Across, Underneath the Grocery (An Unhinged Number of Green Beans)

You Can't Always Get What You Want... But You Get What You Need (maybe)

Going shopping here has proven to be an adventure. Big picture getting groceries is easy and straightforward, but I would describe the process of finding a specific item as chaotic at best. At the risk of being melodramatic and diving fully into main-character syndrome, I often feel like a bumbling, sweaty YA protagonist who has interpreted their vague instructions all wrong but everything still manages to work out for them because the plot demands it. 

For example, we've really wanted a rug for the past two months. The floor is polished tile and when we sat on the long part of the sectional, the two pieces would slowly separate until you had to do an awkward half crunch, half roll to get out of the crack and push the couch back together. Plus Humboldt's toys and scratchers slide around on the tile and he couldn't get a good purchase to use them.

So I did a little research and found a few rug places. As I've mentioned before, places here often don't have websites or the information on Google isn't up to date. But I found a place called Nobel Rug and Carpet that had recent Google reviews and pictures of rugs on the results.  

When I got there, the outside of the building was advertising for hair extensions, so I started to get suspicious, but the building is directly off of the highway, so they could've just sold the ad space. I walked in the door and tell the people who looked up that I want to buy a rug and they looked at me like I was out of my damn mind. 

"Rug? You want a... rug? Here?" 

So apparently they didn't sell rugs there. I'm not sure if they ever did. I did clarify that I was looking for Nobel Rugs and Carpets, and they said that was them but they don't sell rugs and carpets anymore. I guess they closed that part of the business. Is it actually just a money laundering front? Who knows? 

One of the men did drop a pin in a map, and said I could find rugs there (and this is a direct quote) "Across, underneath the grocery." 

So I obviously didn't know what that meant but I figured I'd see if those directions made more sense when I got there and they... didn't. Not immediately at least. 

The pin on the map was to a grocery store I had never been to, and it was huge–5 stories! I took a look around and got a few items that I hadn't been able to find anywhere else and noted that they sold bulk soy sauce for $10 cheaper than I previously paid for it, so I will call that a win. I followed the signs that promised me wine but there was no wine to be found anywhere. 

Everywhere I went I asked people where I could buy a rug and just never got a clear answer. The store did sell prayer rugs. So after being directed up and down the stairs by various well-meaning but factually wrong people, I gave up and checked out. But as luck would have it, my cashier knew that the furniture division was across the street. 

And lo and behold, you had to go to the carpark UNDER the grocery and the furniture store was ACROSS the street. So that guy at the not-rug store was correct that what I was looking for was "across, underneath the grocery." Thanks, man.

There were rugs there. There weren't any I was interested in buying but that's okay.

So that day I went out for a rug and came back with groceries. Another time I went out looking for a rug and came back with Tennesse whiskey and Aperol (tough to find here! so a very exciting score.)

As an aside, this search for rugs took me to a lot of furniture stores and the decor style in most of these places seems like it would be at home in an early aughts McMansion. This made finding a rug tough because when I did find one, it was not the decor style we were going for. 

Kevin had very similar adventures looking for a new cord for our immersion blender which we somehow forgot to bring with us. One electronics store was actually just a field and the other was closed (or something else similarly unhelpful.) We even tried ordering one online, but it wasn't the right size. 

However, just this week, Kevin went out looking for an anniversary present for me (he was looking for a pair of leather sandals for the leather anni.) And of course, he completely struck out because that store also didn't exist but there happened to be an electronics store nearby which had the cord we needed! After that he tried to get a new bank card... no luck but it was right next to a RUG STORE! That had exactly two rugs that didn't look like an ornate Persian rug (those can be lovely but not right for the vibe we have) and we finally got a rug. 

And the last example of this scenario: it was my turn to go out and try to find sandals for Kevin, and I came back with powdered sugar and black beans. Black beans are particularly tough to find here, and I think if the school were going to start a prison-style black market, black beans would be our cigarettes. (There are a lot of vegetarians here I think.)

The other thing that makes shopping here more adventurous is that inventory can be really unreliable. Some products can be in stock for months and then be out of stock for months. For most items, there might be other brands available. But we were told several times that if there's something you really like/need, you should just clear the shelf. I've never bought literally all of something because that feels rude but I have stocked up heavily when I've seen particular products that don't have a workable substitute, like Kewpie Mayo (ifkyk!) 

And this is what led to me buying a truly unhinged number of canned green beans. For those of you who don't know, Humboldt was overweight because our first vet told us the wrong amount of food to feed him. This led to another vet telling us to cut his wet food with green beans because they are filling but low in calories so now every night, he eats a little bit of green beans mashed up with wet food. 

But we didn't realize that canned green beans aren't common here, so we only bought like 7 cans when we first arrived. That lasted a while but we ran out and we were supplementing with mixed veggie cans. But one day they actually had canned green beans, so I bought 23 cans (after already having discovered that black beans were also in stock, so there were a lot of cans.) I felt like (and was) the most ridiculous person in the whole world because explaining to the bemused cashier that the 23 cans of green beans were for my cat would not, in fact, help my case for normalcy.

The rotating stock, plus my unfamiliarity with brands means that I feel like I have to scour every inch of the shelves to make sure I don't miss a hidden gem and read a lot of ingredient labels to figure out what's going on with new-to-me products.

Adding me to looking odd in grocery stores, I took some pictures of one of the grocery stores if you're curious about what a standard store here is like. It's not the most gripping content but I did throw in a few bonus oddities for intrigue. 

If you're not sticking around for grocery store content, I don't blame you. If you are, please follow this link and play the remix no one asked for because this song plays every time I go to my most frequently visited grocery store.

I do not know what this is but I was intrigued. Do you know?? 

 Not a rug store

There is a man in this billboard. Working? Hanging Out? No safety equipment was visible!

Is My Tongue Still in My Mouth?

Nigerians will look me straight in the eye and tell me that one of the spiciest dishes I’ve ever attempted to eat isn’t spicy; it’s normal. The first time that happened, I thought this guy was messing with me. Then I thought maybe it was a macho thing. I told him several times that this catfish, while delicious, was incredibly spicy for me. He finally asked the woman who had hosted the party if the catfish was spicy, and she turned to me and asked “for her,” pointing at me. I nodded. And she confirmed that yes I would find that dish very spicy. 

He felt terrible. He wasn’t messing with me or anything. It really just was a normal dish for him, and he apologized profusely. I was not offended, but I was confused about how he didn’t think it was spicy at all. 

I didn’t think much of it except to laugh when I told Kevin about it later. But then it happened again and again. People earnestly telling me I won’t find this dish spicy. I just don’t even ask anymore and assume it will be very hot. That scene in Ted Lasso where he’s eating Indian spicy food, that is me when I’m eating at a Nigerian restaurant.

The dish in question is a grilled catfish that they cover in this pepper sauce. (I've been trying to add a link here but it's not working so, https://www.thepretendchef.com/baked-catfish-point-and-kill/#google_vignette) If you follow that link you’ll notice it calls for 200g of scotch bonnet peppers which are 40 times hotter than jalapeños plus the same amount of cayenne. It tastes amazing, but I have to dig past the spiced skin so that I’m only eating the white flesh to have any hope. And even then, I can only take a few bites. That is a normal heat level for the Nigerian dishes I’ve had so far.

One of the best places to find local food is a bush bar. These are roughly what the street food scene around here is. I’m not sure if the local bush bar has an official name, but everyone at the school calls it the Rusty Shed (they named it after the description of the “bathroom” so I’ll let you imagine that.)

It’s the kind of place that has whatever they have for alcohol and food and you can take that or nothing. Which isn’t to say that there aren’t options. There might be 2-3 kinds of mostly identical-tasting lagers, wine that’s been open for who knows how long and a few spirits. They probably have gin, Jameson and maybe vodka. A few people, including Kevin, have learned the hard way that ordering vodka can occasionally go terribly wrong because they ordered a vodka tonic and were served chocolate vodka. 

Food-wise there is usually some kind of suya, which is West Africa’s meat-on-a-stick option. It could be goat, chicken, or beef from what I’ve seen. Again I don’t think you usually get to choose which one at a bush bar. I loved the goat suya we had and went in for seconds despite the heat. The French fries (“chips”) made from either yams or white potatoes that are also a staple really help cut the heat. Indomie is also typically available. Indomie is a brand of instant noodles but also the name of the dish. Instead of making it into soup like ramen, they drain the water, mix in peas and carrots and serve it with a plain omelet. It is simple but effective. 

The Rusty Shed

You get Hero and Heineken if you're lucky and Trophy and Star if you're not.

We have been going out to eat on Fridays and checking out different spots. We went to a Chinese restaurant, West Africa’s first craft brewery, Bature, and food trucks to name a few. And this is where I start to struggle with how to describe places. The local food and bush bars are easier because I don’t really have much to compare them to, but these other places I do. But I've been reflecting on fair or helpful that ultimately is. 

Bature Brewing

Kevin, gazing longing at the free samples he's about to receive.

This is actually from a tea shop I visited.

It’s not like I can’t tell you about them in a basic way: the veggie dumplings and ginger chicken were great at the Chinese place. The rice was not cooked in a rice cooker and was trash. The brewery was great compared to the other beer here but “meh” on a broader scale, and the food trucks were “normal.” It was like any other food truck place I’d been to. Pretty lights, little swings and cute arches where you’re meant to take photos to post on Instagram. The food trucks have a mixture of local food, fusion food, desserts, and booze/mocktails. 

So again I’m back to this concept of normal and what even is normal? Especially since I’m trying to tell you all about it. My impulse is to show all the ways this place is similar or relatable to what is “normal” for me and likely for you. And to a certain extent, I think that is useful.  In the Western zeitgeist, “Africa” is still some monolithic, mysterious, vaguely backward place that we know very little about except when something bad happens that gets a few minutes of airtime on the news. And the truth of a place rarely resembles the way it’s portrayed in the 24-hour news media.

But I really don’t want to try to only validate Abuja in my mind and in yours because of how it is like the West. If I do that, then any way it is different automatically becomes a fault when there’s not necessarily anything wrong with the difference. Abuja doesn’t need to be like San Francisco or Berlin to be worthwhile. There is more than one right way to do things. 

So this is the needle I’m trying to thread while talking about life here. I want to make it feel relatable because so rarely do we hear that narrative. But I also don’t want to only uplift or celebrate the parts of the place or culture that are Westernized or Western adjacent. 

While I’m writing, I’d love to hear how you think I’m doing at this task. I’m certainly not perfect and my biases will undoubtedly come through. In my last post, Michelle and I were talking and she was like “hey you described this thing as ‘weirdly modern’ and that’s not cool or the best way to say that” (I’m paraphrasing; she was more nuanced.) And I completely understood and appreciated the feedback. 

So now that I’ve gotten all meta on you and taken this to a place that I am really unsure of how to wrap up effectively, I’ll leave you there until the next time that inspiration strikes. 

Thanks for reading!

Just Honk!

 

Just as I was getting ready to sit down and figure out how to start this blog, Humboldt came up to me and demanded his mid-morning cuddles. I am luxuriating in the almost infinite time to do just that–cuddle Humboldt, bake, read, exercise, or really whatever strikes my fancy. 

I initially didn't think I would have a blog when we were on our way over here but I've understandably had enough people asking what life is like that I figured this was the easiest way to tell people. So this isn't meant to be a travel blog or anything more than just me talking about my life to friends and family in a way that may or may not be very organized. If you want to be my blog editor, let me know. :) Or if you just notice a typo you can message me.

My honest answer to what's my life like here is that it's pretty normal. It honestly feels similar to when we moved to Seattle in 2020, and I didn't have a job but without the pandemic trauma and existential crisis about what I was going to do with my life. 

Also similar to life in the US is that we are still in employer-provided housing. There have only been about 2.5 years of my life adult when I actually had to pay rent, and we're just continuing on this trend. The little to no rent is very nice but that means you also basically have to take what you are given and live in and amongst all your coworkers and that is generally really fun but can also go sour really quickly. There is even a housing committee here and just that term will send chills down the spine of anyone who worked for NatureBridge pre-pandemic.  

This is definitely the nicest employer-provided housing I've had. It's pretty up-to-date, furnished, and big. We have 3 bedrooms and 2.5 bathrooms. The furnishings are definitely sad, beige and the few decor items we do have do not match each other, but there is a craft fair at school next week and then Nigeria day a few weeks after that where I think we will be able to buy a lot of interesting art and decor. Whoever was picking out material for the headboard, chairs, and couch (it's all the same fabric) asked themselves what would a cat like to scratch the most and then bought that, so keeping Humboldt from scratching has been a truly Sisyphean task. But we have a wrap-around balcony... so life balances out. 

For the record, I loathe these curtains but this window faces the school so curtains that fully obscure are very necessary.

I haven't been able to get out and about in Abuja a ton until recently because we had a very limited amount of local money when we first arrived, and our international credit cards aren't reliable here. Credit cards do not really exist here and the only places that take them are the businesses around embassies and the school. So I had to conserve the cash they gave us for essentials to make sure we could buy groceries. 

Now that we've been paid into our local bank account, I can finally check out a few more places without worrying about not being able to afford it! 

My overall impression is that Abuja is a place that is still culturally defining itself. Abuja was created to be the capital in 1991, so it's still a young city, and even the people who've only been here 5 years talk about how much it's changed and grown in just that time. Most of what there is to do here is go out to eat and check out various malls and markets. There are a few museums that I'm excited to check out. Plus I'm sure there are hidden gems that haven't made it on the trip-advisor type sites. 

I've learned that even people who were born or have lived in Abuja most of their lives most often won't say they are "from" Abuja. They are from where their family and ancestors are from. I've enjoyed chatting with the Uber drivers here about their home state and learning about a few of the different regions. 

All of this isn't to say that everything here is the same; that is clearly not the case. One of the first differences you'd notice is the traffic. It seems that you can do basically whatever you want or need to while driving as long as you honk first. Do you want to drive on the wrong side of the road? Just honk. Going to cut across 5 lanes of traffic in 100 feet? Just honk. Passing someone? Honk. There's a herd of goats cutting across the major highway? You guessed it, honk! It's all fine. 

Things like getting a bank account and SIM card also take a lot longer, which is unsurprising, but parts of it are also more modern than the US. We had to apply for a National Identity Number (like a social security numbers but more useful/integrated into daily life) before we could get a bank account or even a phone number. We spent hours and hours on multiple days doing immigration and bank tasks. The woman helping us at the bank was incredibly salty about something and would just get up and leave for 5-10 minutes for no discernible reason in the middle of helping people. 

But then once we were actually ready to get a debit card, we walked up to the atm-style machine, entered our account number, scanned our thumbprint and were done in 2 minutes, rather than waiting days and days for a card to get mailed to us. 

With a similar juxtaposition, a lot of places don't have websites or don't have very useful websites. But you can just text them on Whatsapp or Instagram, and they'll get back to you immediately. You can actually order from a lot of places via text on Whatsapp. You tell them what you want and they text you a receipt which you can use to transfer from your bank account directly into their account (It's even easier than Venmo or Zelle.) Then you just send them a photo of the receipt, and they'll dispatch a driver to deliver it to you same day. So take that amazon. 

That's all for now. If you're reading this, I miss you! Call me.

Sunshine and Sea Salt

Summer ended today. For me, summer ended as a group of friends dropped me off at another friend's apartment so I could catch a flight early the next morning. Even as I excitedly sit in the airport, waiting for my flight to take my to the next leg of my adventure, a part of me wonders why I am leaving people and a place who are so incredibly good to me. Something good ending, especially a summer as enjoyable as this one, even coming at the cusp of an exciting beginning is always a sad moment for me.

And as my summer has been drawing to a close, I’ve tried to spend every last moment with the people I love so dearly, and was fortunate enough to catch up with a friend from last summer who was on the island for just a little bit. We were reminiscing on the golden days of the previous summer and sharing stories of the intervening year when he started telling me about friends whose relationship had fizzled as the school year started again because it was built on, as he so eloquently phrased it, “sunshine and sea salt.” The implication being that clearly nothing between them could have lasted, having been built on such a foundation as that. 

And that poignant description stuck with me all through the next day–everything I treasure about this place, rests on sunshine and sea salt. It started building in the magic that is unique to the beginning of summer. When the light fades slower into the pleasantly warm evening, the glow of the stars and lightning bugs makes anything seems possible. All that summer could hold is big enough to make any dream feel destined to come true because in those moments all the dreams of climbing, paddle boarding, bonfires, friendship, marathons and spectacular camp programming will happen. There's no reason for them not to because the days are just long enough and ten weeks is just long enough to pretend like the magic of summer will never fade into Fall. But inevitably, the sunshine fades into a darker autumn and waters grow too cold to swim, and the question seems to arise with every heart-rending goodbye, will it be enough? Is the friendship we sowed with sunshine and sea salt enough to last?

It’s a hard question to answer because the answer only comes through time, and it’s not always yes. And it’s even harder, knowing that there are always people who remain only in the blissful memories of carefree evenings, baking in the summer sun. But then, there are those special cases–and I feel lucky because at CBC they seem to be as much the rule as the exception–that prove sunshine, sea salt and just a little bit of that summer camp magic can yield amazing friendships. 

It’s hard to say when exactly it happens, but somewhere between trekking up and down the hill, tag team counseling a distraught camper, and acting on those long dreamed of climbing trips, friendships are born that are as deep and fulfilling as those developed over many years. So when that moment comes to say goodbye and emerge from camp bliss, the parting sentiment goes much deeper than “keep in touch.” When I hear my camp friends say, “Let me know if you ever need anything” or sometimes more specifically, "Come on a road trip with me and then stay on my couch for a while" I know they mean it. 

In my two summers spent pretending like I’m a Mainer, I have made better friends than I feel I could ever deserve. And those relationships carried me through many of the less spectacular moments of the intervening year. From the friend I’ve called in tears, miserably stuck in my house on top of a mountain, needing a weekend away from my life to the ones I’ve called asking for a ride to the airport before 5 am. I know they would do anything for me because they’ve proven they will, and I, in equal measure, do the same for them–answer those 3 a.m. phone calls because I know that’s when they need it most and put plans on hold to edit papers shortly before they’re due.

In the incredibly short 20 weeks I've spent working at CBC, I’ve made the kind of friends that make my heart leap when I see a letter in Tyler’s handwriting, a voicemail from Paul or an incoming FaceTime from Jenny and Jim. It might not be an every day occurrence, but in those happy moments, the warm rays of summer shine through and I can smell the sea again. 

There's Something about Working in the Mountains

I work a job where I am on the clock 22.5 hours a day, 5 days week. I work a job where I spend more time walking around, retrieving extra forks and drinks at meals than actually sitting down and eating. I work a job where I maybe have time to shower once during the week. I work a job where I have to use every trick, tip, song and dance I've learned in my years of working with children on a daily basis.

My job is hard, and my job is fantastic. But at the end of the week I have given everything I have to give; it's all been laid out for the kids I take care of every week. My brain is mush by the time I drive out of the gates Friday afternoon.

We, as an instructional staff, have a lot of responsibility and expectations placed on us to do an exceptional job. At summer camp, the children's parents put on the pressure to keep their kids happy and healthy in a very active setting. In outdoor education, that same standard applies but with the additional responsibility of meeting their teachers' expectations that you teach their students lessons better than they could have in their classroom, otherwise half the point of coming all the way up the mountain is gone.

I expected, coming into this job, that the formal teaching part of the job would be the aspect that I would find easier and corralling a cabin of girls would be the part I would struggle with. That, as it turns out, is completely opposite. Spending time with my cabins of 5th to 8th grade girls has been, well, I won't say a breeze because that make it sound too easy, but it's been the most fun part of the job.

That's not to say that I don't enjoy teaching the classes. But it's been more difficult than I originally anticipated simply because I didn't arrive having a good depth of knowledge of the curriculum. I have never studied Forest Ecology or Aerodynamics, and now, I teach three hour lessons on the subjects.

Being able to teach those classes didn't happen by magic. We have all had to devote a significant portion of our weekend to interpreting and planning these lessons. My house, called Onacrest, tends to prep at the same time, so we can all figure it out together and tap into the knowledge of the returning staff. Fortunately, I work with a very diverse group. We all have a wide array of skills, all relating to the field of Outdoor Education, and we often times find ourselves sitting around the staff lounge during our precious off time trading tips and information on tactics that worked in the 26 classes we have to be able to teach.

Each time I teach a class, it gets a little bit better. The first time I taught Orienteering, all of my 16 kids went wandering in the woods, despite my instructions that they must stay within sight of me. Saying that class was stressful is the biggest understatement I could ever make. The second time I taught that class, I knew I had to drop the hammer early, and because I knew I had to be a lot stricter, all of my kids stay within sight and completed the activity. So I know I am not perfect, but I can see myself getting better at what I do.

Working in the Outdoor Education and Camp Industry, like most fields that deal with kids, requires an exceptional amount of self sacrifice. In the first two weeks of camp, everyone and I mean everyone caught the plague and worked through it with smiles and as much cheer as it was possible to muster. It can be difficult to find the time to go to the bathroom during the day, let alone take care of any other personal needs, yet you would never know it by looking around at my coworkers. Our job is to make what we do seem easy and natural, smiling through every adversity. No one does it perfectly, but I have been impressed with how well we as a staff cheerfully greet the very real struggles in our jobs.

In the very little time I have for self reflection and self evaluation, I have been wondering what I get out of the work that makes it so enjoyable to me because on paper, it sounds miserable. The most glaring reward I get, the one everyone talks about, is the satisfaction of giving kids an experience unlike most others they've had in their lives. Kids are almost uniformly sad to leave camp. They load the busses amidst declarations that they never want to leave or want to bring the whole family to live at camp.

But that is not all that I get from this job. The rewards that make this job worth doing may seem nonsensical, but to me they make all the difference.

I get...

To have a trash picking up party every Friday while listening to what the musical geniuses that are Lil Debbie, Nicki Minaj and Ke$ha have provided the world.

A place to use my ridiculously bad dances moves in a nonjudgmental environment in both planned and impromptu dance parties.

To tap into the vast experience of +50 coworkers to become better at my job.

To spend almost all day outside hiking, climbing and playing among the trees.

An incredible support system for all my personal and professional triumphs and shortcomings and the ability to share in my friends' successes and struggles.

5 Valentines dates who are excited to get dressed up to go to a burger restaurant.

The opportunity to live in the mountains with stunning views, clear(ish) air, and now this is the most important part for me, weather that has been in the 60s during February.

To live in the same house with some truly wonderful and hilarious humans who are rapidly become some of my best friends. One of these people is a really incredible artist and was kind enough to let me use some of his photos to show you all the San Bernardino Mountains. All these photos are Avery Meaux.

My house Onacrest back when there was actual snow. #DCH

It's hard to beat having views like this every day.

We actually live above the clouds. 

I love my job. I love how hard it is. I love the people I work with. I have spent so much time going out into the world and trying to find myself, trying to figure out who exactly I am and where I want to go. I don't have it all figured out, who does, but being in places like this affirms that I am in a place where I belong. I look around at my coworkers singing at the top of their lungs and consoling the homesick campers and know that I am in the right field. Seeing them I can't help but thinking "these are my people; I am home" and feeling incredibly lucky to be able to lay out everything I have each week for the sake of the kids and the benefit of my coworkers.

The World Feels Like Home

"The best part about leaving your heart in different places?
Everywhere feels like home."

I read this phrase in a buzzfeed article about wanderlust that my best friend sent me. I had just woken up (finally able to sleep in after dealing with a bout of lingering jetleg and sickness) and was casually reading the article, silently agreeing with basically everything, until I read the last bit and jumped out of bed inspired, all thoughts of sleepiness banished as I rushed through my morning routine so I could sneak in a few moments of writing before I had to go.

That phrase was it. The perfect summation of my travels–this weird feeling of belonging in places I'd never been. I felt it everywhere I visited but it was particularly strong in Budapest.

Each time I travel, I feel like I collect a new place to ache for later–like little pieces of me are strewn over the world, lining the walls of the Vatican and Montmartre and the canals in Venice–a small sacrifice as I fall in love with the city. Whatever I've left, I've gotten something new and different back. I take a little bit of the place and the people with me, more than memories, that become a part of my soul and burn with a desire to return. Like I've become a collage, reflecting pieces of the places I've been and people I've met, and I feel them in the little pangs of longing I get when looking back through my photos or read about one of the places I've been.

All these places I've lost myself to and people I've shared secrets with have changed me, slowly and subtly, bit by bit. For better or worse, I am very different than the person who first stepped off the plane in Paris only over a year and a half ago.

Despite my intentions in the beginning, I have become a nomad without a place I truly call home. My parents certainly serve as a wonderful base, and being with friends and family in Kansas feels as close to home as I've been in a long time. I keep waiting for my lack of center to become exhausting–someone can only be on the road for so long, but instead I feel free. I have learned to be at home everywhere I go. Anywhere can be my home.

Never was that feeling more clear to me than my most recent trip. Getting off the plane and exploring a new area in Europe felt welcome and easy, like slipping on a my favorite pair of shoes. It just fit. The newness is, in itself, comforting to me. It's what I know and what I'm use to.

Nowhere in Ireland did I feel more of a sense of overwhelming rightness than in Dingle. It is the beautiful town–just bustling enough with tourists that it can't rightly be called quaint or sleepy but still retaining a distinct small-town vibe, as though it's still surprised to find itself so full of people. About every other building lining the street was a pub (of course, it's Ireland), but between them sat wonderful oddities like the Violin & Gardening & Restaurant & Toy Store and a store that sold "nontraditional" wool items (If you can imagine it, they probably had it). And the town was full of those winding side alleys that I love so very much, covered in ivy and overhanging signs for hostels, beer and espressos, the likes of which can only really be found in Europe.

For me, Ireland felt like this wonderful echo of New Zealand, both having sweeping pastoral landscapes of rolling hills and sheep but each with a distinct twist. Neither were identical but both showing the kind of beauty that comes easily with an abundance of green though Ireland's landscape was often interrupted with stunning shows of geology and archeology like the Cliffs of Moher, the Giant's Causeway and Newgrange. Both were places I was fortunate enough to get to see almost all of however briefly, touring around the whole country and seeing it all in beautiful, broad strokes.

Prague and Budapest were different animals all together. Seeping in history, the castles, government buildings and churches dominate the view of both cities. During the day these buildings share the glory with all the small buildings that frame them, but at night they quite literally outshine everything else. Walking the Charles Bridge in Prague and the Margit Hid in Budapest provide some of the most

Pictures really can't do it justice.

stunning views of the cityscape.

I don't always know the moment I fall in love with a place, but I certainly did in Budapest though it built over several days. Finally coming to a head whilst seeing the buildings bathed in an yellow-orange glow, glittering in the distance and feeling the bustling city move all around,  I all at once lost my heart to the city and breathed in its energy to carry with me.

It truly was a wonderful city that managed to feel both young and ancestral simultaneously. It felt like a place growing into something new and grand with its feet firmly planted in a storied history. The ruin bars are the places that seems to demonstrate this feeling the best. Set in old buildings brimming with character: the bricks and crumbling plaster can just be seen through the layers of graffiti and eclectic art pieces hung on the walls. The youthful buzz of a bar juxtaposes the physical space that feels as though it has stood through the annals of time. It certainly was one of the more unique places I've visited and probably one of the coolest bars too.

Pretty swanky Parliament Building. 

And speaking of unique places, I have to apologize to anyone I spammed with semi-incoherent snapchats from the Labyrinthine in Budapest. In my defense, I was acting out of abject terror. Allow me to explain. Rather than going through another series of castles and museums on Castle Hill in Budapest, I decided to seek out the less common experiences. Instead, I went to the Hospital in a Rock, followed by the Labyrinthine.

The Labyrinthine started out bizarre and rapidly turned terrifying. Underneath the Castle Hill is a series of natural, underground caves. For a small price, you can walk through parts of them, and it is quite possibly the strangest thing I have ever done. I ended up recording videos, but before you watch them, some background information is necessary.

I walked down the stairs into the caves being followed by the older woman, probably in her early seventies. We entered the main cave at about the same time. There is literally no one else around. Intense opera music starts building as I walk deeper into the caves. All the while behind me, I can hear the steady thudding of her cane and shuffling of her feet. All around are these wax depictions of various opera scenes.

Are they supposed to look like they're in prison?

 
Peppering the walls are various sizes of stones that have labels like "door frame" or "table." Why were there depictions of the opera and giant stones everywhere? Your guess is as good as mine.

While this is all very weird, none of it was really very scary. Until I had to pick between two directions, blue light or orange light...? I picked blue. NEVER pick blue.

The woman behind me also picked blue. Though her steady thumping lent a slightly ominous background noise to the weirdly intense opera music, I was none the less grateful for her company. Right until she vanishes. She didn't stop walking. She didn't turn around. She was just gone. I went back to look for her and make sure she was all right, but as far as I could tell she'd been totally swallowed into the blue light. That was when I noticed the sign that I was entering "Dracula's lair" and saw what I can only assume is meant to be Dracula's empty throne.

Keep in mind it's only this light because of the flash on my camera. 

I keep walking, hearing the music slowly change from opera to just flat out scary horror movie soundtrack.

Gulp.

Undeterred, I keep walking into the misty blue light.

The video stops there because I may or may not have dropped my camera in terror at the sight I beheld around the corner.

But can you blame me?? Seriously! And not only was this waiting for me around the corner but this area is a dead end, so I have to turn my back to the decapitated heads and walk back through that blue light. (The woman behind me seems unimpressed.)

The horror music then begins to give way to equally frightening monastic music. 

(Mom) I am sorry about the bad language. I was too scared to hold it all back. Ha.

Despite the bout with unadulterated terror, I felt connected to Budapest in a way I've only connected with one other city: Venice. I felt connected with them on a subconscious level. I rarely needed to check a map; I just knew where I was supposed to go. Outside of the language, nothing felt foreign. Everything was, for those few days I was there, exactly as it should be. I suppose if I believed in past lives, I would say I lived there at least once before. It just made sense in a way that almost no other place does. I really can't explain it better than that.

In light of all my reflections on losing myself to a new city and taking something in return, I am brought back to the poem that lends itself to the title of my blog. One of the reasons I love poetry is that it can take on so many different meanings. I picked that poem because of what it means to me, but now, given how I carry my experiences, I have to think of it in a different light and have to feel the title of my blog is more accurate than ever.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

e.e. cummings

Nine Weeks at Camp Beech Cliff

Camp Beech Cliff: nine short weeks; 42 incredibly long days. 42 incredible days.

Within those 42 days, something transcendent happened at camp. Some how all the bits and pieces of programming, scheduling and logistics transformed into something wonderful to behold. Some how pottery, performing arts and sailing became so much more than just building pinch pots, singing and being on the water. Some how camp became something greater than the sum of its parts: something magical.

I say "some how," but I can tell you exactly how it happens. Hard work. Stupendously hard work. The kind of all-consuming work that at the end of the day left all the counselors crowded around the table in staff housing, stuffing their faces with whatever odd bits of carbs and sugar they had left–there's no time to get to the grocery store–staring blank faced at each other, too tired to follow through on the grand plans of volleyball or rock climbing. That is, of course, assuming these same counselors were able to get away from camp to eat something in the first place.

The transcendence, the "magic," doesn't appear in the air; there are two places you can see it created–one, forged slowly when, not just one or two, but a whole host of staff burns the midnight oil, hoping every moment with campers shines. The second part comes while facing reality: camp happens.  All those beautiful plans can be destroyed in mere minutes. If you really want to see the magic, watch what happens when you tell the camp director 7 staff members are out sick or a program head they have to accommodate 15 extra kids in their activity or a counselor they're getting the rowdy kid who has to move groups. You might miss it at first; it is subtle: camp still happens. And it is still good. So very good.

There is no potion, no perfect recipe to make everything come together. And outside of a sea of caffeine, the only thing that makes the task easier is knowing that there is an incredible group of people at your side for support and an equally incredible group of campers who demand and rightly deserve the very best.

The best is what the campers got. From the first moment through the last, they always got everything their counselors had to offer. Many times, most times even, that was more than enough. I worked with truly inspiring people, seeing them give everything to camp, witnessing their amazing ability to slowly but surely change lives kept me striving to be better all summer.

But sometimes, the very best I had to give, the very best we had to give, wasn't good enough. Sometimes my best was only enough to watch the kids play for an hour before their overnight started rather than joining their games. I still tried to give everything I had, but there was nothing left. And in that moment, all I could do was stay awake and stop them from getting hurt.

Sometimes all I could do was let the campers play their very favorite game for an hour because I had lost three of the four people I relied on each day. The very best I could give that day was just not crying because some of my best friends had packed up and left.

And in those moments, I hated myself for not being better. For not making every moment outstanding. I know it's normal, and I know it's perfectly okay to have bad days. But my coworkers, as a whole, set an impressively high standard by which I judged myself. Because all day, all around me I saw stellar examples of counselors rocking their jobs, smiling through every adversity. And it made me better. My best got better because of the wonderful family I got to be a part of.

It's the whole of the Camp Beech Cliff family that I have fallen in love with. It blows my mind how many outstanding moments can transpire in such a short time–how 50 almost-total strangers can pull together so quickly to create magic.

And truly, we are a family. Wonderful and weird as we may be, we are bonded now in a way that only people who live and work with each other continually can understand. And just like any other family we developed our idiosyncrasies: different oddities that get picked up and carried by working so closely with a very funny, diverse group.  I asked some of my fellow counselors what quirks they noticed our staff had developed.

We determined if you spend nine weeks a Camp Beech Cliff you might:

Find yourself asking to "connect" with someone you just want to have a conversation with. And during the time you "connect" ask them to help you "facilitate" whatever you're trying to accomplish.

Say things like "I understand why you feel that way. Can you think of a better way to react the next time this happens" and "can you explain what you mean when you say that" to your friends.

Immediately crouch or kneel when beginning a conversation.

Think to yourself, "when was the last time I sat down? I sat down when I ate lunch, right? Why don't I remember that? Oh. I didn't eat lunch." Or "when was the last time I showered? I think it's Friday, so Tuesday, right? Maybe Monday... Sunday at the latest."

Realize that if you wash your staff shirts at least once in the summer, it's still fine to wear.

Develop an immunity to feeling weird about how much underwear gets left on the boardwalk. "Guys everyone has to wear underwear. It's not gross; it's fine."

Gain a sixth sense about campers misbehaving. "Why do you just look like I need to get you in trouble? What are you doing? Go back to where you're supposed to be."

Crush hard on Sylvie. Everyone has a crush on Sylvie. There's nothing better than getting a Sylvie smile during the day.

Run into campers in Bar Harbor and spend the next week talking about exactly who cried during The Fault in Our Stars and who didn't.


It has been such an amazing summer. I really don't have enough good things to say about the people and the place. I have been struggling to finish the post because I don't know how to write the conclusion. But I suppose it's fitting because I also have no idea how to conclude my summer. I didn't want it to end. And saying goodbye has been extremely difficult for me. I would love nothing more than for everyone to show up next Monday at 7:30 for a staff meeting to kick off the week. So rather than dealing with all of that, I'll take Jenny's advice: "It's a blog. You don't need to conclude jacksh*t."

Being friends means never having to button up your shirt.