e-mail me the name and type again?"
"Of course, and thank you so much."
"No problem."
As you can see, it's not just the extreme amount of niceties, but also the roundabout way in which everything is taken care of. Down in the south, people like to take their time. In everything. You don't just come out and ask something, you show interest in the other party first, build a relationship and then phrase your request, always keeping the other person's interests in mind. If anyone has ever read a Jane Austen novel; living down here sometimes reminds me of the conversations in her books; they're very polite, very charming, very long, and not always to the point.
And you know, when dealing with people in a social setting, it's fine. You quickly get used to having to address things in a less direct manner, and having to frame everything in a bed of politeness. I would even go as far as to argue that in a society where things become more and more fast-paced, it's good to slow down and show some respect and friendliness to the person you're talking to. And the abundant friendliness is very comforting somehow.
But it's when it permeates into the work setting that it becomes slightly annoying at times.
In Europe, if someone would have told me they had no idea how long the toners would take to come in, I would further emphasize that that meant that I would be without a printer for an indefinite amount of time, and that that is not really acceptable. Here, I need to express understanding of the other person's plight if I want them to do anything for me in the future. Sure, you could tell them that this inefficiency on their part is causing you problems, and the other party wouldn't say anything about it to your face. They would just smile and carry on. That's the thing; people down here are always nice and friendly, even if they don't like you. So you will never know if you committed a social gaffe. But when you do, and you cross that unspoken line of what southerns consider rude, they will be very unlikely to ever help you out again. They may be slow to return calls, not smile as much, and stall any request if they feel like it.
But hey, they'll be nice about it:)
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Gone Scarlett
"..and the southern girls, with the way they talk, they knock me out when I'm down there".
The Beach Boys sure knew what they were talking about - I have lived in various states in the US, and know people from all over the country, but there is no accent like a true southern one.
My ambition in life at this point is to confuse people into thinking I'm a local (yes, I like to have realistic goals in life). All of my life I have had a fairly stable Northeastern accent (minus the "pahk the cahr" tick), and have managed to have people assume I come from some place in New England. But having been here for a while, I've decided that I like the way they talk so much better. I don't know about it knocking me out, but it's close.
It's not just the accent; it's far more than that. For one thing, the intonation is completely different from anything you hear up north. Here in the south, everything seems to be a question; "I'm going to go ahead and file those forms now?". The danger in that is that as an insensitive non-southerner, you assume that people actually want you to respond to what appears to be a question, and so you end up telling people what to do when all they were looking for was an "uhuh". Directness is not a quality that is much valued down here, something I have had to discover the hard way :) (but more about that some other time)
And how about "y'all"? I could write a whole page about the practicality of that term. Up north I would always say "you guys", but that just sounds odd when talking to a group of girls, and then what do you say? "You gals"?. So, no, "y'all" is a wonderfully useful term that was part of my daily vocabulary within a week. And the best part? No one can quite seem to agree on whether it's plural or singular, so you can use it for individuals as well as groups. And you're free to play with it too; "all y'all" (all of you guys) and "y'alls"(you people's - possessive) are perfectly acceptable variations.
The south is also known for its colorful expressions, many of which I had never heard living up north. How about "she's meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes"? Or "I'm in it for spit and sticks" (spek en bonen), and "uglier than a mud fence".
But there are some things I'm not too sure about; how about "across-t" for "across" and "heighTH" for "height". Call me snooty, but to me that sounds just plain wrong.
In spite of those few things that I don't care, the drawl wins me over every time. And I do think I'm getting there. The other day I had two people ask me if I was from the midwest...I'm not quite there yet, but my accent is slowly moving south...yeehaw!
"Y'all better come back now, ya hear?"
The Beach Boys sure knew what they were talking about - I have lived in various states in the US, and know people from all over the country, but there is no accent like a true southern one.
My ambition in life at this point is to confuse people into thinking I'm a local (yes, I like to have realistic goals in life). All of my life I have had a fairly stable Northeastern accent (minus the "pahk the cahr" tick), and have managed to have people assume I come from some place in New England. But having been here for a while, I've decided that I like the way they talk so much better. I don't know about it knocking me out, but it's close.
It's not just the accent; it's far more than that. For one thing, the intonation is completely different from anything you hear up north. Here in the south, everything seems to be a question; "I'm going to go ahead and file those forms now?". The danger in that is that as an insensitive non-southerner, you assume that people actually want you to respond to what appears to be a question, and so you end up telling people what to do when all they were looking for was an "uhuh". Directness is not a quality that is much valued down here, something I have had to discover the hard way :) (but more about that some other time)
And how about "y'all"? I could write a whole page about the practicality of that term. Up north I would always say "you guys", but that just sounds odd when talking to a group of girls, and then what do you say? "You gals"?. So, no, "y'all" is a wonderfully useful term that was part of my daily vocabulary within a week. And the best part? No one can quite seem to agree on whether it's plural or singular, so you can use it for individuals as well as groups. And you're free to play with it too; "all y'all" (all of you guys) and "y'alls"(you people's - possessive) are perfectly acceptable variations.
The south is also known for its colorful expressions, many of which I had never heard living up north. How about "she's meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes"? Or "I'm in it for spit and sticks" (spek en bonen), and "uglier than a mud fence".
But there are some things I'm not too sure about; how about "across-t" for "across" and "heighTH" for "height". Call me snooty, but to me that sounds just plain wrong.
In spite of those few things that I don't care, the drawl wins me over every time. And I do think I'm getting there. The other day I had two people ask me if I was from the midwest...I'm not quite there yet, but my accent is slowly moving south...yeehaw!
"Y'all better come back now, ya hear?"
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