tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60700688892103669082024-02-18T17:50:51.131-08:00PIA Singapore: Rachel's Singapore JourneyRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-63564450764828074892010-11-08T18:49:00.000-08:002010-11-08T19:04:50.576-08:00The Final Countdown...<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/BonVoyage">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/BonVoyage</a>#Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-79196426678408245922010-11-08T18:31:00.000-08:002010-11-08T18:43:29.492-08:00Bon Voyage“Someday soon this won’t be normal anymore,” Stephanie observed glancing up momentarily from her plate of white rice, oily vegetables, and saucy mystery meat, fork and spoon gesturing conductor-like to our surroundings.<br /><br />I began to take in the environment more carefully: a stout Chinese woman shouting shrilly at her son over the clang of metal spatulas tapping metal woks; an old, glassy-eyed uncle without a shirt or shoes sipping what must have been his fifth Tiger of the early evening; a timid, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">petite</span> girl stealing shy glimpses our way while chopping hot red peppers to make the kind of sauce that clears your sinuses when you look at it; a beer girl, just passed her prime, wandering between crowded, yellowing plastic tables and chairs. “When did all this become normal?” I wondered, racking my brain for the exact moment when I walked passed one of the outdoor food courts, which often smell of fish insides and curry spices, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn</span>’t bat an eye.<br /><br />But here I am, 14 months beyond my first Hawker center experience when I sat poking balls of white fluff with an awkwardly held chopstick in an effort to reveal whether the inside stuffing looked edible or not (I have since discovered that these snow-ball like pastries filled with anything from pork to lotus to red bean are called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">bao</span>). And I haven’t once thought about the pungent smells of the seafood stall, the kind of health code violations that my dad would probably spot in the kitchen of the stall from which I ordered my mixed vegetable rice, or the sweat trickling down my lower back, the heat of the night amplified by the cooking fires and the close proximity of people. I then look down at my own plate and realize, in true Singaporean fashion, I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> subconsciously grabbed my spoon with my right hand and am using my fork to scoop the food onto the spoon before eating off the spoon only. It is considered impolite to put the fork in your mouth.<br /><br />All this, the thoughts, the sensations, the realizations, happens in a fleeting moment. I look at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Steph</span>, shake my head, roll my eyes, and smile an understanding smile that slowly fades as we lean back in our chairs lost in our own thoughts. “When did all this become normal?”<br /><br />It is hard to believe at this moment that those people and things which have become such a normal part of my everyday life in Singapore will soon again be exotic, strange, a memory. It is even more difficult to believe that that which used to be normal in my life in America will probably, at first, seem exotic, strange, a memory re-incarnated.<br /><br />So, I guess what I am trying to say as I prepare to return to America is: please bear with me when I walk into Super <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">WalMart</span> and nearly burst into tears, because everything I need is all in one location. Please bear with me when I have a craving for Indian food and scoff at the Mexican I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ve</span> been craving all year in Singapore, because Little India has been just a train ride away. Please bear with me when I turn into a lane of oncoming traffic, because I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ve</span> been riding on the other side of the rode. Please bear with me when I ask you to explain once again why we can’t go to the beach in January, because I have been living a three-hour plane ride from Bali. Please bear with me when I walk snottily passed every Chinese restaurant in the food court, because it is not <em>real </em>Chinese food. Please bear with me when I say a phrase that sounds like English but you cannot really fully understand what I mean, because I have been speaking primarily to Singaporean adolescents all year. Please bear with me when I complain about how cold I am, because I have been living in a sauna. Please bear with me when I speak of the foods, cultures, histories and geographies of Southeast Asian countries as if everyone should know and relate to what I’m talking about, because I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ve</span> learned a lot this year and it is all incredibly interesting to me. Please bare with me as I readjust to life in America, because they say reverse culture shock is often worse than its predecessor.<br /><br />But, to lighten the culture shock blow a bit, for the next five weeks I will be on a vacation adventure which should leave me, while quite happy, exhausted and ready to return home for Christmas. As I make my way across Myanmar, India, Bangkok, Laos and Vietnam, I look forward to the final surprises Asia has left in store for me.<br /><br />For now, I am packing my life into a backpack and three suitcases and enjoying my last views of the Singapore skyline, my last picnics in the botanical gardens, my last farewells with my students and friends ,and my last Hawker Center meals. You’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ve</span> been good to me…<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">bon</span> voyage Singapore!<br /><br />TIA,<br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-79069621791318811092010-10-20T07:10:00.000-07:002010-10-20T07:22:13.398-07:00Longing for a cowboy and a mahogany horseA lone cowboy on a mahogany horse gallops at full speed across a pure blue and golden-wheat colored canvas. I can feel the velvet Earth under my bare feet. The world smells of dust and an impending rain. I have been here many times before.<br /><br />It is a summer morning in a South Dakota prairie town. It is a crisp fall afternoon enveloping the Wyoming grasslands in a gentle embrace. It is an endless drive home across the Nebraska pastures. <br /><br />In reality, I am staring at, well who am I kidding, I am practically hypnotized by a picture in the October 2010 issue of "National Geographic" magazine taken in West Texas in 1974. I have never actually been there, yet I have many times.<br /><br />In the article, entitled “Under the Big Sky” the author describes a morning in Wyoming "the first light on high mountain meadows, the wisps of clouds within my reach,” and I can see the place. <br /><br />He goes on to say, “I suppose we all feel more restricted today. There seem to be gates in our lives that we never get open. But if we’re lucky, we find a special place to us. Even though it may change with time, if we love it deeply enough, there is a part of it within us to the end.” To me, this is the American Midwest. <br /><br />It is probably inevitable that as my time in Asia dwindles, I begin to dream of frost covered winter mornings, proud, graceful deer hopping metronomic-ally over wind-torn fences, and oceans of brown, green, and tan that wave on seemingly endlessly into nothingness until they kiss the sky. Yet, I also like to think that when I look back on my time in Singapore, I will find that the breathtakingly powerful tropical thunderstorms, the hiss of cool oil on hot woks, the palm-tree framed balmy sunsets, and the anxious, rhythmic dance of the public transportation system have also occupied such a special place in my heart that they have become a part of me as well.<br /><br />So, of course, in between marking in the last few weeks, I have set out to make the most of these now limited days.<br /><br />Steph and I spent one night on a legitimate night safari (not the one at the zoo…although I wouldn’t exactly call that night safari illegitimate either considering the fire dancers) with a camera crew on a special expedition inside Bukit Timah nature reserve to spot the creatures who lurk and crawl when human activity ceases after dark. Among our finds: snakes, spiders, scorpions, and bugs I never want to see again. Our lucky, and thoroughly undeserved, participation in the tour was due to a previously mentioned 15-minutes-of-fame experience when Steph and I were photographed at another nature reserve and subsequently published in a photographer/author/dentist-by-day’s book. Through this connection, we were given the opportunity to accompany this group of photographers and nature researchers into the “wild.”<br /><br />I also spent one day as the subject of a photo shoot, though not one for a nature magazine this time, when my friend Will and his faithful assistant, Stephanie, helped me to take headshots and body shots: think senior photos but with far less pressure due to the lack of the wallet-sized versions, which may come back to haunt you for the rest of your life in the form high school reunions.<br /><br />I have spent some quality time bonding with my colleagues and my new roommate cum colleague, Victoria, eating out for Mexican and, as a neighbor of the cuisine’s home country, subsequently ordering for everyone; enjoying an a cappella concert inclusive of a “Grease” mix during which I could not help but picture my dad as a little boy dancing as Danny on the couch…I mean hood of a chick-magnet car…; celebrating the end of Hari Raya, which marks the end of the fasting month for my Muslim friends; and whipping up a multi-cultural salad day feast for our English-department hosted lunch at school.<br /><br />In keeping with the variety-show that is my life, Sarah, Steph, Kurt, and I even went to a Sunday morning brunch at an equestrian training and horse stabling turf club which felt more like a ranch in Pennsylvania than a restaurant in tropical Singapore. And, Steph, Victoria, Yui Yun, and I rode the train, which is due to officially close in June 2011, ladies-who-lunch-style over the boarder to Malaysia for pedicures and shopping one Saturday afternoon.<br /><br />Now that my marking is done, I am busying myself with a mini-musical on which I have been working with one of my classes this semester as well as trying not to think about having to say goodbye to them. This ordeal is made all the more challenging when they throw me a “surprise” (not overly uncharacteristically, one of them accidently told me) goodbye party complete with a Barbie-doll pink cake, a frosting fight, and a rousing rendition of “We Love You Miss Rachel.” <br /><br />For now, I have resolved to live in every moment, to love even my final highs and lows, and to put away the National Geographic picture at which I have been so longingly gazing for the last couple hours.<br /><br />Cheers to my last three weeks in Singapore,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-63034223452876026442010-09-21T18:22:00.000-07:002010-09-22T07:06:19.852-07:00My life on a bus<strong>Before the countdown: </strong>It is 8:30 a.m. at the airport in Jakarta, Indonesia. I arrive a bit blurry-eyed due to my 5:30 a.m. wake-up call, but I have a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">naïve</span> spring in my step none-the-less.
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<br /><strong>Hour one: </strong>I have taken a $.50 bus ride to the train station in the city center. I spent most of the ride marveling at the overlapping free-ways, sparkling high rise buildings, fancy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">SUVs</span>, international-class hotels and restaurants, and the man next to me who is typing on three black-berries simultaneously that make this city of 10 million feel more like New York than Indonesia.
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<br /><strong>Hour one point two-five:</strong> It is September 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">th</span>. It is 9:45 a.m. The next available train ticket to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Yogyakarta</span>, the city which is to be my final destination, is for September 10<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">th</span> at 8 p.m. Plan B.
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<br /><strong>Hour one point five:</strong> I am arguing with a man about whether a cab to the bus station should cost 70,000 rupiah or 50,000 rupiah. I realize I am actually arguing with a man about whether a cab to the bus station should cost $7 or $5. Screw it. I’ll settle on six and a half.
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<br /><strong>Hour two:</strong> I arrive at the bus station, sweaty, breathless, and with much less spring in my step, after risking my life to cross a major bus-filled highway on foot. I paid the man 65,000 rupiah to drive me here and he “cannot pull into the station, cabs not allowed.” I see a cab stop in front of the station. The couple that gets out is neither sweaty nor breathless. I should have paid him 70,000.
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<br /><strong>Hour two point five:</strong> I have managed to find the one person who speaks English in the crowd of thousands lining up to get on tens of buses. She leads me to a bus that she promises will take me to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Yogyakarta</span>. The bus is empty. She leaves. It is 11 a.m.
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<br /><strong>Hour two point seven-five:</strong> It is 11:15. I am alone on a bus, which I think is going to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Yogyakarta</span>, but I am not really sure. I have no ticket. There is no air-conditioning. I’m not sure if the bus even runs. I think I better find the English-speaking woman.
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<br /><strong>Hour four:</strong> The woman has sold me a ticket. The bus leaves at 2 p.m. In the meantime, I have eaten a box of chocolate-covered strawberry filled cookies and am working on my second course…something called cheese cookies and what looks like a juice box of tea. A very small, very happy graying Indonesian man is telling me that he is an English teacher at a local school and would like to practice conversation. We are standing amidst the exhaust fumes of thirty buses and are surrounded by crowds of sweaty people straining to hear bus numbers which are simply shouted out over the din by young boys in blue button-ups. No one except my bus mistress, my enthusiastic English-teaching friend, and I speak English. I am quite amused.
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<br /><strong>Hour five:</strong> It is 1:30 in the afternoon. I have boarded the bus. Everyone else, including my somewhat large and hairy seatmate, has boarded also. It takes me a good ten minutes to shove my backpack under my seat. I have the window seat. My seatmate <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">doesn</span>’t move when I do this. I finally sit down and heave a sigh of relief. Everyone on the bus is staring at me. I stare back. So do they. So, this is what it feels like to be in a fishbowl.
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<br /><strong>Hour five and one quarter: </strong>A woman's seat is broken. It leans back too far. One of our bus drivers grabs a metal pole from who know where and shoves is through the arm rests at the back of the seat. Problem solved.
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<br /><strong>Hour five point five:</strong> We should be leaving soon. It is 2 p.m. The mother with her seven-year-old child sitting across from me has managed to mime that she likes my nose because it is pointy. She has also “told” me that her son’s is no good. It is too flat. Now everyone is staring at my pointy nose. Some even lean in for a closer look. Thank you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Knutson</span> genes.
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<br /><strong>Hour five and three quarters:</strong> I am marking some papers I have brought along with to kill the time. I have a rotating audience looking over my shoulder. They can’t possibly be interested in my student’s English papers, so I blame my pointy nose. People occasionally board the bus to sell things like fresh duck eggs, rice meals, mixed nuts, and sunglasses. One man trades me a bottle of water for a July issue of <em>Time</em>. Now, if he ever sees another person who speaks English, he will have something to sell to them.
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<br /><strong>Hour six point five:</strong> The bus is leaving. We are an hour late. We should arrive in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Yogya</span> in twelve hours.
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<br /><strong>Hour eight and a half:</strong> It is 5 p.m. We might still be in the suburbs of Jakarta. I have finished two issues of <em>Time </em>cover to cover…including that small print at the bottom of all the advertisements. We are maybe driving twenty miles per hour. I remember a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/07/world/asia/07jakarta.html"><em>New York Times</em> article </a>that I casually read last week.
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<br /><em>“During the last days of Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting, tens of millions of Indonesians leave the country’s cities to return to their villages by motorcycle, train, bus and boat. The mass homecoming is both a decidedly Indonesian interpretation of the Muslim holiday and one of the world’s great movements of people. On a road network whose capacity is strained at the best of times, travellers brave enormous jams, exhaustion and bandits to make it back home.”</em>
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<br /></em>I am literally a part of the second largest temporary migration of people in the world…thirty million plus one. At least the air conditioning works.
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<br /><strong>Hour eight point seven-five:</strong> The air conditioning has stopped working.
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<br /><strong>Hour nine point five:</strong> The sun is setting. The villages that are passing slowly by become a swirl of sunset oranges and soft yellows. The people are smiling and celebrating in their roadside stalls. They are beautiful. I watch them.
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<br /><strong>Hour eleven:</strong> I am not really sure if I have been sleeping or awake. Probably both.
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<br /><strong>Hour twelve:</strong> We stop for dinner. I avoid the rice and vegetable and chicken mixtures that are swarming with flies. It might be safer to eat packaged food. Besides, I want to avoid that bus bathroom as much as possible. Dried bananas, cashews, and puff pastry it is.
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<br /><strong>Hour thirteen:</strong> I don’t know if you can imagine what it feels like to be on hour seven in a traffic jam that stretches across an entire country, on a bus that is moving twenty miles per hour, with people you can’t even talk to because you don’t speak the same language, but, if you can’t, don’t try it.
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<br /><strong>Hour fifteen:</strong> The bus broke down. We are in the middle of a highway in a massive traffic jam and the bus broke down. We have been in a bus for eight and a half hours and the bus has just broken down. If I was less calm in the face of challenges, I might scream. Instead, I think I’ll hyperventilate.
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<br /><strong>Hour fifteen plus ten minutes:</strong> Our bus driver has calmly reignited the engine. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Shadey</span> at best. I have put away my paper bag. The air conditioning is working again.
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<br /><strong>Hour seventeen:</strong> It is 1:30 a.m. I have begun to make up stories about the flickers of light from the oncoming cars that reflect off the bus windows. They are about fireflies. This might be what it feels like to go crazy.
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<br /><strong>Hour eighteen and a half:</strong> The hairy man sitting next to me has been sleeping on my shoulder for the last hour. My arm is asleep. I don’t want to disturb him though, so I let my arm become all tingly, and I make up a story about it.
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<br /><strong>Hour nineteen:</strong> Something more exciting to distract me than my imagination: people have begun to pull off to the side of the road and light fireworks. I am being given my own private show. Little sparks of purple, blue, and red briefly illuminate the night sky. As a bonus, the bus picks up speed. I fall asleep with visions of fireworks dancing in my head and behind my eyelids.
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<br /><strong>Hour twenty-one point five:</strong> I open my eyes to find a smoking volcano appearing in the first purple light of day. We are navigating winding roads on the slopes of a jungle mountain, and the foliage has overgrown the road so that I can actually see the dew drops sliding off the pink and salmon petals of the tropical flowers in the canopy above. The rice patties in the distance are emerald green.
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<br /><strong>Hour twenty-two point five:</strong> The bus driver just told me we are about eight hours from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Yogya</span>. I have been on a bus for 16 hours.
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<br /><strong>Hour twenty three:</strong> My butt is completely asleep.
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<br /><strong>Hour twenty three point seven-five: </strong>I am doing yoga in the aisle. If my bus-mates <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">didn</span>’t think I was crazy before, they do now.
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<br /><strong>Hours twenty four to twenty eight:</strong> I finish my marking. I stretch a little. I make faces at the kids in buses we pass and they make faces back at me. I finish my remaining two <em>Time </em>magazines, and I use the Southeast Asia travel guide to plan my entire November/December holiday. We pass through endless plains of brilliant green rice patties. I play games on my phone with the kid whose mom thinks his nose is too flat. I let my seatmate sleep on my shoulder…again. Time passes.
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<br /><strong>Hour twenty eight and one quarter:</strong> People are restless. We have been on a bus for twenty one hours and forty five minutes. The traffic is ridiculous. I feel a bit like I am at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Sturgis</span> motorcycle rally with fewer helmets, more rice fields, and a greater person to bike ratio. I do another round of yoga. People request pictures. I have a photo shoot with every family on the bus. My pointy nose is sure to make mantelpieces all over Java.
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<br /><strong>Hour twenty nine point five:</strong> It is 2 p.m. We are in the suburbs of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Yogya</span>. I can tell by the signs. We are starting to drop people off on various corners.
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<br /><strong>Hour thirty and a half:</strong> I arrive at the bus station. I have been on a bus for 24 hours. I have been attempting to get to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Yogya</span> for more than that. Nothing else matters now, though, because I am here, I am safe, I was a part of the second largest temporary land migration on the planet, and I had the experience of a lifetime.
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<br />Of course, the reminder of my trip was not nearly as much of a physical or emotional <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">roller coaster</span>. In fact, it was wonderful. But “pleasant” does not make for an interesting story. So here, I will simply relay the highlights of the rest of my trip.
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<br />Stephanie met me at our adorable bed and breakfast that evening (she had chosen to fly because she got out of school a day later…no comment). We spent our first full day in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Yogya</span> together walking along an old lava flow on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Gunung</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Merapi</span>, the most active volcano in Indonesia, hiking to caves made during the Japanese occupation, exploring the batik markets, and savoring some traditional Javanese beer and cuisine.
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<br />The second night was spent in a hostel on a rice patty where we were lulled to sleep underneath our mosquito net by the sound of croaking bull frogs just outside our windows. The highlight of the trip was the sunrise atop Borobudur temple where we watched the sun slowly unveil the volcano in the distance. Borobudur is both a Buddhist temple and a place for pilgrimage. According to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Wikipedia</span>, "the journey for pilgrims begins at the base of the monument and follows a path circulating the monument while ascending to the top through the three levels of Buddhist cosmology, namely <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Kāmadhātu</span> (the world of desire), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Rupadhatu</span> (the world of forms) and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Arupadhatu</span> (the world of formlessness). During the journey the monument guides the pilgrims through a system of stairways and corridors with 1,460 narrative relief panels on the wall."
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<br />Our second afternoon was spent exploring <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Yogya</span> on foot before we took the night train (a form of transport that actually only took eight hours due to the lack of traffic) back to Jakarta.
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<br />On Sunday, we immersed ourselves in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Hari</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Raya</span> celebrations in Jakarta taking in street performances, enjoying cotton candy in the National Monument’s park, and watching locals “sort of” re-create the old-Dutch feel in the Dutch quarter by riding bicycles while wearing floppy hats within a perimeter. Our last moments in Jakarta were spent sipping coffee and eating gourmet Javanese food in a secret garden-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">esque</span> restaurant.
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<br />Now that the September holidays are over, I have officially begun my final term of teaching in Singapore. For the next several weeks I will be lesson planning, marking final exams, finalizing forms, preparing for my end-of-contract travels, applying for graduate programs, and generally figuring out my future.
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<br />I have officially begun tackling my Singapore bucket list. I’ll keep you posted.
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<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">xoxo</span>,
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<br />Rachel
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<br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/InIndo">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/InIndo</a>#
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<br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/SeptemberSurprisesAndSomeInAugustToo">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/SeptemberSurprisesAndSomeInAugustToo</a>#
<br />Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-58361982932194559052010-09-05T07:09:00.000-07:002010-09-05T07:10:20.199-07:00Photo Links<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/ChaingMai">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/ChaingMai</a>#<br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/SeptemberSurprisesAndSomeInAugustToo">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/SeptemberSurprisesAndSomeInAugustToo</a>#Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-37403643379160204372010-08-25T16:21:00.000-07:002010-08-25T16:22:42.639-07:00More Monk EncountersEvery so often in Asia, I am struck by the reality of how surreal my life can be. I often feel blessed to have the opportunities I have had, and I often feel awed by the incredible things I have seen. But, only in rare moments am I really forced to pause and reflect on the oddity of my day to day existence. For example, a monkey steals my breakfast, I spend over an hour trying to find a hostel in Phuket after a driver, who we paid to drive us to our hostel, decides not to, and I wake up under a mosquito net in a tree house on a private beach.<br /><br />One of these rare “you live in unreality” moments occurred during my holiday in Chiang Mai. I suddenly saw myself, as if from above, seated in a quite corner of a little ornate Thai Buddhist temple. I was holding a string connecting me to Stephanie, her mom, a German family, and a little old monk who was chanting a hauntingly beautiful monotonous prayer as he threw holy water on us and prepared to send whatever our hearts so desired to whomever ‘out there’ we wished. Talk about unreality.<br /><br />When the prayer finished, the monk ceremoniously tied a monk-blessed bracelet on the women’s left wrists and the men’s right while boisterously announcing wishes for good luck in business, love, home ownership, money and relationships. And then it was over, as fast as it had occurred. I was back to navigating a walking tour of Chiang Mai’s temples with Stephanie and Clara, the unreality of the moment before simply a palpable memory.<br /><br />With over 60 active Buddhist temples and 300 temple ruins within just the 4x4 km Old City and many more temples in the greater metropolis, it is no wonder monk encounters are common in Chiang Mai. Before sunrise, one can spot monks on every street and alleyway in the city collecting their daily alms. Alms gathering involves carrying a bowl and bag which the monks will present at the door for donors to offer them food in exchange for prayers and blessing. Monks are not allowed to cook for themselves as it is considered an uncleanly task.<br /><br />Not only will you spot monks in the early waking hours, however, as many spend their time in the temple complexes eagerly waiting for the chance to practice their English with tourists. We had a lovely conversation with a 25-year-old monk who had been living at Wat Phra Singh as first a novice and then a monk for 10 years of his short life. He has hopes of leaving his life as a monk behind to start a family and teach Thai children English when he turns 30. In the hour-long conversation, we discussed everything from the requirements of being a monk to the sects of Buddhism to famous American boxers. As it turned out our monk friend was a huge fan of Muay Thai or Thai Boxing and could rattle off the names of tens of famous boxers, the only of which I recognized were Muhammad Ali and George Foreman (but mostly because of the grill).<br /><br />Monks also wait in the temples to offer their insight into the histories of the buildings and traditions of Buddhism. In some of the smaller complexes they offer prayers and blessings complete with the aforementioned blessed-string tying ceremony.<br /><br />In addition to exploring the infinite temples, which naturally included these monk encounters, Stephanie, Clara and I took a Thai cooking class indulging in classic Thai dishes like green curry, papaya salad, pad Thai, spring rolls, and mango sticky rice. We wandered through the street markets and pampered ourselves with classic Thai massages. We donned harnesses and flew like gibbons on 15 zip lines in the tree-top canopy before hiking to the top of a breathtaking waterfall. We went elephant trekking to a hill tribe village, climbed the steps to a mountain temple, and took a dinner cruise on the Ping river, once again enjoying all the local flavor Thailand has to offer.<br /><br />The natural and man-made beauty, the incredible food, the ever-smiling people, and the memorable adventures with wonderful company made my weekend in Chiang Mai one which I will always hold dear. And as I look back, the vivid memories seem to fittingly turn a lovely shade of fading orange.<br /><br />Everywhere in and around Chiang Mai the monks can be seen wearing their golden saffron colored robes in emulation of Buddha’s humble garb and to represent their own detachment from the physical world in pursuit of enlightenment. Yet the presence of the robes themselves seems very much an attached and necessary element in the creation, maintenance, and pure existence of the physical world that is Chiang Mai. The orange-red of the monk’s robes ebbs and flows with the bustling traffic and movement of people, it interlaces itself into the daily life of Thai’s and tourists alike, it twirls and spins into every corner of the city until it becomes indistinguishable from the city itself, it weaves colorful, intricate designs into the passage of time here, and it shades and coats my memories. And what a lovely city Chiang Mai is because of it.<br /><br />xoxo,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-67430013359948293532010-08-16T21:03:00.000-07:002010-08-24T16:25:20.418-07:00Hill tribe ballerinasMany of the most famous ballets ever created feature the ballerina in an other-worldly role. She is the queen of the fairly-tale sweet land in the Nutcracker, she is the hauntingly beautiful ghost in Giselle, she is both the gentle white and the malevolent black swans in Swan Lake, she is the precious, untouchable princess in Sleeping Beauty and the list goes on. It is no wonder, then, that there is an almost ethereal quality for which every ballerina strives: her long, thin, powerful legs carrying her through quick, intricate allegro sequences that leave her hovering angelically above the stage; her beautiful arches supporting her in multiple turns en pointe; her slender arms placed in precise positions so that she looks at once demurely feminine and strangely powerful and influential; and that incredible neck-line which allows the body to seem, if possible, even longer, closer to heaven.<br /><br />For much of my life, I have yearned to create the ballerinas’ perfect, long arabesque line in studios from South Dakota to Singapore. I have coveted the professional primas’ incredible turn-out and their elongated musculature at they danced across stages from London to Minneapolis. I have longed for that enviable juxtaposition of powerful femininity in my own performing pursuits from Asia to Wyoming. I am no stranger to this powerful desire burning inside my core when I am myself dancing, enveloped in the familiarity of a ballet studio, and when I am watching the magical, enchanting world of a romantic-era ballet unfold on a grand stage. It is a common desire lit by a common set of circumstances: the smooth wooden floor, the smell of worn leather, the velvety leotards.<br /><br />Imagine my surprise, then, when this proverbial desire’s flame was ignited, not by the familiar triggers in some ballet studio or in the plush seats of a theatre, but rather in a secluded hill tribe village in northern Thailand.<br /><br />Over the National Day holiday, I traveled with Stephanie and her mom, Clara, to Chiang Mai. Located among the highest mountains in the country, the largest city in northern Thailand serves as not only a cultural center but also as the access point to incredible jungle excursions and visits to local hill tribes.<br /><br />While there, we were able to visit one of the refugee villages in the area which serves as a home to several sub-groups of the Karen people, a Tibeto-Burman ethnic minority. One of the sub-groups, the Kayan or Padaung, fled to northern Thailand in the late 1980s and early 1990s due to conflict with the military regime in Burma. And in northern Thailand they remain, living with uncertain legal status, limited access to medical care, and only enough land to produce food for themselves. While the men work during the day, the women remain in the village, selling their wares for tourists’ dollars. Yet, despite the hardships they have faced (which as a disclaimer, I can in no way relate to), there does not seem to be sadness in their eyes. The women smile, chatting and laughing as they weave their beautiful threads into intricate fabrics, the children play a game like jacks with the smooth stones they have polished when they are not attending school taught by volunteers in their one-room school house, and the babies laze happily in cotton hammocks in the shade provided by the wooden houses. They are the most beautiful people I have ever seen.<br /><br />And, it was in this village that I found myself once again longing for that swan-like neck of a beautiful ballerina. You see, this was not the first time I had laid eyes on the Kayan people. Though never in person, I had often seen photographs of these beautiful women with their impossibly long neck lines and incredibly poised demeanor in my dance history classes in college. The Kayan people are well-known for that graceful neck-line for which we so often strive in ballet.<br /><br />We are shown pictures of the Kayan people in dance history classes to emphasize the fact that throughout history and in many places around the world, people have found and still find the long neck line to be an aesthetically pleasing quality. And, in fact, as ballet developed, it also developed a focus on the beauty of an elongated neck in the same way the Kayan appreciate long necks.<br /><br />In ballet, we are trained to hold the neck upright and the pull the scapula and shoulders down in an attempt to create the ethereal quality necessary for the perfect line. Often, though, genetics also play a major role in giving a ballerina her desirable elongated limbs. The Kayan people, however, take matters into their own hands in order to create the visually pleasing neck-line.<br /><br />From a young age the Kayan Lahwi women wear coils of brass around their necks, an ornament the women associate with cultural identity and beauty. As they grow older, the coils, which are wrapped around their necks during a process in which the brass is heated to make it more malleable, become longer. Over time, the weight of the brass pushes the collarbone down and compresses the rib cage creating the illusion of a stretched neck. The women rarely remove the rings as both coiling and uncoiling are lengthy procedures, and after a long period of wear, the rings become in integral part of the body. While a long neck line helps to earn ballerinas the leading roles, the Kayan women’s neck length determines their dowry.<br /><br />Ideas regarding the reason the women wear the coils range from increasing attractiveness (it exaggerates sexual dimorphism as women naturally have longer necks than men) to creating a closer resemblance to a dragon, an important creature in Kayan folklore. Many Kayan women, though, simply view the rings as a part of their ethnic costume.<br /><br />Among these beautiful women in their own hill tribe village, I was reminded that the beauty and grace associated with a long neck can be translated across cultures and across times. And what a wonderful experience to see in person the women whom I have often admired in the same way I admire Giselle, Sleeping Beauty, and the Sugar Plum Fairy.<br /><br />xoxo,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-89312930244800294022010-08-15T02:19:00.000-07:002010-08-15T16:45:00.817-07:00Living dreams, blazing trails, and celebrating in styleAugust is a month for mile-stone celebrations in Singapore. My own one-year anniversary with this island city-state is fast approaching. On 9 August 2010, Singapore celebrated her 45th birthday under the theme “Live our Dreams, Fly our Flag.” And, Singapore just hosted the opening ceremonies for the inaugural Youth Olympic Games on the evening of August 14.<br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div>I have been lucky enough to take part in all of the events in one way or another. I will, of course, play the biggest part in my anniversary celebration with Singapore on 24 August…more likely than not with my friends sushi, sake rice wine, and, a new discovery from the brilliant minds of Singapore’s own Island Creamery which also serves Tiger Beer-flavored ice cream, pear sake-flavored ice cream. </div><br /><div>While I was unable to attend the annual National Day Parade, which I understand was quite the spectacle displaying, in true patriotic fashion, marching uniformed groups, tanks, helicopters swinging giant red and white flags above the city, and an impressive fireworks show, I did witness my school’s National Day celebration. Not only was I impressed with and touched by my students’ enthusiasm for their country’s birthday, but also I realized what a unique experience it was for a person coming from a country which celebrates its Independence Day over the summer holidays to simply see such a celebration in a school.</div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwPcJPyhLuMt8sLsBpsHZ3d3_G5g2pCfiNFU_p4ETlZESpj8E4NxzDyiFrJANBCxAmnFm1AaU7ajy1K_NEwbA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505571945213376930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2f9NXFDXfZM1jLoDul4AZ1vjQ3fJQhFhLHJkO1scKUVi3cdJOfrBTeaFqk9VtgRZKTVGg52XUOeuPBdWzI3LY6Dv5ADkZixAkN6AODuC77VHDnz4SYwqQcImtwrIki-10ZyYvUNt3Jde-/s400/CIMG3932.JPG" border="0" /> After the celebratory parade, I was left feeling a bit sentimental. While I am quite looking forward to coming home to my loved ones, I am also, I have realized as the time draws nearer, going to miss the people, weather, exotic vacation destinations, food, and cultural exposure which Singapore has so willingly provided.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505571954688121266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3m7GMNNTCMEW33f8AEPWyN0p6fAOidayiTRajAvZwiKldmOp_v6pnYs89DGuaQABJErhFPIxliAifZ_ZQBbawXBp3KrwEiekUpUqL82EN7yZSFxYU-fDLr54KVHsXR_8lrVqksPd8XDLQ/s400/IMG_1547.JPG" border="0" />Singapore separated from Malaysia in 1965 after being occupied by both Britain and, briefly, Japan during the Second World War. Every year since 1966 they have paraded through their beloved city to commemorate their independence, and every year since the mid-1980’s they have dedicated a special song to the day. One song in particular, from 1998, appealed to me not only for the warm memories of Singapore it carried in its cords, but also for the underlying beats reminding me of my South Dakota <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTkVG6lWvwY">Home</a>.<br /><br /><div>This is Home truly<br />Where I know I must be<br />Where my dreams wait for me<br />Where the river always flows<br />This is Home surely<br />As my senses tell me<br />This is where I won’t be alone<br />For this is where I know; it’s Home</div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dys5SFLpb609Ojlx16j3kouG8LJ7e5jmjePWNjxZU52_VF4vyAjHXI3IojV4W6Ep4cmMbd0W700bUphFYcYLw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><div></div><div>In addition to taking part in the nation’s birthday celebrations, I also accompanied my students to watch the first ever Youth Olympic torch as it ‘Blazed the Trail’ by my school carried by one of Commonwealth’s own. That same evening, I went with some 40 Commonwealthians to two girl’s preliminary soccer matches. We saw Turkey beat Iran 3-2 and Chile win in the last seconds against Trinidad and Tobago 1-0. I am so pleased with the interest in general knowledge and the world outside of Singapore that the YOG has stirred up in my students and also with the teachable and learnable moments with which both National Day and the YOG have provided to me.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505571960746323394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-K9SAy6uhfc1w8mj4qmqbMc5VpzDzOhV8lIBqaYmuHb4FcW_tJ_pY3YHCssWsDsld8as1c4MmJzVZ1Tduqlu5ujPcJhwZ52Q5cLFyaQ9U-EazmwPFzgLmuk3DIBMcbyi1aCo4A74akCu/s400/IMG_1549.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505571966229525858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEPlxQ8oJcxzsG-K2d5kPHPwcdrgK2De07FGEE9tdKMGDZXDwZyjXDWP7Kh-U1FiGfL2m_ssinmIyyx5hhZX8teuhWKb2SuYzk6UDE2I539wr-DUi0D79Z0YkhvrRPFQM3muhf5x4Fk_g/s400/IMG_1550.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505571974541213266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxTxzJ4kFyDQkqoD7s8XIAb0rzN_ik3dTrFX-IAFhkCUh2fQyElFL3XkBV4x2cZY1TO3bpb8a2DckL64qVZFoWhVOZsIQNJLboyqYd8UyBqsLWgpO27WHVjkkJ1yCM83zgnU2wpfzsXVpf/s400/IMG_1553.JPG" border="0" />So here’s to living dreams, blazing trails, and celebrating in Singapore in style this month.<br /><div></div><div> </div><div>Cheers,</div><br /><div>Rachel </div></div></div></div></div>Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-84671443378771390192010-08-01T04:05:00.000-07:002010-08-01T06:13:59.269-07:003-2-1 Action<div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTk_wpKwtCFDThIP6ksmBKMZYzMUspDQE2wRZVKLYg3qqLXo-6i2OGkr9rDDcbMXxzZ8Wtg0jji-AtnUUJs8Eh36q9pFkm_YDYuY_N1FgvKVj2-XmWK-XtwbzzVX98Es_joBxtMwMIJKbo/s1600/Day+16.12+-+Snorkeling.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500420911571713506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTk_wpKwtCFDThIP6ksmBKMZYzMUspDQE2wRZVKLYg3qqLXo-6i2OGkr9rDDcbMXxzZ8Wtg0jji-AtnUUJs8Eh36q9pFkm_YDYuY_N1FgvKVj2-XmWK-XtwbzzVX98Es_joBxtMwMIJKbo/s400/Day+16.12+-+Snorkeling.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong>Scene:</strong> <em>A young American couple lands on a secluded, white-sand beach in Thailand. When hopping over the side of the bum boat, the male cuts his heel on the tip of a rusty nail sticking out the side of the weathered wood. Eager to begin his dive, the man takes no notice and joins the beckoning female in the cool, salty water, thinking the saline will clean the wound. (The camera zooms in on the cut, which has begun to trickle blood and an ominous music starts to fade in.) With no one in sight but the sleeping Thai boat driver, the couple excitedly dons scuba gear and dives in the azure blue water, marveling at the rainbow of sea life they see below. They swim further and further from shore and from the safety of the boat. Suddenly she spots a shark. Within seconds she turns, screaming and flailing wildly as she swims back toward the boat, “SHARK!” With a look of pure, incredulous horror, he says, “I’m bleeding.”</em> <strong>End scene. </strong><br /><br /><div>What comes next may be far too obvious to fans of the deep blue dramas like <em>Open Water</em> or <em>Jaws</em>. However, before you jump to conclusions, you should know that this scene has further stage instructions and a surprise ending.</div><br /><div>Tim and I have been cast in the lead roles. The scene is set on Koh Phi Phi Lee Island in Thailand on July 5, 2010. And, probably most importantly, the shark is about the size of a large bass and, on a previous trip, a former boat driver may have mentioned that any small sharks we see in the area are harmless. However, the rest of the scene did play out very similarly to the one above, with a bit of writer’s liberty about the details taken for effect. I certainly swam, flailing in a mad panic, back toward Tim screaming, “SHARK!” with all the ferocious, passionate, dramatic fear I could muster. And he was bleeding. And he was quite nervous. And he was a bit mad at me when I finally came to my senses and explained the actual size and probable intention of the shark. But it makes for a good comedy non-the-less.</div><br /><div>It seems my life has been one film reel after the next lately and not only because of all the exciting adventurous I have been on.</div><br /><div>Mom, Dad, Elizabeth and I spent a day behind the scenes at Universal Studios. We saw Shrek come alive in 3-D, learned how Spielberg achieves his famous special effects, avoided the T-Rex and, for the most part, the water (sorry Mom) on the raft ride, and lived to tell the tale of <em>The Mummy</em> rollercoaster.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500420939180237986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjadzVczVJnl4AXBRpmmbtBRVlo9KLkE0yrrXMQ7BHI9oZ83RfWGNnRvGbJgJiA0eBBY4md6FP_Htus0DnbyXImifLq4mxQ6sVGC20u8ZljtFs1nSJzuzzmGUcjlJbHdFWxvqWEDeT7rCFo/s400/CIMG3707.JPG" border="0" />In Cambodia, Mom, Elizabeth and I set foot on the actual set of <em>Lara Croft: Tomb Raider</em> when we visited Ta Prohm Temple (also known as The Angelina Jolie Temple) and others in the Angkor compound. In the movie, Jolie’s character Lara Croft must race against time and villains to recover powerful ancient artifacts, some of which lie below the temples.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500420948209643442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiikugGPbElmDYQsi845c6fLWMviq1I_TAFTG-q34rV3MjNbZb_GU4oBWiKRWDHX5yXDSKz1QFRomyDxeysUYCZMvyTF_koC7gYFVYmsIIVCLioX_Jvjln9WGeg8WV2n0JnTKYYyEh0iYJ_/s400/CIMG3742.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div>In Thailand, very near to the near-death shark attack, Tim and I walked along Maya Beach, the filming location for <em>The Beach</em> staring Leonardo DiCaprio. In the movie, Leo’s character discovers that in paradise, looks can be deceiving. Ironically, the movie actually features a shark attack. Good thing I saw it after our trip, or my reaction to the actually shark may not have been quite as cool and calm.</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500420922102338290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglEZP_Z6iN_78Oluwc3S1ScZIWHrGT_jQ9X3_zLonMnkZ6_1XDZaMuvLnGAEF3NMBb75uGFHQ0V0lYKrnGXHEhworSFYaFy79Ce-9R3k6TIMLv6I6vL3DQRyZxIi0xR2eals9lNcUCxJAM/s400/Day+16.49+-+Snorkeling+(Maya+Beach).JPG" border="0" />During our weekend trip to Penang, Malaysia, a little old man with four front teeth and a fondness for constant tooth-less chatter peddled Tim and me around to the various historical buildings and locales in Georgetown. Among the famous are homes and buildings featured in the 1999 Jodie Foster film <em>Anna and the King</em>. The film is loosely based on <em>Anna and the King of Siam </em>and the musical <em>The King and I</em>. One of our toothless, non-stop chattering guide’s favorite silence-fillers was, “You know <em>Anna and the King</em>. You know Jodie Foster. It filmed here.” After 38 times, we knew. But it was a beautiful tour non-the-less.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500420931567432018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAL6BHU6-F7LGF6LI_X44NDqj1L-_RJ2Np4MoonFYJ6pE4KUpfvBjvvOOmqOWaX7Y5wnYW0T85yr5w-EsvInIZTbMyLHqHgYZNHT19EeFyrH1BC9J5jpV6TZYtxO4pHP7Dm-eR3aQ9_2r/s400/Day+22.24+-+Floating+Village.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div>So there you have it, eight days, eight entries…and we’re all caught up.</div><div> </div><div>Back to making the movie that is my life.</div><br /><div>xoxo,</div><div> </div><div>Rachel</div></div></div></div></div>Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-18610220663136996352010-08-01T02:58:00.000-07:002010-08-01T04:03:56.759-07:00A desire to flyEver since ancient times, humans have been obsessed with a desire to fly. The ancient Greeks idolized the mythological heroes Daedalus and his son Icarus, who fled from the angry King Minos employing wings that Daedalus himself had constructed. Henri Giffard, the Parisian inventor who made the first powered and controlled flight in his hydrogen-filled airship, has been immortalized, his name being one of 72 inscribed on the Eiffel Tower. Orville and Wilbur Wright are studied by impressed second graders in elementary school classrooms all over the globe as the inventors of the world’s first airplane.<br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>Not to mention, for his services to aviation including the first trans-Pacific flight, the Australian Charles Kingsford Smith was knighted, left his legacy as the name of Sydney’s major airport, and was pictured on the Australian $20 note from 1966 to 1994. As the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean, Amelia Earhart gave independent women everywhere a fascinating role model. The race to fly the first man to outer space and subsequently send him to the moon caused the whole world to hold its breath. And, today, a child’s first trip on an airplane is nothing less than monumental -- the feeling of soaring above the clouds for the first time often remembered into adulthood. </div><br /><div>I too have not escaped this longing to take to the air. But, recently my yearning to fly went beyond the average desire to sit in 7B, munching peanuts, sipping ginger ale, flipping aimlessly through in-flight magazines and making small talk with whatever strange or lovely character might be posted to 7A. I have, after all, had my share of rubbery airplane food, straight-faced immigration officers, turbulence and delayed flights this year alone. (As an aside, the pictures below demonstrate what happens in a Thai airport when you are running on nothing but caffeine and a high from your weekend in paradise, and your plane gets delayed so long that you won’t arrive home until 4 a.m. The icing on the cake – you have to be up for work at 6 the next day.)</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500390359906582130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnA04OPqnS8gJ2wcqiQKiooB1V7WCtri869_2S6FFvpJQlas4yKu1OyO6CT0t9aQIjq8Rq2W1D2G_DjMTwjL-FFyYdM8y9jdKxauUcIQ7xYEaqNcrJr3eSWBxLxySTuvwVqUPswYvbJcK/s400/Day+16.83+-+Phuket+Airport.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500390355303865218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFL2-0gag0LkhTQ9XNpuO78DEyM5hlPiXi8NNtboDNtC1jEw9k8tixa5NfpE6AgGwj4whXnXPmGyGjIZEHiu5TgjTK_iwsvdNMxIWTty7Em-pvb7ArlJuBJCiUhlynxzRJVzZWbfDIGOT/s400/Day+16.85+-+Phuket+Airport.JPG" border="0" />I wanted to do it how the birds do -- spread my arms, feel the wind in my hair, smile because the rush of air was forcing my cheeks in an upward-outward direction, and know that I was better than on top of the world. As luck would have it, on our second of two weekend-get-aways, Tim and I were able to do just that.<br /><br /><div>After a day spent lazing on the beach and in the pool at the Hard Rock Hotel on Penang, an island in Malaysia, Tim and I went parasailing. The first towed parachutes were developed by Pierre-Marcel Lemoigne in 1961, and one of the first mentions of its success is of a Frenchman being pulled behind a tractor the same year. Parasailing is offered as a recreational activity for tourists on beaches all over the world. It involves a harness, a parasail, a tow rope, and, thankfully, a boat rather than a tractor. I’m sure you can figure out the rest. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JnPuxmEFd0Nkhx7Wan_PELQoaAY-TFSoicAsCkenGt2Pt_W0AZa10RNdSFknsmtfIaNV_dVVZpQa1Fv_r68DVNUv9zTX0ViJZmc7za-s2z2z6sCyX6aviJyWXBOuU1iRo410Jp0ggjPi/s1600/Day+21.12+-+Parasailing.JPG"></a></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500390366742328546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZH3XakXN-cZVpejauJZyqhrGNaAhWHr3YSinwSduxtmDyoT6jFMiC-NE5LFZa137n0JcyIwatfJkaD5VLrK50XgPKHlwB5aqBQ0SI8VdcyXJhtsbHYT1Z4lFZE4GSHgmBlx85FxNgr1p/s400/Day+21.2+-+Breakfast+on+the+Beach+(Fruit,+Eggs,+Sausage,+Beans,+Bacon,Toast).JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500390377522291762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8waDFj3z8KdJwrmVnPjZDkIGEsCHnWAz9OH0q1Wwghbid5yp-OSP_YqJpK3DCl1D66nPBdJ5RuI_oRcSsJmaULSesQp03f1W8jQvR30kSZOaeilIXIMhgjBanpfzI1WBMNoh1FNTxVgN6/s400/Day+21.7+-+Hard+Rock+Hotel.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500390383600206610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLd_rEh7w9pIJ7wY8coRRneMqEqdRsu5kSDwTpDECea8iZU1BdiXHDM1gHltcTQeAP5vbr3moVPCN0q-0mc2cyFdixtCsY9Ki0-oJ60S3bLGoRW03RnV37GAEaHUZdjhdqWO6H8pd9w9X/s400/Day+21.9+-+Hard+Rock+Hotel.JPG" border="0" />So how was it? Everything I could have hoped for and more. Not only did I satisfy my instinctual human craving to fly, I got an abs work-out in too. (see side-bar for parasailing images)<br /><br /><div>Seven down…one to go.<br /></div></div><div><div>xoxo,</div><div> </div><div></div><div>Rachel</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-42192807096729448412010-07-29T21:29:00.000-07:002010-07-29T23:12:14.287-07:00Thai Dragons<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGLBrIoOw-3TKkU0yVzK8XoKDQg1f6W2ycGD_Y7c6MFeWcvec5-qlRetr3MqJrlJz6vSsjrhBsTgJWlboiax3l6LaIa2F9TDKVLq8quEg2D70AjwxNh4CIycxS4vS7UyEPcz9UtG2hVbV/s1600/Day+14.68+-+Fruit+Farm+(Owner).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499575743455082962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyGLBrIoOw-3TKkU0yVzK8XoKDQg1f6W2ycGD_Y7c6MFeWcvec5-qlRetr3MqJrlJz6vSsjrhBsTgJWlboiax3l6LaIa2F9TDKVLq8quEg2D70AjwxNh4CIycxS4vS7UyEPcz9UtG2hVbV/s320/Day+14.68+-+Fruit+Farm+(Owner).JPG" border="0" /></a> When you are walking amidst a ‘crop’ of dragon fruit-producing cacti in Thailand and the little Thai woman who mothers the plants walks out of her home, plucks one of the pink pearls from the tree, peels back the skin, and offers you a taste of the delicate, creamy, pink pulp fresh from the vine, your life feels a bit surreal already. But when the same, weathered, non-English speaking Thai woman proceeds to grab hold of your hand and continues to maintain the grasp with a vice-like grip that could only belong to a person who has spent much of her life working with her hands, your life feels downright dreamlike. Yet, it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wasn</span>’t a dream. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyABT0eTn4y6R595gnVELAY8WYGR9HoiKkdkHZZSqAN7o2WbaPstEDnQ-AUKBsDGS_tQgzpzBtO3IMKfM4KWtNpcxlOJsqs3aAY6sg_D7YrW4y5Bj17ijFr7rmYVJdZ21GsbrHiHReTQn0/s1600/Day+14.66+-+Fruit+Farm+(Dragonfruit).JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2F0ASGGMGxGzj1EI3cHvP_v5qpGprNel7XWLOw7hF-FUrr1pKUG04rsqWDugu-KqvaDOgC-2s866jTj8Pw2p5pfgqX0nJcfkoqnaOQEnEhtvWYkuwV8y0q33t0ae9vz9Fjio3RbHJWYYY/s1600/Day+14.66+-+Fruit+Farm+(Dragonfruit).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499577134250127298" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2F0ASGGMGxGzj1EI3cHvP_v5qpGprNel7XWLOw7hF-FUrr1pKUG04rsqWDugu-KqvaDOgC-2s866jTj8Pw2p5pfgqX0nJcfkoqnaOQEnEhtvWYkuwV8y0q33t0ae9vz9Fjio3RbHJWYYY/s320/Day+14.66+-+Fruit+Farm+(Dragonfruit).JPG" border="0" /></a>Tim and I had been in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Krabi</span>, Thailand for less than six hours when our guide made a pit stop at a beautiful, colonial-style home complete with an iron gate, wooden porch swing, ivy archway, and dragon fruit orchard. We were coming from a morning spent exploring the sea caves of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Krabi</span> via kayak, after which we had enjoyed a local food feast in a floating restaurant near our dock. Turns out, a casual mention to your Thai guide about your love for local fruits can bring you to a pit stop at a dragon fruit farm in someone’s back yard. Who knew?<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499567620953542610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4phis0m7YHlrx7zOZh_nBLqlmkz2zF_JeMsvouFud7TKvntdvDtuVILWdQ5-r7tqKDad1wSq0P-CToig3jQvLfOBLMzv9tzDbVg0AlVpCvW7UuEOkNH4bSj0SY1jcKuHB2Kh2DZr105mz/s320/Day+14.43+-+Sea+Kayaking.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499567628927971746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqul4zZWhoEW_ZO3NcM-rCLeqAZguBwLmhaTFp24tcriRPcla1Xgn-dbxEbIKaxls5sfErvUbD1Hwwq81gnmcyyBXTXTMthU2vIavIfl6EO_D_UfGalPgT9RynSHEXNGtiS3cNidGJENm/s320/Day+14.64+-+Sea+Kayaking.JPG" border="0" />I was delighted by the strange way the dragon fruits appear, almost like a tumorous growth, at the tip of the cactus’ arms. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">couldn</span>’t help but smile and laugh with the chubby Thai boys playing some strange only-little-boys-know-what-the-object-of-this-is game with sticks and a cactus at the back of the rows of plants. I found pure bliss in sampling one of the sweet-sour pink <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pitaya</span>. And I was utterly contented to have Tim so close to me sharing such a serendipitous travel-in-Southeast-Asia moment. All of these factors added to a feeling of true blue gut-happiness. But, it was one of the simplest of all human gestures that forced this happiness up to touch my heart as well.<br /><br />The Thai woman’s desire to hold my hand related a common human desire to feel connected with others. Without the ability to interact through language, her vice-like grip felt like desperation to communicate an appreciation for visitors. And her initial unwillingness to let go, felt like the most genuine offer of thanks I have ever received.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqT-aYoKD1oM-8CWBLh5Uy3iI1ybS9KQEZyLuQdSSCbzef-JKOyAax1h_s2I0TrF7MmCBCXk9dF0xKJsIRz1TQMaPQN9Nd4RjkXGFCuE10XYiST_c2iD_bzZk3rVg7lLAchVLpXnfBoDq/s1600/Day+14.76+-+Swimming+in+Fresh+Water+Pond.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499569132441370994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqT-aYoKD1oM-8CWBLh5Uy3iI1ybS9KQEZyLuQdSSCbzef-JKOyAax1h_s2I0TrF7MmCBCXk9dF0xKJsIRz1TQMaPQN9Nd4RjkXGFCuE10XYiST_c2iD_bzZk3rVg7lLAchVLpXnfBoDq/s320/Day+14.76+-+Swimming+in+Fresh+Water+Pond.JPG" border="0" /></a>Tim and I went on to have one of those once-in-a-lifetime kind of memorable days, swinging from ropes into a freshwater pond dotted with lilies, watching the sun set over a nearly deserted shell-sand beach, and savoring a slow, mouth-watering Thai curry dinner while watching the World Cup. Yet, it is our quiet moment with the little Thai woman at the dragon fruit farm which seems seared most clearly in my memory.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499570048136073090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf9mebWdBKAk0AYdYmX0DI-gWHgygpravmb4LUOlFKzILIWLfwxTZy4gU9Edrv9w8aSDjbB6XYP7IhXLfN67HwpxEGruqK4mlt4HkSNPQn0yWk-043cJ1O8O2mr3uYMJ-5HBmBtKEHFEHK/s320/Day+14.73+-+Swimming+in+Fresh+Water+Pond.JPG" border="0" /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499571107007854082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpRNrQR7x-uiPllmvdJaat3jbpaNvib9KZpQuhyrgucOXFZUKzORmp7mYTTz4WL_mxhd5uwrexdM0Be5Xve_CjbzZwEiUcJRmZuuTUXEgJuJKml5IgJy5S8qS6tnE67V655Pkt43rS9SE/s320/Day+14.71+-+Swimming+in+Fresh+Water+Pond.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499570053177606642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDY5najEdkaqVQ_3s6Oin_sV4G2R6OfGNAOCY6yRDyyLU9JV7VfGIxEdhE7b937hT-QnLSyHp2JzMkyZ_LCwHbWc4Oq4hbCQ-lVrvmLEoNbRws2aFMkmGIsKQxn9T1hGLwE7KE-Zzlim1v/s320/Day+14.100+-+Sunset+on+Aonang+Beach.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499570069680351378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_DKqmQgnJJhUAXxBEd76mc2Ds-VSdxAzOtd7yCz9-XW5kAFZ3oiPPwu6GHBY0s_oVHFx_1VewXzjuIURp1uNnBqLi7BEsNiP8PXf0gql3wU1Br1Tf55HOkn6ezj58vmZkQG2B0ypr_8cp/s320/Day+14.113+-+Dinner+(Yellow+and+Green+Curry).JPG" border="0" />In China the dragon is a symbol of strength, power, and, in contrast to the European dragon, benevolence. So, how nice to find these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">commendable</span> qualities in a two-minute, language-free connection with a dragon-fruit farming Thai woman.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgLi_1XudLqBbVPyfrSd3PaH8wRx3qeevlGeeb9BYf8Alj1-kkX_NNCX0p8RiQJgX7KhmdfLkQX5UWuneKH7WLF61eXNaMNFxY8WPz53ymbfaahkNGF23EEYr8Uj6oEjFEBOPEqCATSOc/s1600/Day+14.67+-+Fruit+Farm+(Dragonfruit).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499575035941954546" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlgLi_1XudLqBbVPyfrSd3PaH8wRx3qeevlGeeb9BYf8Alj1-kkX_NNCX0p8RiQJgX7KhmdfLkQX5UWuneKH7WLF61eXNaMNFxY8WPz53ymbfaahkNGF23EEYr8Uj6oEjFEBOPEqCATSOc/s320/Day+14.67+-+Fruit+Farm+(Dragonfruit).JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Six down…two to go.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">xoxo</span>,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-75948162289451477552010-07-29T00:42:00.000-07:002010-07-29T06:20:08.371-07:00Why we danceAll throughout my university career one question seemed to follow me, plaguing me a bit like a chronic disease: sometimes constantly nagging, while others gently irritating the strings of my consciousness. The question was not typical of a college undergraduate student. It was not some deep philosophical issue about the secrets of the universe nor was it a more practical query concerning my future plans and goals. Instead, the question was first posed while I lay stretching a sore hamstring in a leotard and pointe shoes on the smooth marley floor of a dance studio. “Why do you dance?”<br /><br />Initially, in my eager freshman excitement, I was quick to offer a response: “because I love it.” But after exploring this epiphany in further detail, I realized that the explanation came from no real, probing thought but rather the naivety of a 19-year-old with a fervent desire to answer all life’s questions in five words or less.<br /><br />Throughout my years at university I teased out a variety of answers to this plaguing question, everything from the realistic, “because it is healthy and makes me feel good spiritually, mentally, and physically” to the more philosophical, “because it is part of what makes me who I am. It helps to define my ‘self’.” Yet, I was never completely satisfied with my answer.<br /><br />Upon leaving college behind more than a year ago, I took with me many of the ‘answers,’ but the one question remained unsolved. Luckily, however, while my sub-consciousness does still find a sneaky way to occasionally force me to ponder the unanswered, I have escaped the icy stares of the people asking the question. That is, until recently.<br /><br />Just over three weeks ago, I auditioned for and was asked to perform in a lyrical jazz dance with 12 other teachers from schools all over Singapore in the opening ceremony of the National Teachers’ Conference in September. When I was completing the ‘individual particulars’ form for the program just last week, I came upon the dreaded question again, appearing suddenly in my life like a ghost from the past. “Why do you dance?”<br /><br />Maybe it is wisdom that comes with age (I am a whole year older after all), knowledge that comes with travel, or insight that comes from interacting with and in a variety of cultures and with many varied individuals, but after much contemplation, I have finally come up with a far more satisfying answer. (Too bad I do not have a college dance professor to enlighten any longer.) This is what I wrote:<br /><br /><em>Every human society that has ever existed on Earth has danced. There is something so primal, raw, and purely human about dancing that seems to break down all cultural, ethnic, religious, economic and political barriers. It is dancing that allows us to communicate with people who are very different from ourselves, and it is dancing that has the ability to reveal the commonalities between all people. Dancing opens a window to the soul, and it is for this reason that I feel most alive, most connected, and most fulfilled as a person when I am watching dance or dancing myself. Dancing has become like breathing to me, and without it, I do not think I would feel fully alive.<br /></em><br />So, with my new found answer I have reflected more clearly on the dancing my mom, Elizabeth, and I were able to witness when we were in Cambodia. We watched groups of orphans singing and dancing among the ancient temples of Angkor Wat, gazed upon the grand ballet stage on which the king gives his private performances, and saw traditional Khmer dance over a Khmer dinner feast.<br /><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499235260097407618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fJb7IW6ju1sIfx_6mVZK3-B81HiUkJnsw_cNnrLMCbLTcvm4s1qAhR4_stbKfhjSJynI5xHqMZMxG9sEdwdm6QYzghMJ3UfNFnWnSCWZpqRUguVBoRJM2v42RmjclPwc5HbHF9lQcsRO/s200/CIMG3892.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499235270295728850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7n-Nha4PHJTraNiBKqj6tG6hQo0mD2BdPwdPEo9ol_2Uh8orHsODjc2gpdiQ6gDHncW2r4lg9VwCTNDQ5cautvcZkp58-qRtorFsct4-F1BJR7VbmXZutXFvhuycYOLVkfTqJ-aWkC748/s200/CIMG3893.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dySxAoY6zQ9sYDoow-y4892j4JOfgaRe0Sk0GmBE6Oi2_8hyW_Ir0_YHCvYrT084LYXvh0i8PaMgDuLCfNZhg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499235279797973362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDeukZk6DvvprzZsI2dNWBVRbHrCIg5TU2KJhK_ZLWJ02kAE9MScAn5V6JxrpHY87kcsOEer_z3WsXZ8XcR0ywKmO1-Sm8TuFfB0CR5igR2sF3AFlUOiVy4TjJ7MBXybqIMlLBLlF-Ru5j/s200/CIMG3904.JPG" border="0" />And while these dances are worlds away from my day-to-day knowledge, I cannot help but realize how much I was able to relate and connect to them. After all, what is more raw and purely human than poverty-stricken orphans, singing and moving with a joy so innocent and pure that it can only be found as glints in the eyes of children all over the world? Who cannot relate to the heavy weight of grander which presses on one’s chest at the sight of a great and beautiful performance hall or theatre? And what cultural, ethnic, religious, political, or economic barrier stands in the way of the themes of young love, daily chores, and prayer/spirituality which weaved themselves into the traditional Khmer dances?<br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx5RR2aAGWenwxeVSHLoHexFqCQ17auIHNck6Dn5y0CnicdCibcS_TeRhxH_SSjMqy7h60X_yE_dPTJuIkn' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><br />With dancing’s power of communication and ability to create a very real, very powerful human connection between very different people, it is no wonder that I find myself drawn to watching dance and to dancing myself no matter where I am in this small world. Excuse me while I continue to dance my way through Southeast Asia.<br /><br />Five down…three to go.<br /><br />xoxo,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-68239112627435851012010-07-27T18:21:00.000-07:002010-07-27T19:17:57.858-07:00Riding in buses in third world countriesRiding in buses in third world countries is not exactly like riding in buses in the developed world.<br /><br />While buses in the first world generally stay on the right side of the road, those in the developing world tend to assume that since they are the biggest vehicle/animal on the road everything else should be required to move out of their way.<br /><br />Buses in the West honk for one of two reasons: (a) another vehicle is approaching it head-on or (b) the car in front of it is being driven by a ninety-five year old man who is partially blind in his left eye. Buses in Cambodia, on the other hand, honk not once but at least five times at every moped, ox cart, bicyclist, cow, or mosquito that may get in its way.<br /><br />A Greyhound in the Western world may avoid near fatal accidents by screeching to a halt in front of a semi-truck that has just pulled out in front of it on the highway. Those in third world nations avoid the same fatal tragedies by barely missing stray cows.<br /><br />While buses in America breeze through one-way construction zones safely escorted by pilot trucks with flashing yellow lights, those in Cambodia spend 20 minutes in a power struggle stare-down with another car coming from the opposite direction until one vehicle (usually the smaller of the two) finally gives in and moves out of the way.<br /><br />Most bus pit stops in the West provide, at the very least, a flushing toilet and running water in the sink. Those in the developing world provide, at the very most, a hole in the ground behind a creaky wooden door that won’t quite latch. And, at rest stops in America it is quite common to find a bottle of water to quench your thirst, but those in Cambodia provide large cement cisterns for weary travelers to wash their faces and refill their water bottles with the same stale rainwater.<br /><br />Buses in developed nations may require a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pre</span>-paid ticket and a specific meeting time, but those in the third world require only a wave from the roadside and a small bribe for the driver and luggage boy.<br /><br />And this five-hour, non-shock absorbing, honking, swerving, cow-breaking bus was exactly the way in which my mom and sister were officially initiated into traveling in Southeast Asia.<br /><br />The three of us spent one very varied and memorable day in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Phnom</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Penh</span> viewing the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Tuol</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Sleng</span> Genocide museum, bargaining for purses, dresses, and shoes at the Russian Market, visiting the King’s palace, and enjoying a quiet dinner and shopping at Friends, a restaurant and store whose employees are former street children who have been imbued with a skill in a school with the same name.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498771068682207026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiszZsbzC_ytIyOodwwFchvm8LB4E6pnYJMrZJcfgFCHaa-WbXnEGuPo55g9FHaoZq2uDhh81NBZ-VRtZY8dG3Om_5GOq4AM3tRmfy94LWyyJvjMgeJQDkSd107u-8nftz-feeeWDQjxvWg/s400/CIMG3720.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498771080896082802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6dmDpxN5p5HbN6vY00UFjPmf4KRlEWFH2dRj3vtxmNMUiqG10fmzlPoygf3ZhVk23n1pSKTyjJ0ttpYsD_GmJxBfQ7Vc8bB4UXAjg0w9ZafqQgGRNg8_Xn6hNzZcVfcjVWEdiin-5wZ0/s400/CIMG3723.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498771102817286370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQFODQvB3heARI8uQj1D9TaouJP19e46YGHDyGIb4lxpekG6AmIH8_GBzN_guq2L54iO1Sohr4vwyA6ssw6UdCl9H4kf7JiogVF6g9gBVuBeLpLJ9KtmSxBkqMfYhdc4euc6oyrRqHmGx/s400/CIMG3730.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498771119034194962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK1WnnZWc-exQN0EkOZtj0bBSJErmzf9h_3gRfZzeLvynv7mGLjiO9hV2XGmUtIEo3k0ZuwIxlQV-WZ7Oxvtqr5MdyCjYrfvsEtDXsIwBngPj4xRySDw3uOtI6kgtRimk5qSKRThaI8MHh/s400/CIMG3731.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498772087589486898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC65JMTR0goHL_e7UsYkYWUKjcpruUl8DsisoUN-Gc56MKgAC7quKiP6Gr7M-D7YN8_R5MMBsBGyCIxz__oSjW5pWkMpXVdrE40e31-4rdD2D906tHlW6KMsarWiZJZGd36iGBb-bwAFZs/s400/CIMG3732.JPG" border="0" />Then, with a hearty breakfast under our belts the following morning, we boarded the infamous bus for the soon-to-be long journey to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Siem</span> Reap, a city near where the famous temples of Angkor lie.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498772462224164386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Tx6eW87EQgnzpiszsLd8KhL8cGU3VZOAfYsIJTPPDjXi9JWaU2DJpzgdTYOlLLZGM5cvAraX7SCGSZF0jOf6lt9avuX3o8ulGM2vgrc3jwK5VWnJMmZNvJ_wjUAVJEVQOwAEswQNV6Pu/s400/101_0473.JPG" border="0" />After our arrival, we were quite ready for a lovely dinner at the Red Piano restaurant on Pub Street and a massage at our hotel, thanks to the lack of shocks in the aforementioned bus. Welcome to Cambodia Mom and Sis. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498772105967270018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvtGQesAyd7F9vut_Ly0tfXk_8L34MATfSSrrLXVo4xUtub6DbKRnONS9zpWt1afd732GWeE0zTLm1F5dmnQIadPh9K-vWYA60B9MAF5YIhWy9BrVJl7Jki6fnOTkJ5AajhxwViaosuE6/s400/CIMG3735.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498772098077314242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjlSrxm_-mhoNTzkvzYCrqCQ-usflKkY3kNi9tQ87c8NSYnxMlA-NE7gTeqPt1xi6SM5QNVG2Djo_DcGj4HDL7v_mugwwoQHYoNNJVLDkfmXeU0Gl0URs0kBdi6imyliW4s9e8g_St9JB/s400/CIMG3733.JPG" border="0" />Four down…four to go.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">xoxo</span>,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-61233200110411834712010-07-26T18:34:00.000-07:002010-07-26T19:03:39.813-07:00Going greenWhen it comes to green foods, with the rare exception of some fruits and vegetables, I find the best advice is to avoid them. Green meat, for example, is probably best left alone. Green eggs and ham are more suited for Dr. Seuss. And I would suggest straying from any bread or cheese with a little green on top. Yet, despite my wariness toward green fare, green cuisine has been popping up in my life in unexpected ways as of late.<br /><br />Singapore’s infamous ice-cream ‘sandwiches,’ in which an actual slice of bread is folded around a chunk of ice cream, come in a green pastry shell. My mom and, in particular, my sister were fond of the green grub when they were here on their visit. The ‘sandwiches’ include every flavor from ordinary raspberry ripple, mango, chocolate, and mocha to extraordinary corn, red bean, and yam. But what makes the sandwiches really unique is not the ice-cream flavor, but rather the green bread in which the dairy sweet is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">snugly</span> tucked.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394331621728386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvFUV8fb2ENMx6BVwXIzpiwdX_nLGV-pyTe12rkHjuESSGrlMg3TtbjRntzUbZyF_1TAq3MYUMhJiUgLA_1O8_vYEroG7daUJISDkRraJ1DYB4d1llu4MQ4Q2k_L27z_eXYfupGI3c80Gl/s400/Day+1.4+-+Icecream+Sandwich.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394317073094578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-HShcnbMqLvIxxmhchDYEaVGNMRTkskcAKgfXNk1X8mvONAPlW4D4TSeNPn7UehZ6VBgAupaB55Y-aljEDzDh8yVUw8Jg0NVFGYx_KH8m4ZSqe5L58u1tbTyGA655s1KTGLqafCTrrJLZ/s400/Day+1.2+-+Icecream+Sandwich.JPG" border="0" />The ‘sandwiches’ are made with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">pandan</span> bread. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Pandan</span> is a tropical green plant that looks a bit like a cross between a fern and an aloe <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">vera</span> shrub. The leaves are common in Southeast Asian cooking, used to wrap chicken or fish before frying, woven into a basket in which to cook rice, or mixed in to give a nutty, botanical fragrance to breads and cakes.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394324518806946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-O-6pKYi97MJMHEyYSWV8bkz3OcHxLP9BweJudwcZhyphenhyphen4Hhn26149E4fLL6XvRY475RwjKN34toNiGKG6I7jnF4wa-3d3afKntgDKDM1eOt-MUBWWB9S26KIBkuCP363ZZimnPJzTRWGT/s400/Day+1.3+-+Icecream+Sandwich.JPG" border="0" />While <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pandan</span> can be mixed in to give bread a distinctive green shade, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Kaya</span>, spread on top, can achieve the same coloring and flavoring affect. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Kaya</span> is something like thick, green, coconut-flavored jam and, when spread on toast, is a popular breakfast food and snack in Singapore and Malaysia. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Kaya</span> is made using eggs, sugar, coconut milk, and, of course, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">pandan</span>. When I first moved to Singapore, I was initially a bit skeptical of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">eggy</span> jam, and my hostility toward green foods did not help the matter. However, because it is a year of risk-taking, I eventually found myself quite fond of the green spread and have happily spread the love by sharing the green toast-topper with my loved ones on their visits.<br /><br />The biggest green surprise of all, though, was a little green package that made it all the way from 213 W Capitol in Pierre, SD to my doorstep at the Singapore Polytechnic Staff Apartments. After hearing my numerous complaints about the $13 pints of Ben and Jerry’s (really how is a girl on a teacher’s salary suppose to get her ice cream fix!?) and all about my yearning to satisfy an intense <a href="http://www.facebook.com/posted.php?id=353899173576#!/group.php?gid=353899173576&v=wall"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Zesto</span></a> craving, Tim brought me a quart of lime sherbet all the way from half-way around the world.<br /><br />The last of the strange green substances in my life the last couple weeks, though not a food, was substantial non-the-less. At Red Dot Brewery, Tim and I tasted the Monster Green Lager. Not to be mistaken for a typical St. Patrick’s Day beer, the Monster Green is made incorporating <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">spirulina</span>.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394342294369362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMFdzkmFMGucZA1nlU1gdYfdvDGvKbSQlDgwOlNMwV_67Lg8pysMmejlKrx0C3_taPRwYQuS-E4bi6cVBkcJpy-LYkx73kZkgVRdgWfQFc0ccdJBb0GRorHnRz0euFpDETPPSxUk0YgvB/s400/Day+9.1+Monday+June+28+-+RedDot+Brewhouse.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394349583672066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9-gVNPaS73THaWhzOsmjaprg2e9u5Q55wi8Hqo1LkI8NUwDS8c5YAbsBTGf_zu_pmORI59OOjIiJqmZlpI8N7UyUeq_WqZyKQs0Dm-3Gf_BJaX0LUv2ervseL7D5r9bVyLEsR_j2k_UeX/s400/Day+9.2+-+RedDot+Brewhouse.JPG" border="0" />After hearing all about the positive health affects of beer on a Tiger Brewery tour with my dad and grandma, I was curious to try this ‘healthy’ green tonic. If regular beer can, according to our expert Tiger tour guide, raise the levels of good cholesterol thus keeping the arteries free of dangerous build-up, give one a boost of vitamins B1, B2, B3, and B6, help to calm and relax the nerves before bed, and improve performance, concentration, and reaction time in athletes, then a beer chock-full of vegetable protein, beta-carotene, essential fatty acids, and Vitamin B12 must be nothing short of bottled health. (Dad, you can thank me later for relaying this information to Mom.)<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394986949717394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PY0T18vjwPfVEfCVFLKP2BAZY9M8O10sInU01Y8f-oqQRDFGc3tCbznCULSoI54CeuqQZC6Rco-cJaRG1ju2UgCzcsLhhcMC5N1kJG-ZgB51Y76Jty77oAbiR77ewYmz8dskpBohjYbk/s400/fam+007.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394997622026210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPhabRl5p2cfjeZIBWl0EyQEJ2iCEoyUwlGDdS7YTVWGWJmkCa9V1aUMJmInDkEcaDm4PF7SGgbVWi6SrzEeKT0yWU_spV-6t3S_a1-3qq1FKPs6ZtujjNeiISxeWgVNOqHLrASR2RISz/s400/fam+010.jpg" border="0" />So, Tim and I gave the green, liquid, vitamin concoction a try. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Spirulina</span> is produced from blue-green algae and is particularly touted for its 60 percent vegetable protein content. In beer it is used to create a light, refreshing taste without the heavy flavor of hops, and, according to Chinese <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">mixologists</span>, to add the above mentioned healthy components.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498394963850137506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGA9M-94HC9r7geVbsytUZHkf-f2qOc61dBckbsBWnLcg1Bp-pI9JjVlxqgzd1FWdNhJz54INxrgnrBy-yWhjDLA0OsvI2-IhZNqALndM_4CcS_9wxRgLAqEL6GelwmVsZ38GsPzj_tdD/s400/Day+9.3+-+RedDot+Brewhouse.JPG" border="0" />The color green may get a bad rap; it is the color of jealousy, mold, and roller-coaster-induced nausea after all. However, I have found a strange sort-of joy in all things green this month. Here’s to going green.<br /><br />Three down…five to go.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">xoxo</span>,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-10593018666089728302010-07-26T03:46:00.001-07:002010-08-05T04:39:39.252-07:00Pretty Women; alternative title: Being White in AsiaFirst a link to some photos:<br />Tim's Visit: <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/TimSVisit">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/TimSVisit</a>#<br />Family Vacation: <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/FamilyVacation">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/FamilyVacation</a>#<br />Cambodia 2.0: <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/Cambodia20">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/Cambodia20</a>#<br /><br />When something is novel it is quite easy to find the beauty in it. When one first arrives in Asia, every ornate Chinese temple, every strange tropical flower, every white sand beach at sunset, is easy to marvel at. It is easy to let the new and exotic capture your senses and take your breath away. It is easy to feel lost in awe, and it is easy to live in each moment, present entirely.<br /><br />What is not as easy, however, is to let oneself marvel at the 57th ornate Chinese carving, to fully appreciate the scent of magnolias riding on the wind morning after morning, and to stand in complete awed silence as yet another sunset casts a golden sheen over the same white sand beach. But, while the initial sense of overwhelming wonder may fade, it is important, though not necessarily easy, to find an appreciation for the novel that has become the norm. Because who would want to live a life in which the fantastic has become mundane?<br /><br />It has therefore become my goal, in these last few months in Asia, to find a full and complete appreciation for the 58th and 59th Chinese temples, to let myself feel, taste, and smell each morning, and to be lulled into an absolute peace as the sun bids each day farewell over those Paradise-esque beaches. Luckily, I was blessed to have two sets of visitors for the last six weeks who were, as newcomers, able to marvel and wonder at the beauty of the novel and who were able to re-instill in me the same sense of awe.<br /><br />To Asians living in Asia the novel and by default the beautiful are not, obviously, the myriad of temples, strange tropical plants, or palm-tree laden beaches. In Asia (more so in countries other than Singapore but in Singapore also) the exotic and beautiful are Caucasian people and by default my family, boyfriend, and I.<br /><br />At Princeton in Asia orientation over a year ago the directors mentioned, almost as an aside, that we would never in our lives feel or be as beautiful as we would be in Asia. Because Caucasians are a novelty in many places in Southeast Asia we are, according to the rule of novel things, beautiful. If the rule of novelty is not enough to make you believe in this strange phenomenon, perhaps a few examples (and pictures to prove it) will.<br /><br />Almost every time I go to Sentosa, a major hub of tourist activity with a casino, several beaches, a giant Merlion, and the recently-opened Universal Studios, people ask to have their picture taken with me. More often than not, the people are tourists from remote places in India, Indonesia, or Malaysia who have rarely, if ever, seen a white person. To be completely clear, I am not by any means bragging, because who in their right mind wants their sunbathing constantly interrupted by groups of Indian men desperate for a picture with a white girl in a bikini? In a way, though, they can’t really be blamed for their forwardness, as the only places they have probably every seen white women are porn movies. (The porn industry in rural India is booming, and the majority of porn movies come from the West.) But it is not only large groups of Indian men seeking a photo shoot on Sentosa. I have also been asked by parents to hold small children for a snapshot or to pose with an elderly Muslim woman and her friends.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498168221537953426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9baadUKUtNjOVli-Xr4GmOeHll1y4nx6k3CXUOH_nv7i3JgJCK3QKlAOpnNTugYnQnte7AformVU84AWK5lkPm5DTNxQtyJOyPCpEHrJypG9LSEzClYTZkcVH3qX3sMyuLRhN3IP8eqg/s400/tim+038.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498168226679886834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gqqFgG4izaNSVObogMrLTXjmpBhNaglEULwURwae1i7Kdza3t7cGHp82WuGammsBgZNfLu9xdCC56VNJmjVhZhD3sYezfI5x7npkqiYVeTrVqXd5Z-2-2PWCyc7_HMwxnrJA4CcnDMAt/s400/for+rachel+-+13.jpg" border="0" />In Beijing, I sat on a bench near Tiananmen Square for nearly 30 minutes as people lined up to capture a moment on film with me, and several not-so-covert Japanese photographers took my photo on both my trips to Angkor Wat in Cambodia. (As a side note, I’d be interested to hear what they tell their family and friends when they are going through their vacation photos. “Oh, this is the random white girl I took my photo with.” I wonder if I’ll make it to someone’s mantelpiece or blog someday?)<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498168211847531154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS6oCNrVpLfxeaEcBmlwthA2HQXsumWMAwMbFIn8GwCY_zRCv8y0gBenyvREF0zpgVjkaQNwFYsKdJ68q7gzMCOr9xWmHW1LQvOksh07WCf45c6_v8UnG_redyokngI7SfEnscdVHgEC5d/s400/Beijing+111.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498168199032924290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Dn23exjXc-WM8B2lfmGbBIeb37vO6VjG6nGSCCPjfvPFJZdHDpogynCeGvw9CIY6tLmYmjttoD0xkQlFAd0kIyENqkBd-kaG9mvkt4nsB90uev-5EuLKun0brk_b6G99NgjgV8gES5g7/s400/Angkor+104.jpg" border="0" />So, of course, my sister, mother, and grandmother were no exception to the novelty rule throughout their visit in Asia. They were good sports when the large group of Indian men requested a photo shoot at Sentosa and graciously accepted every compliment they received about their beauty from everyone from my Vice Principal to the street children and masseuses in Cambodia.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498168235245998018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JARmSJj12pN1uC6FrJtr85BahwpvxTAQ9phnvLLuv28JVpuJtSX1oTORquS5mVhhFMkHIEDP8GmYNOGg4rKUlOM2LdJ0nDhTfvosjxeVYpJFi-LfTwK4F2wyYSP4uO2bb9oq9oJfm9yr/s400/101_0468.JPG" border="0" />Tim was not spared the ego-stroking power of the rule of novelty either. After he paid an afternoon visit to my school, the rumor running ramped among not only the students but also my colleagues was that Ms. Rachel is dating a David Beckham or Justin Timberlake look-a-like. In addition, the lady at my regular nail salon gave me a thumbs-up sign and mouthed the words “very handsome” behind Tim’s back as he was waiting for his massage. I am oh so glad the lady at the nail salon approves of my taste in men. Thanks.<br /><br />And, as if to drive my point home, this afternoon, while riding home on the bus with one of my students, I noticed a group of elderly Chinese women making not-so-stealthy glances my way and muttering in Mandarin under their breath. Feeling, understandably, uncomfortable I asked my student what they were saying. “Oh, they think you are beautiful, Ms. Rachel,” she said, and then smiled and offered the women the thanks I asked her to on my behalf.<br /><br />So, for the next few months in Asia, I am happy to submit myself to the rule of novelty.<br /><br />I have made myself a promise: I will see what I look at. I will recognize the fantastic in even that which has become the norm in my life. I not allow myself to feel that the awe-inspiring is mundane. I will try to find an appreciation for all that is or was once novel to me, because in less than five months, that Chinese Temple on the corner will be worlds away, the morning scent of magnolias will become the evening scent of ever-greens, and the white sand beach will be a vacation destination instead of a home.<br /><br />In addition, I will gladly take the compliments and ego-stroking without a twinge of guilt…after all, I will probably never be this good looking again in my life.<br /><br />Two down…six to go.<br /><br />xoxo,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-43317785199132800632010-07-25T03:06:00.000-07:002010-07-25T04:36:21.109-07:00The number eightTraditional Chinese culture is teeming with customs and beliefs which are well, for a lack of a better word, “foreign” to me. Yet, this year I have been fortunate enough to learn about many of the beliefs and even participate in some of the ceremonies to gain a greater understanding of these ancient and deeply sacred values (see tossing Yu Sheng salad, Ten Treasures soup, feng shui, and attending a mother/child one-month coming out party to name a few).<br /><br />One cultural belief, which I find particularly appealing, is the Chinese affinity for luck. Whether it be tossing luck with chopsticks and cabbage, measuring a year in luck based on your particular Chinese Zodiac, or finding luck in the numbers, good and bad fortune are as much a part of the daily life of many Chinese people as eating, drinking, and breathing.<br /><br />Despite my usual animosity toward numbers (words are, after all, my preferred medium of choice), I am actually quite intrigued by the idea of lucky numbers. In traditional Chinese culture, certain numbers are believed to be auspicious or inauspicious. Often the luck, or lack-there-of, of a number is determined by the Chinese word that the number name sounds similar to. The Chinese word for “eight” sounds similar to another Chinese word meaning “prosper”, “wealth”, or “fortune” thus “eight” is a lucky number.<br /><br />Eight petals can be found on the Buddhist lotus flower. The Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia have 88 floors. The opening ceremony of the Summer Olympics in Beijing began on 8/8/08 at 8 seconds and 8 minutes past 8 p.m. local time. Even the Singapore Flyer boasts 28 capsules each with a maximum capacity of 28 persons. The figure “28” means “double prosperity” or “easy to prosper” and the Singapore Flyer’s website calls it the “largest Wheel of Fortune in its own rights.”<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497803361352647554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mH93SeWmMLrWyShTB8BS24l-KcVM0EvQX6Ci2njyAOljLPQYRtlmCaHrGcyQB_5gqBbImm6o8MaPe4BSWnsiP3lVz07J3704qyHSg3N5MY6bykTuMihGWwwOpU8myWDhIkMAVG7t6GSc/s400/famil+027.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497803345301376850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzRkbnWkXIXVvdIRNedPc430E20N2j0-6p3LG4OCDN-aTGImT1HG5PXL428NHzBx7fCkvzUekqYTbTe-e0zSztT9r15OPqVjVPVEgJzWPjuutJeP7MYicd2oilZZRtGi_hyphenhyphenRlJB6MVkUc/s400/Day+13.15+-+The+Flyer.JPG" border="0" />So being that the Flyer is said to encompass so much luck, not to mention it is one of the “Top 10 in Singapore”, I naturally visited the Flyer with both my family and Tim when they were here on their respective vacations.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497804529945552178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbtmD3ms5DinVptD8skzEGvV3Y8hFY84FGq7Fui-dH8STbN5r4gLfvGb6DP5ONhAGGz8jKky-cx43IFeNZ6kLJNLbd5ExeBs0JKSTm6I5aFPaEnW_zvpaYASpxdPusdJPsKPk2pJbQzRWi/s400/famil+022.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497803336694861570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5TOU1a8AoQYAWRtF1V84ykEtikneEIASeNKl-gNRzTr5QmcpremNaRSRjyUK7dQFYe1kLAvQ5ZLW2NcfGJqwDmzBsHnv5nh9nOYQDa9ClcrSRTPGZfZ8vcDKGbgwffJ4wr1-Pm8tM1hYz/s400/Day+13.20+-+The+Flyer.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497803352425562466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLm45pnfIIF1HLvUDLdbhyphenhyphenrF8yIY7HRzqifGcOrcbg2wWxxVmhPUEjubCAjE4RZkDdHTSCNBeDpOuEdqsbnNOfLtNSPRpXg8amaZHNmRkNoOGyyWJ45Bj1Gtx8n09gPhg2UyfoR8_RmX-/s400/Day+13.18+-+The+Flyer.JPG" border="0" />In addition, being that the number eight is on my mind, not to mention I have not put up a blog entry in almost two months and a lot has happened between then and now, I have set a personal goal for myself. For the next EIGHT days I will write one blog entry a day, totaling, of course, EIGHT. Each of the EIGHT entries will include highlights and anecdotes about my family’s visit to Singapore and our trip to Cambodia or Tim’s trip which included vacations to both Thailand and Malaysia.<br /><br />Also, being that I still have a job, a social life, and dance rehearsals, not to mention no one reading this probably has time to re-live the last seven weeks of my life with me play by play, I will keep these entries short, sweet, and, one can hope, entertaining.<br /><br />So there you have it, eight days, eight entries, and we’ll be all caught up.<br /><br />One down…seven to go.<br /><br />xoxo,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-7001897317968253792010-05-28T02:19:00.000-07:002010-05-28T05:30:45.137-07:00Finding Balance“Life’s energy source rides the wind and scatters, but is retained when encountering water.”<br /><br />This cultural shorthand, used in an explanation of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">feng</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">shui</span>, which literally translates to mean wind-water, was taken from a passage of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Zangshu</span> (Book of Burial) by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Guo</span> Pu of ancient China’s <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Jin</span> Dynasty. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Feng</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">shui</span> is an ancient Chinese system of aesthetics, especially when concerning one’s living space, which uses both the laws of astronomy and geography to help one improve life by receiving positive energy and decreasing the negative.<br /><br />While I’m not sure that I willingly and immediately embrace all the principles of the auspicious Chinese tradition, nor am I overly impressed with the occasional over-commercialization of that same cultural tradition in the interior design offices of the Western world, I am certainly not opposed to welcoming a little more positive energy into my life. So, when Tera, my new temporary roommate and a former <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">feng</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">shui</span> design consultant from Orange County, California, offered Stephanie and me a free <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">feng</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">shui</span> consultancy as a token of her gratitude, we jumped at the opportunity.<br /><br />Changes thus far: Rearranging my bed placement, so it is facing the door, should help me feel more in control of my life both at home and at the office. Relocating our dining room table has the potential to encourage more social interaction in an often ignored location in our apartment. Stephanie’s addition of symmetrical night stands on either side of her bed may help her to find romance, and the removal of an old Chinese New Year decoration in our entry way may actually lift our energy levels up. Here’s hoping.<br /><br />I say I am more than willing to try any trick in the book to bring more positive energy into my life, not because I am depressed or in anyway hitting that cultural shock low again…I believe and hope that time has passed. But rather, this plea comes because I need to somehow find a bit more balance in my life. It has been quite a long time since I last wrote a blog entry, but I can, in fact, sum-up my life since May 6 in one short sentence: I have been working 10-12 hour days…every day.<br /><br />Of course, all the extra work time has occurred as a result of a perfect storm of factors: 1.) I am staying after school almost everyday to practice choreography with the kids in the school musical, because the show opens one week from now (As a side note, this, of course, has been a wonderful opportunity, and I am incredibly grateful to my school for utilizing my talents in appropriate ways. I am also so proud of and excited for the kids to show off all their hard work, especially because my family will arrive just in time for the premier. ). 2.) Mid-year exams left me with 160 essays to grade in addition to 80 short answer and summary scripts. 3.) The end of the term has meant more time is needed to prepare for next term. 4.) The end of the term has also meant a rush to tie up any loose ends, which, in Singapore, of course, always means more meetings.<br /><br />As a result, when I'm not ordering in pizza and watching movies with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Steph</span>, many of my weekends have been spent simply trying to catch up on school work…and sleep. Now that the term is officially over, I will be involved in musical rehearsals, parent’s day meetings (on Saturday), oral communications teaching courses, or invigilation of oral examinations for the next week. See what I mean about needing some positive energy flow?<br /><br />However, the best cure and the best kind of positive energy that one can have, one’s family, is boarding a plane one week from today and will be knocking on my door, I’m sure, with a whole new positive life force for me to feed from.<br /><br />In the midst of all the insanity that has been my work life, I have, in fact, been able to find some lovely, if not grand, positive moments in the last several weeks. Yet, in an effort to preserve the energy I have left, and because I am planning an extravagant pasta and wine dinner for myself this evening (yes, there is food involved in my rush to get away, remember who you’re dealing with here), I am going to present you with a brief photo summary of the positive energy moments that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">occurred</span> this month, which, possibly, my new-found <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">feng</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">shui</span> aura has founded.<br /><br />Even though it is 90 degrees everyday, there is nothing like a big bowl of chili and some country music to cure any inkling of home sickness.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476274175467151762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0cvpvOjogKcDFT7LjukB4iUFykAfMIv7B8vTgieRWlr7B8opqZWpQN9JrnmOmM8mZLkIL0Y8r0TQX8X2EowX5bAeqSc8Pe6_AlG77uPGm_22V6ElL7wGpp8X-1A-syhAyg4sRXTtAk-g/s400/easter+006.jpg" border="0" /><br />Hannah and Jacob's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Cinco</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">de</span> Mayo party required that we wear mustaches to gain entry...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Steph</span> and I found a loophole to avoid sporting a painted-on mustache all evening.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476274189540660050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh93Zh8iBL0Fc425pLJGMT36rMRX8z1iBX9qJeS-ilTrpySD5V073AIycjZxoRUnZwhmPzOT7Wy6IQMHXJP0CZeXWD6nRHZRmBajfh3I3wV2t7-fmTq1vXUCjvJj29rZWMC-jizXHQBtxs8/s400/CIMG3605.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center">Jacob and company playing music for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Cinco</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">de</span> Mayo.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMlmtODBc4k1DMqPFqK9Ivg_8T57fb-6L8JtkVRZDxKAQI0-rP_nkCRKwfBtgXAvcaaqduPzNnRzo27wz7Ze_k3hZr8d_hIS3X95G8fkGNutwJf32oy6G8SZfc7tjWfNN3CpUSxCGIYGl/s1600/CIMG3616.JPG"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyqFa1bpAe2Efphotp2K74nYYeftYRIDmtiyqG5qmKKoNencU9eGqiHxp73E0UCcMyExo-pS6Oc5HVhhg0Dnw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></a></p><br /><br />We planned a picnic in the park for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Ranu's</span> last day in Singapore. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Ingredients</span> for a perfect picnic: light breeze (check), great view (check), wine (check), cheese (check), fruit (check), football (check), kites everywhere (check), good friends (many checks)...perfect. Lisa took the chance to practice the skills she learned while watching the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">USC</span> football team for four years.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMlmtODBc4k1DMqPFqK9Ivg_8T57fb-6L8JtkVRZDxKAQI0-rP_nkCRKwfBtgXAvcaaqduPzNnRzo27wz7Ze_k3hZr8d_hIS3X95G8fkGNutwJf32oy6G8SZfc7tjWfNN3CpUSxCGIYGl/s1600/CIMG3616.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476284307527350674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMlmtODBc4k1DMqPFqK9Ivg_8T57fb-6L8JtkVRZDxKAQI0-rP_nkCRKwfBtgXAvcaaqduPzNnRzo27wz7Ze_k3hZr8d_hIS3X95G8fkGNutwJf32oy6G8SZfc7tjWfNN3CpUSxCGIYGl/s400/CIMG3616.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Steph</span> also had some sweet moves.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC8w_lTotBr-1GQ7NqnTXpH0hzN9h_-AVyG2HWDeaIGXbDSagoT9M_rN1AF-f6UjPgHjrcYPjbGe5Zq5GS_4RqEBQuDBeNOIqU9FLRw3jDcu51Tze3twR1YdXOOp260m9yK8Qw3_ZJzPse/s1600/CIMG3619.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476284301096097954" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC8w_lTotBr-1GQ7NqnTXpH0hzN9h_-AVyG2HWDeaIGXbDSagoT9M_rN1AF-f6UjPgHjrcYPjbGe5Zq5GS_4RqEBQuDBeNOIqU9FLRw3jDcu51Tze3twR1YdXOOp260m9yK8Qw3_ZJzPse/s400/CIMG3619.JPG" border="0" /></a> The view from the picnic spot was picturesque...kites galore!<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476284276982571650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm_QF4lXGtChh-t0iTIzUceksg-VPNmEvhTSwbaeHXWWj5qLafX9bHvcs4oJ7NZ7aME2EAMzUkaNlp-QzD6y69NfR-N9vZb4reXBKiA4ifbGLN73UROKwyX5ZCnlGsomer45GpwUIehyphenhyphen1O/s400/CIMG3620.JPG" border="0" />We all gave the football toss a shot (thanks to Dad, my spiral is nothing to be ashamed of)...what a fun last moment in Singapore for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Ranu</span> to remember!<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476284270589508450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi86NBEWRJXobwnt0036aY8xRlY9IA8F06hqdaenG3F97WKgLI23vDG4jnK4H7ptMZp8UU1fceIhM21Ng8GFgoX3t1emZ7_222wdwMZpqRT5Y29sZbPkVBDrPhk9o5lqgz2R5gHjPVD7WIT/s400/CIMG3617.JPG" border="0" />My roommate/best friend and I...I miss her already and she's only been on vacation in India for a day!<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BCDL3haLeYFOcBd0-A2fUSr7dZboG2X486M3kkbPmAtzg3XaEmBlVgDlUXubJThf1_Lv8pJ4KQ4-R0353Lmx1qCBHOQ3J-ccYJqiB8_U9kXKuS2yQ7UnaC5ztDlfZkXi8NMc_s84K5E3/s1600/CIMG3621.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476284292593909778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BCDL3haLeYFOcBd0-A2fUSr7dZboG2X486M3kkbPmAtzg3XaEmBlVgDlUXubJThf1_Lv8pJ4KQ4-R0353Lmx1qCBHOQ3J-ccYJqiB8_U9kXKuS2yQ7UnaC5ztDlfZkXi8NMc_s84K5E3/s400/CIMG3621.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Ranu</span> and I spotted several monkey's on our hike...luckily I didn't bring along breakfast this time.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-ZYj7qBOpLF-mGeIBhvoEIhMa7KZ62FoqDt3ZkF7cxv8XcrbIKAPQQ8lPUTEIKKzok1MVPxeNN0YaJ3G3pOgwz8NyFH4f_eAPt2KAfUJInkDWmwlC2U8Rc5mhdzow2mS9SR4KBeGdgAf/s1600/CIMG3609.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476274219038489058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-ZYj7qBOpLF-mGeIBhvoEIhMa7KZ62FoqDt3ZkF7cxv8XcrbIKAPQQ8lPUTEIKKzok1MVPxeNN0YaJ3G3pOgwz8NyFH4f_eAPt2KAfUJInkDWmwlC2U8Rc5mhdzow2mS9SR4KBeGdgAf/s400/CIMG3609.JPG" border="0" /></a>Ella and I decided to take a nap one day to recover...she definitely slept better than I did.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHM7eCK87TPt1-SDo6B3swOT4gbLBlrXbE9ikqMmPLv1vPXJIiZS7zS7GnhwW773vulDwn4BK8H6U9ECLBRsst9PZRkEjAzGCk12M3VbRAA2OEd4RmBruP82Q4h4qdFnPHkcL7uy0AN8f/s1600/CIMG3610.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476274213130661570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHM7eCK87TPt1-SDo6B3swOT4gbLBlrXbE9ikqMmPLv1vPXJIiZS7zS7GnhwW773vulDwn4BK8H6U9ECLBRsst9PZRkEjAzGCk12M3VbRAA2OEd4RmBruP82Q4h4qdFnPHkcL7uy0AN8f/s400/CIMG3610.JPG" border="0" /></a> We've all been crazy busy with work, but we did manage to make it out to a dumpling dinner for Joe's birthday.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-AtD9-HlicQ-f1HOqu1o7mAJchVcSu1daLxI5xD__zau4S2Jbv785hBTnuy-6nBeamAF5srnhnsF1bFZYeuqxTSvmhyXAAPgPxZFbnKE06OCBwW80Cq9rtB8nB7vDeDq6giRRDRzYQ0U/s1600/IMG_5659.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476274198877191778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-AtD9-HlicQ-f1HOqu1o7mAJchVcSu1daLxI5xD__zau4S2Jbv785hBTnuy-6nBeamAF5srnhnsF1bFZYeuqxTSvmhyXAAPgPxZFbnKE06OCBwW80Cq9rtB8nB7vDeDq6giRRDRzYQ0U/s400/IMG_5659.JPG" border="0" /></a></div></div></div></div></div></div>Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-24644162853315566522010-05-04T06:02:00.000-07:002010-05-06T05:51:51.794-07:00Ten TreasuresLife is sprinkled with very few grand epiphany moments. In fact, we are lucky to have even one grand epiphany in our lifetimes. Even the moments during which the timing is just right, the setting idyllic, and the mind in an Archimedes-like state, rarely bring with them an epiphany on the grand side of the scale. <div><div><div><br /></div><div>Standing beneath the gaze of the ancient Forbidden City, one’s heart still harbors the same fears. Climbing through the brave walls of the architectural wonder that is the Byon at Angkor Thom, one’s value set remains relatively untouched. Watching Bali’s rice patties cry in the rain, one’s every day problems are not washed away. Listening to the sea kiss the rocky shore from a rainforest tree house, one still witnesses the same nightmares and dreams the same dreams.</div><div><br /></div><div>My months spent in Asia, working, traveling, discovering, wandering, exploring, have not been impactful in the way a grand epiphany is. I have learned. I have grown. I have changed in some very fundamental ways. Yet I am still essentially the same person I always have been. No orangutan encounter, journey to the Petronas Towers, or breathtakingly beautiful paradise sunrise can strip away those essential beliefs, values, dreams, fears, passions that make me who I am. Rather than being a chain of one magnitude 8.7 epiphany after another, my experience has been a sort of string of beads knotted together by tiny treasured moments. </div><div><br />How symbolic then, that on a first night in Kuching, Borneo, finding shelter from the rain under the tin roof of a Chinese tea house, Stephanie and I would share a steaming pot of Ten Treasures Chinese soup. Many Asian soups are firmly grounded in traditional Chinese medicinal beliefs, and Ten Treasures is no exception. It is made from a traditional chicken soup broth and dark-meat chicken combined with eight traditional Chinese herbs including Douzou dates, Donquai (a famous blood tonic), Huang Chi (which looks a bit like a tongue depressor straight out of a Western doctor’s office), and ginseng among others. Yet, it is more than simply cinnamon-infused chicken soup. It tastes like a warm hug from mom on a winter’s evening, like a visit from old friends on Christmas Eve, and like a picnic under the backyard willow tree on a Sunday afternoon. Ten Treasures or Shiquan Tang literally translates to mean “wholesome/complete great restorative soup.” </div><div><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468120680066401810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthtRvyAQRXW9rD39xxLwq50fJBXHD1C7Qgdw3ok1aCw9TTDEz_PJwxNgnP_x0BJALMSowV3YXn_GWOFt0rR8O9pzbHG9tYjK5oC9ZaUHEW67fsLISNSxUfBLyzgYTCH1r70s2O8ypZM3e/s400/DSC07457.JPG" border="0" /><br />How fitting that on this restorative holiday in Kuching, I should begin my journey with a bowl of treasures. So, in keeping with the theme, for the remainder of this blog entry I will share with you ten treasured moments from my holiday in Kuching, or Borneo’s “Cat City,” beginning with of course, </div><div><br />1.) eating Ten Treasures soup and sipping tea while the hours passed and the rain blurred the time and the world outside into streaks of neon green, purple, blue, and red.</div><div><br />2.) Standing so close to an orangutan that I was able to see the way her face creased just above her mouth when she forced her upper lip into a sort of thoughtful half-sneer. The most surreal moment in Semenggoh Nature Reserve was the sudden realization that the dominant female’s baby wrapped his hand around his mother’s thumb in an almost mirror image of the way in which a human child would grab his own mother’s finger.</div><div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwf0gcfax08hprX2vCyLaektMC4eGLASGnZik26Wz7_ESbtAgwpRQi1IBobuC0bH-4HLLREeqhwcxOpp61CUQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />3.) Catching a ride back to town from the wildlife reserve and to the weekend market with local family who, “thought we looked like we needed a ride, and were going that way anyway.” Sometimes the simplest gestures can be the most treasured moments.</div><div><br />4.) Sharing an early breakfast of crepe-like pancakes, smothered in peanut butter and jam and made by our very own hostel-owning, tattoo-sporting, guitar-playing chefs, with three friends from Singapore who we literally “bumped into” in Kuching at the same hostel.</div><div><br />5.) Pushing my body through river beds and peat bogs, scaling entanglements of tree-roots dotted with pitcher plants (see picture of trail below), hopping rock-dotted creeks, sliding down wooden ladders attached to limestone cliff faces, sweating, dripping wet in the tropical rain as my muscles pulsed under my tingling skin, all the while feeling continuously more alive and more aware on one of the most grueling hikes I have ever completed in my life…and still feeling it three days later. </div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468124728183766354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFcSZ74xBz3i8pXfmCXzMw5o5ftkyPcv5P_CCm1eHEXOLg_KyNVVR6r4nzftWn_FhfrLDrTjoGDS-T017Q_tWgVimMxfg27lt1I_Ci6W61tSqwyLaFbakuDj55wdQ4_UDUFiMWXcS58UdD/s400/borneo+033.jpg" border="0" /><br />6.) Arriving 20 minutes late to a deserted tropical beach in Bako National Park after that particularly difficult trek and the relief that comes from the familiar sound of a motor growing louder in the crashing waves as your boat man makes his way to the sandy shore.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzrlprqD15lENRnDA9pSS3rU7qe0vguouzbbK2VPFz_Dm7XmESf7D77jlhYQs3-UElwfNok5bN1WlzQBqfWXQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><div><br />7.) Spotting the rare proboscis monkey, found only in Borneo, moving gracefully through Bako’s secluded mangrove forest.</div><div><br />8.) Collapsing, drearily, dreamlike, into bed to wake up with the sun and remember that you are sleeping in a tree house in primary rainforest with only the sound of ocean waves and hooting monkeys within range.</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468124737207724594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7_RznD56VI-oQfEWDGMDSwoCW7suVyClT-tR5T8cg5rggu-VDnTmOKXh87yuPnljYyTsX1zp72xf0QLSKc-1j6MQYwDQiCVJOdeR1eFa8utT7w-qFsr3d021VEBg7tqnTHR0kh1iyxtH/s400/DSC07519.JPG" border="0" /><br />9.) Visiting the Sarawak Cultural Village for a traditional dance show, a peek into the long houses of Borneo’s native tribal people, and exposure to the crafts, foods, music, and lifestyles of these people. Particularly memorable in this Disneyland-like version of traditional Borneo, were joining the dance troupe on stage for a traditional Malay dance finale, watching the mist roll over, around, and through Borneo’s distant mountains while enjoying a snack of rose cookies (much like the Norwegian rosettes my grandmother makes every Christmas), and watching a beautifully worn Malay woman play a traditional drum-like instrument while singing along in the Malay Town House exhibit.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz5UzKBomJejG6eC1EsIWMvdS07PgEhNa659sxOrtu6HhAfBJTE0juNlDTQACLWzRN3tMQhU80RzxVtjcUGQg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><div>10.) Saying our final farewell to Kuching in the real "Rainforest Café" overlooking the swirling azures, royals, periwinkles, electrics, Prussians, Tiffany's, and ultramarines that faded from sea to sky and back again.</div><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468124748870555986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYzpxZKaL-bY501WMc3Nud_h5WXw-vWljNxNf7ztfy1nufHV2I9jPP6RtgwksS4o5Lw_D2ohaiF0eAKHUl_-ThBWtY4y9VQqxG9McJAWXrm_oNtf6TGFWydQChXAHO7UWkLujEAn_v0Lu/s400/borneo+051.jpg" border="0" /><br />So, there you have it; my trip to Borneo in tens. Ten experiences, ten feelings, ten moments, ten treasures.</div><div> </div><div>And more than ten pictures...</div><div><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/MayMoments">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/MayMoments</a>#<br /><br />Cheers, love, and TIA,<br />Rachel</div></div>Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-6531721154917339602010-04-27T05:30:00.000-07:002010-04-27T08:07:41.314-07:00The things we take for grantedI am on a great adventure here in Asia. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ve</span> stood on the Great Wall of China on a bitter cold December day and watched my breath float across the frozen hillside. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ve</span> seen the sunrise turn the towers of the ancient Angkor Watt temple from purple, to pink, to orange, to brilliant yellow. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ve</span> savored coffee-drenched pineapple tarts on a crumbling rooftop in Malaysia. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> sat under palm trees and watched Bali’s famous surf lick the sand. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ve</span> lain under a mosquito net in a beach- shack on stilts in Indonesia, letting the ocean’s lullaby rock me to sleep. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ve</span> danced under a full moon and sent a sky lantern sailing into the starry night abyss in Thailand. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ve</span> been transported back in time to my childhood innocence as I marveled at fire flies dancing in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Bodhi</span> trees. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ve</span> spent hours wandering the main streets and hidden back alleyways of Singapore sampling a fare share of crispy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">roti</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">prata</span> and spicy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Laksa</span> along the way.<br /><br />Not to mention a couple years ago, I licked a gooey coconut <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">gelato</span> cone under the Leaning Tower of Pisa, washed my face in a crystal clear mountain stream in Scotland, marveled at the awe-inspiring Colosseum as it cast its afternoon shadow over Rome, shared footing with Stonehenge on a grassy, dew covered plain, stared breathlessly at original Picasso's in Barcelona, and listened to Big Ben chime at mid-night. And these are only a sampling of the wonderful opportunities I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ve</span> been given and experiences I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ve</span> had in my short 23 years.<br /><br />Yet, in these last few weeks, as I face with my family one of the more difficult times in our lives, and as I ponder, as is human nature to do during times of trial, my most treasured memories, it is not these extraordinary, fleeting moments that top the list. They, of course, will always have a place in my heart. But instead, it is the more subtle, every day moments, that we seem to so unfortunately take for granted, which first come to mind when I am reminiscing.<br /><br />Every year around Thanksgiving time, Parker Knox used to (I’m not sure if he still does) write a column for the Capitol Journal about things for which he was thankful. I don’t remember if he listed 25 or 50 things, I don’t remember exactly what he said he was thankful for, I don’t remember for sure what day it was printed in the paper, and I definitely don’t remember what section it was in. What I do remember, though, is that it always listed things that we see everyday but take for granted. (Things like the fact that Mom used to cut that article out for me, even when I moved away to college, and leave it on my bed until I got home for the Thanksgiving holiday just because she knew I liked it and it would make me happy.)<br /><br />In the article, Knox would mention things like how the first snow coats the capitol building in white fluff so creamy and pure that it looks like it was iced by a professional cake decorator. He talked about the way children’s laughter echoes off the back of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Hilger</span>’s Gulch when they are whisked down on a sled in an icy blur, and the way Mom’s hot chocolate with extra marshmallows melts the chill from your veins after you spend just a little too long out on that hill. He mentioned the way the sunset casts a sherbet orange glow across the river in the long, warm summer evenings and the way the familiar smell of a good book that you are reading for the 17<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">th</span> time feels like coming home.<br /><br />Millions of tiny moments, beautifully average and touchingly subtle, happen during our short lifetimes. Many of them are simply that, moments forgotten, untouched, left stored in the dusty, moth ball covered attics of our memories. Yet, these simple, everyday things, the one's which we so often take for granted at the time, are the things that really matter most in life. So, in light of my new found appreciation of the "small stuff" and as a reminder to myself not to take things for granted, the remainder of this blog entry will be a list, a tribute of sorts to my family, Parker Knox style, of a small but incredibly meaningful memory, which I have with each of my nearest and dearest family members. Of course, every family member could have many, many of these moments beside his or her name, but these are the ones which I have discovered first as I have sorted through and dusted off the old boxes in my memory's attic.<br /><br /><strong>Grandma Arlie:</strong> Many of my memories with you are in the kitchen, of course. My mother and father tell me I must have gotten my love for all things culinary from you. Particularly, I remember the way in which you would cut my crust off the toast that we would eat with oatmeal in the mornings. You didn't like crust either. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Every time</span> I taste apple pie and cranberry-orange muffins, I think of you, and I make cranberry-orange scones for that very reason.<br /><br /><strong>Uncle Vinnie:</strong> When I was little I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">truly</span> idolized you. I remember feeling so proud to be sitting on your team's bench at your softball games, your most loyal fan and cheerleader -- besides maybe Grandma in her high heels, but, then again, she was sometimes a player.<br /><br /><strong>Aunt Darci:</strong> One time we had a girl's night just you and me, and we put on face masks. We tried our hardest not to move our face and risk "cracking" the masks. This of course failed miserably as, for one reason or another, we couldn't stop laughing. I also remember watching a "So you think you can Dance?" marathon and eating fried zucchini the summer I stayed with you while I went to dance camp in Rapid City. Where was Jeff for all this? Hiding, I'm sure.<br /><br /><strong>Dayna:</strong> I remember your high school graduation party better than I remember my own. You had so many friends and family members wishing you luck and congratulating you on all your <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">successes</span>. I remember hoping to have such a wonderful high school graduation celebration when it came time for me to go off to college. I also remember feeling so cool the weekend I got to come stay with you in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Brookings</span> and just hang out.<br /><br /><strong>Shelly:</strong> You used to "borrow" me for Disney movies, and I most clearly remember seeing "The Lion King" with you. I felt so special when you let me announce to the family that you were pregnant with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Jordyn</span>. All your e-mails from home, are the perfect home-sickness cure in Singapore, and I am <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">truly</span> excited when I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">receive</span> one of those e-mail family updates.<br /><br /><strong>Uncle Ed:</strong> Before my family had a video camera, you used to faithfully record my dance recitals every year. Even if there were some pretty funny minor malfunctions, I was always so happy to watch the recordings. It was so special to have you at my recitals every year.<br /><br /><strong>Uncle Tim: </strong>I have mentioned this in a previous blog, but one of my favorite childhood memories is spending a few weeks in Iowa with you and Dee. I most clearly remember picking raspberries from the bush in the back to put on our cereal in the morning or ice cream at night, watching for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Nicodemous</span> on the patio, and catching fire flies for night lights. You and Dee have really become like a second set of parents to me over the years, especially after the summer I spent living with you while working at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">KDLT</span>.<br /><br /><strong>Dee:</strong> When I lived with you for the summer in 2008, some of my favorite memories stem from the fact that you became the best combination of a mother and a friend. I particularly remember eating dinner and sipping wine while watching American Idol and gossiping a bit when Tim was out of town one time.<br /><br /><strong>Grandpa <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Knutson</span>:</strong> Your grandchildren are so lucky to have grandparents who are so involved in their lives. I have so many memories of you from my childhood/adolescents/early adulthood as you and Grandma have always been constant figures in my life. But the memory, which stood out most to me as I was thinking back on them all, is a more recent one. I remember dancing with you at your 50<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">th</span> anniversary. I may have more formal dance training, but you and Grandma can still dance me under the table.<br /><br /><strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Jordyn</span>:</strong> When you were born, I was so excited to finally have a playmate...though much to my surprise and dismay, you couldn't play Barbies with me right away. But, I always felt so mature in my 7-years-of-age when your Mom and Dad would let me sit on the couch with a pillow under my elbow and hold you.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Nikki:</strong> I don't know if you will remember this or not, but one summer I babysat you and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Jordyn</span>. I loved taking you in my truck to the beach where we would build sandcastles. I also remember cooking you macaroni and cheese and practically forcing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Jordyn</span> to eat while you would gladly ask for seconds.<br /><br /><strong>Grandma <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Knutson</span>:</strong> I do not even know where to start. As I'm thinking of all the wonderful memories I have with you, your box in my memory's attic is overflowing. The first things that come to mind, though, are decorating many cakes and the crazy, mission-like Black Friday shopping trips to Rapid City. I also remember a particularly long and intense <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Rummikub</span> tournament with you, Grandpa, and Elizabeth and playing King's in the Corner (I think that is what it is called) when I was little and would stay with you guys.<br /><br /><strong>Chad, Anita, and Shelby:</strong> Going to the races with you guys is one of my favorite memories from the summer of 2008. Shelby, I also particularly enjoyed hanging out with you and your friend at the swimming pool.<br /><br /><strong>Cynthy, Fran, Connie, Galen, and Halley:</strong> I will always treasure the meals, laughter, and tears we shared in Palm Desert, California on one of the most fun vacations I have ever had (and that includes Beijing, London, Rome, and all the other wonderful places I've been to). Fran, I also remember the strange and lovely coincidence with "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" for Grandma's funeral. Cynthy, one of many of my favorite memories at your cabin is learning how to make white-sauce for green beans (and many other things) with you and my mom.<br /><br /><strong>Dad:</strong> Of course for you, Mom, and Elizabeth there are more memories than can possibly ever ever be listed, so I decided to go with the most subtle of all. After my senior dance recital, you told me how proud you were of me and all I had accomplished. I know you are proud, but hearing it at that one particular moment in my life and knowing you would support me in what I hoped to do in the future is a moment that has always stayed with me.<br /><br /><strong>Mom:</strong> You have always been such a loving, kind, and constant mother and friend that it is hard to distinguish one moment from another. They seem to blur together in the kind of way a child's finger-paint artwork will, mixing, swirling, blending, until it is simply a lovely little creation from the heart of a child manifest through his/her fingers on a page. One small, but significant, of many moments I remember is seeing you at the airport when I first arrived home from London. There is nothing like seeing your mother, so full of love that is so readily given, when it has been far too long. I cannot wait to see you again soon in Singapore. <br /><br /><strong>Elizabeth:</strong> A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves-- a special kind of double. Elizabeth, I have so many fond memories with you, probably more than with anyone else on this list, and I know you have been made aware recently of many of them. One thing you always do, and I appreciate more than you know, is you always tell me you love me before we hang up the phone, and you are always the first to say it especially when it seems I might forget. I love you too. <br /><br />With love, TIA,<br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-73831477896286244132010-04-09T09:06:00.000-07:002010-04-09T10:14:17.485-07:00Easter renewalJohn 13: 14-17: “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">another's</span> feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. I tell you the truth, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.”<br /><br />In these words, in these actions, and especially in the actions in the days that follow this Passover meal, Jesus gives us a lesson, a gift, of profound humility, grace, and human equality that are at the very core of the Easter renewal season. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Shouldn</span>’t this story, then, be a beautiful, gentle reminder of our responsibility to treat all of our fellow human beings with kindness and respect? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Shouldn</span>’t we remember, in the season of rebirth both as spring envelopes the Earth, tucking winter away in its warm embrace, and as the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead manifests itself in Christian churches the world over, our own chance to start anew, to take up the cloth and wash one another’s feet?<br /><br />What a strange, beautiful, surprising coincidence, then, that I was to be reminded of this lesson, of this gift, on a remote beach in northern Indonesia by a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Bahasa</span> Indonesian-speaking Muslim man on a day none-other than, Holy Saturday. I suppose, though, that God has a way of appearing in the most unlikely of places.<br /><br />I was wandering, in my dazed cloud of euphoric happiness, making my way along the deserted beach at sunrise, and filling my lungs with the fresh, salty, renewing air when I unintentionally wandered my way into a pile of tar…the tar waste from a ship passing through in the night that had found itself onto my untouched white-sand beach. How rude.<br /><br />Of course, this black, sticky, thick substance is not exactly the kind of material that fits easily into one’s meditative sunrise bliss. Thus, my bubble was burst. And I found myself standing in the middle of paradise…cursing the ship, the low tide, the palm tree, the tar, my meditative bliss that got me into this in the first place, and just about every other inanimate object this little paradise had to offer. Not exactly the renewal and grace Jesus had in mind.<br /><br />But at this point my “humanness” took over, and I was no longer silently contemplating God’s sweet, salty air or His sun’s red-orange rays playing hopscotch on the water. No, all I was thinking about now were two steps: first, get this crap off my feet and second, swim out to the offending ship and proceed to sink it. Again, not exactly the renewal and grace God’s Son had planned out for me this weekend.<br /><br />So first thing’s first: scrub the tar off my feet.<br /><br />A fact I did not know about beach tar: the more you scrub, the more it spreads, the more it spreads, the more you scrub, and the more it spreads. You get the picture. Step two was momentarily, luckily for the ship, put on hold while I angrily scrubbed at my poor feet with water, sand, hand, foot, stick, shell, and, at one point, a brief contemplation of the crab sitting on the mud flat in front of me. Lucky for him (or maybe for me), he disappeared down his dirt hole just in time. So, just as I was about to skip step one in favor of the far more realistic and plausible step two…<br /><br />… my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Bahasa</span> Indonesian-speaking Muslim friend appeared, carting along, what else, but a small asymmetrical rag and a square container of some sort of special tar-removing miracle fluid.<br /><br />Without a word of English, this man managed to tell me to hold still, give him my foot, and, with a bit of “tut, tut, tutting”, scold me like a mother scolds a toddler for stepping in the stuff in the first place. Smiling and scolding all the while, the graying Indonesian Muslim man, who could have been 25 judging by the way he agilely squatted and gracefully leaned to and fro, to and fro as he scrubbed, but whose taut, wrinkled, tanned, leathery skin gave him about 40 more years, cleaned my feet with his gasoline-scented miracle fluid until all the tar was gone.<br /><br />Then, just as quickly as he had come, he stood smoothly to his full height of about five feet even, smiled, “tutted” one last time, and moved quickly away in search of others who had suffered the same tar-feet fate.<br /><br />Now I am not being in the least bit theatrical when I say that as he walked away, and the realization of the connection between the story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet and the fact that it was indeed Holy Saturday settled into my bones, tears began to well in my eyes. Not the kind of tears that pool until they over flow and fall raindrop-like to the ground. But instead these tears momentarily clouded my vision and then, as I looked back toward the sunrise, disappeared as quickly as my feet-washing friend.<br /><br />And as I stood there, once again returning to absolute meditative bliss and trying to recall what I had been thinking about before (something about sinking a ship…how silly), I had another of those surreal moments that only Asia can provide: I, a fairly moderate to liberal Christian, just saw Jesus in a Muslim man who washed tar off my feet with gasoline on a deserted white-sand beach in Indonesia at sunrise. TIA.<br /><br />Needless-to-say, my Holy Week was a bit different this year than it has ever been before.<br /><br />It all began with a Seder meal hosted by my Jewish, Hebrew-speaking, American friend, Joe, at the home of a Catholic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">PiAer</span>, attended by several of my other American friends who are all Christians in varying senses of the word. Not only were those in attendance a bit “mutt-like”, but our Passover food was as well. In place of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">matzah</span>, or flat bread, we had <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Thosai</span>, Indian pancake-like bread. Replacing the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">maror</span>, bitter herbs, was the Korean <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">kimchi</span>, rather than the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Charoses</span> mixture traditionally consisting of apples, nuts and cinnamon, we had <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">rojak</span>, a Singaporean favorite sweet-sauced fruit mixture, and instead of a lamb shank bone, there was a roasted chicken leg from the local grocery store.<br /><br />Despite the substitutions, some practices remained true to tradition. Joe read much of the meal service in Hebrew (offering English translations, of course), we all enjoyed the typical four glasses of wine, and we learned a great deal about the symbolism of the foods.<br /><br />A very quick and very inadequate run-down: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Matzah</span> is unleavened bread meant to remind us of the haste in which the Israelites fled Egypt. The bitter <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Maror</span> symbolizes the bitterness of slavery while the sweet, sticky <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Charoses</span> is meant to represent the mortar used by the Jews in the construction of buildings as slaves. A boiled egg sits on the plate as a symbol of life (note the importance of eggs to many people of different religions during this renewal season). An herb, like parsley, is dipped in salt water to help us remember the tears shed during the escape from Egypt. Finally, the lamb bone represents the paschal sacrificial offering made by the Jews in order to paint their door frames with lambs’ blood and to be passed over by the angel of death.<br /><br />My Holy Week continued in a blur of those activities that I never expected to be a part of my life when I signed up to be a teacher in Asia. I took an Oral Communications course, taught a group of 30, 13-year-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">olds</span> a swing dance in preparation for International Friendship Day, played MC at my school’s Games Day, and had a long lunch with a group of my Singaporean colleagues in a bistro owned by a Long Island native which boasted “traditional American fare.”<br /><br />Stephanie and I left on the ferry for our Indonesian shanty shack on Thursday evening. We arrived just in time to use the squat toilet and collapse into our king-sized, mosquito-net-covered bed, before the generator blew and the electricity went out.<br /><br />We spent the rest of the long weekend waking for sunrise before enjoying a long, lazy breakfast of fried rice and an over-easy egg prepared by a friend of the owner and sitting at an uneven picnic table. We would then waste away the days by walking (occasionally trekking on seaside rocks) along the beach, meeting only the occasional fisherman or Indonesian couple stealing away for some alone time in an empty cove. I finished two novels and a magazine and took several palm-tree-shaded naps during those long hours when the day stretched on into beautiful nothingness. What else can you do when the nearest ATM is over an hour’s drive and the next nearest restaurant a good mile or so up the road? We spent our evenings playing poker, gin rummy, and speed at the same rickety, lopsided picnic table at which we ate breakfast and lunch before settling in for a 9 o’clock bedtime…a perfect way to find renewal in the Easter season.<br /><br />When we arrived home Sunday evening, Stephanie and I partook in yet another Easter tradition…Easter egg dying.<br /><br />The influence of spring rites and renewal is what makes the egg special during Easter. Almost all ancient cultures held eggs as a symbol of life. An old Latin proverb encompasses this belief: “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">omne</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">vivum</span> ex <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">ovo</span>”or“all life comes from an egg.”<br /><br />Eggs are symbols of life for Jewish Seder meals. Christians also view the egg as representative of new life.<br /><br />Eggs may have gained particular significance to Christianity’s Easter season in Medieval Europe when they were forbidden during Lent. It was traditional to use up all the eggs in the household before Lent. Thus the Pancake Day tradition, which is still practiced in the U.K., Ireland, and Australia, arose and pancakes are eaten on Fat Tuesday. Eggs were again eaten on Easter, were a mainstay in Easter meals, and were a prized gift for children as they are today. The egg itself is a symbol of the Resurrection – while dormant, it contains a new life within. The art of decorating these eggs dates back to the Roman, Greek, and Egyptian celebrations of spring.<br /><br />Renewed and enlightened I returned to school this week. Though busy, I enjoyed my students’ creativity while they worked to complete their Greek gods and goddess projects during which they wrote a proposal to Zeus as one of the other gods or goddesses asking for a new power, reviewing swing dancing in preparation for next week's Friendship Day celebration, choreographing and finally teaching some of the dances for the musical, teaching a few review lessons in preparation for the mid-year exams coming up in a few weeks, and another Oral Communications course.<br /><br />The weekend has arrived after a long and busy week, and I am looking forward to a bit more renewal, though probably not as much in over-stimulated Singapore as I experienced in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Bintan</span>.<br /><br />I am also looking forward to attending another school’s musical Saturday evening with my mentor, finishing a bit of work, attending some yoga classes, and even fewer days to check off until my family arrives for their visit in June.<br /><br />Happy Easter Season, Cheers, and TIA,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-7906413156735975532010-04-04T06:26:00.000-07:002010-04-04T06:28:23.523-07:00Easter weekend get-awayStephanie and I spent Easter weekend at a shack on the beach in Bintan, Indonesia. Follow our adventures in photos here:<br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/AprilAndBintanAdventures">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/AprilAndBintanAdventures</a>#Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-59271436688092135362010-03-28T04:26:00.001-07:002010-03-28T04:49:31.095-07:00"Barong and Kris" momentsI don’t often have trouble formulating an experience, an idea, an emotion, even something as simple as a piece of sea glass or a monk on a moped into long, elegant prose. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ve</span> been blessed with the fact that writing comes naturally to me. I’m not bragging. I’m simply stating the facts. And believe me, I, like most people, can come up with a longer list of skills and abilities that I do not possess than those that I do. However, writing is on the short list.<br /><br />But, when I do suffer the occasional bout of writer’s block, I naturally turn to another of those short listed items that has long been a part of my life. Dance. It is not at all surprising to anyone who knows me even remotely well that dance has become <strong><em>the </em></strong>metaphor in my life. The phrase “life’s a dance” often, quite literally, seems it was coined specifically for me.<br /><br />I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ve</span> been struggling to force myself to write this blog entry not for a lack of material (as you’ll soon see, there is plenty), but rather, because I just did not know where to begin. So, of course, I have decided to turn to one of the things I know and understand best to try to begin to describe my complicated, exciting, overwhelming, stressful, amazing, turbulent life for the past three weeks.<br /><br />In the last three weeks I have seen two very wonderful, very different professional dance performances. On Friday, March 12, I drug a slightly reluctant, but mostly enthusiastic Tim to his first ever professional ballet performance: Singapore Dance Theatre’s production of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Perrot</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Coralli</span>’s famous classical ballet, Giselle.<br /><br />A very brief and totally inadequate synopsis for those of you who do not know: The ballet is about a young, peasant girl named Giselle who falls in love with a man of nobility, Albrecht. He promises to love and marry her, but when he spurns her in front of the noble family and his actual noble <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">fiancé</span>, Giselle dies of a broken heart. Her spirit is forced to join the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Wilis</span>, a group of girls who have died before their wedding day and are doomed to roam the earth taking revenge on unfaithful men and making them dance until they die. In act two, Albrecht comes into the forest to pay his respect at Giselle’s grave when he is confronted by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Wilis</span> and their queen, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Myrtha</span>. Giselle’s bond of love protects Albrecht from suffering the fate that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Wilis</span> hope to bestow upon him, and, at dawn, when the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Wilis</span> retreat, Albrecht is still alive. Albrecht and Giselle declare their eternal love for one another; however, tragically, Giselle is destined to remain a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Wili</span> for all eternity.<br /><br />The comfortable familiarity of the ballet’s movements, recognizable characters and plot-line, drama, simple yet beautiful costumes and set, grace, romance, and passion all intertwined to create a vision often described as the “quintessence of the Romantic ballet” feel to me like old friends. The slight tapping sound that is barely audible as the ballerina completes a long set of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">bourrees</span> from stage left to stage right, the smell of newly taped <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">marley</span> floors, the sight of the long lines of the graceful <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">prima</span> stepping into a faultless first arabesque, the memory of the feel of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">pointe</span> shoes on the one day that they perfectly mold to your feet, and the recollection of taste of the sweat as it drips from your upper lip when you rush off stage after a particularly grueling sequence – this is my comfort zone, this feels like home.<br /><br />I have, in fact, had several “Giselle” moments in the past couple weeks. Most importantly, of course, was having Tim in Singapore for a two-week-long visit and all of the wonderful moments we shared and memories we created. Other “Giselle” moments include: an apartment that has lately especially started to look, feel, and smell like home, the fact that I haven’t been lost in Singapore for over two months, a kitten who would love nothing more than to spend all of Sunday morning cuddling and watching movies if that is what I want to do, an oven that I have finally figured out how to turn-on to bake chocolate chip cookies all by myself (hold the knob, turn it just a bit to the right, fire-up the gas with your free hand, turn the knob further to the right, jump back quickly and hope for fire), a hot yoga routine that I have memorized, a long <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Skype</span> chat with my parents on Saturday mornings, understanding every word that the tour guide with a thick <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Singlish</span> accent said at the Tiger Brewery (and translating for Tim and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Kenzie</span>), and several wonderful students, who never fail to make me laugh.<br /><br />While Tim, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Steph</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Kenzie</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Steph</span>’s friend from California, and I were in Bali we were able to attend another, completely different dance performance: “The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Barong</span> and Kris Dance.”<br /><br />Another totally inadequate synopsis, but this time not because I’m not including all the essential details, but rather because I was just not sure what was going on for part of the production and my “English” program was not always very helpful; here’s the gist: The dance-drama represents an eternal fight between the good spirit, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Barong</span>, and the evil mythological monster, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Rangda</span>. Servants of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Rangda</span> appear and meet servants of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Dewi</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Kunti</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Dewi</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Kunti</span> has been entranced by the servants of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Rangda</span> and has promised to sacrifice her son, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Sadewa</span>, to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Rangda</span>. Feeling pity for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Sadewa</span>, the god <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Siwa</span> appears and gives him eternal life before the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Rangda</span> can kill him. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Rangda</span> sends his servant, first in the form of a boar and then in the form of a wild bird, to kill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Sadewa</span>, but she cannot. Finally the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Rangda</span> comes himself to kill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Sadewa</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Sadewa</span> changes into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Barong</span> and good and evil fight. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Barong</span> wins with the help of some of his followers and good triumphs over evil.<br /><br />Of course, we can all relate to the moral of the story, but the intricate plot-line, unfamiliar characters, extravagant costumes and set, extreme theatrics, vibrant colors, mime-like and jerky movements, complicated facial expressions and elaborate hand and finger placement were incredibly foreign to me (not as much as to Tim though, thanks to my college degree) – this represents all those cultural intricacies <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">embedded</span> so deeply in the people in a society that an outsider, no matter how long he or she lives in the place, may never learn to understand -- this is not my comfort-zone and it certainly feels like a foreign place faraway in Asia.<br /><br />This part of the metaphor, “The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Barong</span> and Kris” moments, are finding out that I have a Monday meeting during spring break <em><strong>vacation </strong></em>and during my boyfriend’s two-week visit less than a week before the meeting is to occur, standing in line at immigration for over two hours in Bali’s crowded, non-air-conditioned airport, breaking out in weird, tropical-climate induced rashes, a spring break vacation that started out in Bali quite differently than expected (<a href="http://princetoninasia.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/Rachel-Podcast-c.mp3">audio podcast</a>), days when I walk out of the classroom feeling like the students <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">didn</span>’t hear a word I said, saying goodbye to Tim, and having a solid two-day “I am so homesick, what am I doing in Singapore?” meltdown.<br /><br />While at the time, I was quietly and, sometimes not-so-quietly (in the case of finding out about the meeting and subsequently phoning my mom to complain about it) cursing these “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Barong</span> and Kris” moments, I did and continue to learn about the culture, my strengths and weaknesses, and my dreams and goals from them especially. In addition, I am thankful for the valuable and comfortable “Giselle” moments that keep me sane…mostly.<br /><br />So there you have it -- my life for the past three weeks, in dance metaphor form. Now for a less complicated, less artsy run-down of events:<br /><br />Tim arrived late on a Sunday evening, and he and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Kenzie</span> spent Monday exploring Little India. After work, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Steph</span> and I joined them and Hannah, Jacob, and Jacob for a walk around Chinatown and dinner at an Indian food buffet. The buffet as a "pay what you want" policy, and all proceeds are donated to an organization that works to promote awareness and appreciation of Indian culture in Singapore. The evening was spent enjoying sun-downer drink specials at New Asia Bar on the 71st story, walking along the river, and capturing priceless photos with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Merlion</span>.<br /><br />After seeing the Botanical Gardens and Orchard Road on Tuesday, Tim and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Kenzie</span> came home for a dumpling feast followed by a pub trivia night with the rest of our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">PiA</span> friends in Holland Village. Pub trivia is basically a quiz game, like trivial pursuit, that you play against other tables in the pub. The more varied your team’s backgrounds and knowledge the better…one point, our team.<br /><br />Wednesday was a “jungle” themed day complete with a hike up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Bukit</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Timah</span> hill to see the monkeys, a tour of the Tiger Beer brewery, and a trip to Singapore’s famous Night Safari zoo.<br /><br />On Thursday, Tim and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">Kenzie</span> joined my kids and me for a learning journey to the National Museum of Singapore. Before a seafood, chili crab, and drunken prawn feast in Singapore’s red-light district, we sampled some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">durian</span>; envision a scary, spiky fruit, with a texture that can be described roughly as stringy toothpaste, a smell like gasoline, and a taste similar to what I imagine rotting mango tastes like, and you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">ve</span> pretty much got it. After dinner, we settled down for some tea and lemonade in an Arab Street cafe.<br /><br />Friday afternoon was spent walking along Singapore’s southern ridges for a lovely view of the city and the harbor and a treetop walk. On Friday night, Tim and I enjoyed Thai food with a view of the skyline before attending Giselle and winding down the evening with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">mojitos</span> and live jazz music.<br /><br />I attempted bike riding for the second time in my adult life on Saturday as we spent the day riding around <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Pulau</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Ubin</span>, walking through the mangroves, sipping coconut water, and generally enjoying the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">rainforest</span> atmosphere and 1950’s-Asia vibe that permeates the island. Tim and I had dinner on Arab Street before he taught me how to play poker at our apartment for the rest of the evening (I’m a slow learner, I guess).<br /><br />Sunday was the rainiest day, and ironically, Tim and I spent it hiding under an umbrella at the beach at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Sentosa</span>. We ate Hawker Center food and packed for Bali in the evening. After work on Monday, we hopped on a flight to Indonesia ready to spend four days of fun in the sun.<br /><br />Our beach plans were changed a bit, as our first full day in Bali was spent locked inside the hotel because it was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Hari</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">Raya</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">Nyepi</span>, or the Balinese New Year (<a href="http://princetoninasia.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/Rachel-Podcast-c.mp3">audio podcast</a>). All shops, restaurants, and bars are closed and no one is aloud onto the beaches or streets. No need to complain though, because we spent the day relaxing by our lovely hotel pool, sipping drinks from the bar, and generally enjoying the sense of quiet calm that seemed to envelope the island.<br /><br />Wednesday was, in fact, spent lazing under a beach umbrella and occasionally splashing in the monstrous ocean waves that make <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">Kuta</span> a hot-spot for surfers. Tim and I watched a golden, rose, and fiery orange sunset from the balcony of the Hard Rock <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">Café</span> before joining <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">Steph</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">Kenzie</span> for a St. Patrick’s Day dancing celebration.<br /><br />Thursday was spent seeing the sights of Bali with our tour guide, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">Ketut</span>. As a side note, the Balinese are named based on the order in which they were born in the family. The first child is always named <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">Wayan</span> or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">Putu</span>, the second Made or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">Kadek</span>, the third <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_72">Nyoman</span> or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_73">Komang</span>, and the fourth <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_74">Ketut</span>. The names for the fifth through the eighth child are repeated with the word for “again” added to the back, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_75">pre</span>-fixes are included to distinguish between boys and girls.<br /><br />The morning of touring began with “The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_76">Barong</span> and Kris” dance. As Bali is well known for its crafts, we then visited a Batik workshop, a silversmith, and a wood carver. Batik is cloth on which designs are created by manually painting symbols and pictures and then dying the fabric. The areas where the wax is painted do not absorb the die. Regions are often known for a particular batik design. Singapore’s batik is painted on the Singapore Airline stewardess’ uniforms. In Bali, the most traditional designs included only the colors blue, brown, and yellow.<br /><br />We also saw a lovely Hindu temple before lunch.<br /><br />After a long, winding drive up the mountains and though small, bustling Balinese villages where children ran barefoot in their school uniforms through the streets and grandmothers sat selling the fruits of the family’s gardening labors in roadside stands, we indulged in a buffet lunch with a view of one of Bali’s active volcanoes.<br /><br />The afternoon was spent visiting the rice terraces and stopping at a coffee plantation to sample the locally grown coffee including, of course, poop coffee. Poop coffee, or as it is more correctly known <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_77">Kopi</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_78">Luwak</span>, is made from the beans of coffee berries which have been eaten by the Asian Palm Civet, a weasel-like creature, and then passed through its digestive tract. The beans keep their shape after they are defecated and are said to possess much less bitterness and more aroma than its non-pooped counterpart. It is widely known as the most expensive and precious coffee in the world.<br /><br />We ended our busy day in the cultural center of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_79">Ubud</span> by browsing through a market, visiting the monkey forest, and sharing 1-for-1 happy hour drinks. As another side note, in most places I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_80">ve</span> been in Asia 2-for-1 is called 1-for-1. To me, 1-for-1 seems to mean you pay for one and you get one? Let me know if you figure this out. Tim and I had dinner on the patio of the Santa Fe Bar and Grill complete with live blues music to end a lovely day.<br /><br />Tim and I spent our last day snorkeling and visiting Turtle Island, a place where nearly 200 turtles are bred and released into the wild every year. The island was also home to a variety of other interesting creatures including toucans, iguanas, eagles, rabbits, squirrels, and snakes – unfortunately, there mostly to provide the tourists with interesting photo opportunities. After a quiet lunch in a garden-like atmosphere, Tim and I headed to the spa where we both enjoyed Balinese massages followed by a facial for me and an extra foot rub for Tim.<br /><br />We joined Stephanie for a final poolside dinner at our hotel before catching a late flight back to Singapore. Tim and I spent his last day in Singapore doing everyday activities and simply enjoying one another’s company: packing, cleaning, eating a dumpling lunch, seeing “Alice in Wonderland” in 3D, grocery shopping, cooking a pasta dinner, and playing cards using my newly acquired poker skills, for which I definitely need to work on my poker face.<br /><br />After Tim left, my life settled back into the usual routine with work, followed by a gym trip and more marking or lesson planning over dinner in the evenings comprising a typical day. I celebrated the end of a stressful week this weekend with a trip to Arab Street for tea and more paper grading on Friday evening and a night of dinner and dancing with Stephanie and Jacob on Saturday. My lazy Sunday has been spent watching a movie with Ella, running a few errands, and finally, sitting down to write this blog entry.<br /><br />I am looking forward to an Easter weekend escape to an Indonesian ‘Shanty Shack’, complete with one king-sized bed, a toilet, and a mosquito net located off-the-beaten path, right on the beach. I plan to do nothing but sun, read, and maybe go fishing with the owner of the seven shacks, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_81">Lobo</span>. I am also, of course, looking forward to all the “Giselle” and “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_82">Barong</span> and Kris” moments the upcoming week and weekend have in store for me.<br /><br />Cheers, TIA, and lots of love from Singapore,<br /><br />Rachel<br /><br />PS -- Click on the link called "audio podcast" to hear my story for Princeton in Asia that explains more about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_83">Hari</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_84">Raya</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_85">Nyepi</span>.Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-73982818568342837572010-03-24T07:39:00.000-07:002010-03-25T05:52:38.194-07:00A picture bookI haven't had time to blog for awhile, but I promise a post is coming when things calm down a bit this weekend. For now here are some pictures to tell the story.<br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/SpringHasSprung">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/SpringHasSprung</a>#<br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/ParadiseFound">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/ParadiseFound</a>#<br /><br />TIA,<br /><br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-35548231041355123362010-03-03T02:59:00.000-08:002010-03-03T03:41:05.446-08:00A monkey stole my breakfastThe worst part about having a cold in Singapore is not the fact that your “oh-so-scratchy” throat prevents you from telling your students to quiet down for lesson unless you use a microphone. (A microphone, by-the-way, actually, has the adverse effect of making students believe they simply have permission to talk louder to compensate for the fact that the teacher is louder. It seems my natural voice is scarier that the microphone-enhanced one despite the scratchiness or maybe because of that scratchiness. I do, after all, sound a bit like the Wicked Witch of the West when I yell with this voice.)<br /><br />The worst part about having a cold in Singapore is not the fact that your mom and dad are not around to take care of you…although, this is a major drawback.<br /><br />The worst part about having a cold in Singapore is not the fact that you cannot go to the gym, let alone climb the stairs, without wheezing two weeks before you will be sporting a swimsuit for a week straight in Bali.<br /><br />The worst part about having a cold in Singapore is not even the fact that it takes you 34 minutes to find the cough drops at the grocery store, because grocery stores here just do not look like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wal</span>-Mart. (The cough drops, by-the-way, are “<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">conveniently</span>” stocked next to the hard candy. Note to self.)<br /><br />The worst part about having a cold in Singapore IS in fact the conundrum it creates. I mean, really, who gets “colds” in this kind of “heat?” And when I say “heat,” I mean it. According to the Straits Times, Singapore’s leading newspaper, February was the driest month ever and one of the hottest on record. In February, Singapore received just 6.3mm of rain – the lowest for February since 1869, when rainfall records were first measured here.<br /><br />If that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wasn</span>’t enough, the highest maximum temperature, which was recorded on 26 February and also, unfortunately, my school’s Cross Country Day (more about this later), of 35.2 degrees Celsius (95.3 degrees Fahrenheit plus humidity like crazy), measures just below the hottest day ever on record, which was 36 degrees on 26, March 1998. Not exactly the type of weather in which you want to curl up with some hot, soothing peppermint tea and warm, healing-of-colds soup now is it?<br /><br />And the weatherman is not predicting a cool-down anytime soon. So, it looks like I’m stuck substituting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wheatgrass</span> juice for hot tea and gazpacho for chicken noodle soup. Thanks a lot El <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Nino</span>.<br /><br />Before the cold attacked, though, I did have quite a nice weekend. Friday morning, aka the hottest day ever, I attended my school’s cross country meet where I thoroughly enjoyed cheering on my students as they completed a 4.2 (for boys) and 3.6 (for girls) kilometer race through the Chinese and Japanese gardens. I’m not so sure my cheerful demeanor was reciprocated as the sweaty students ran by in the scorching heat, though, many of them did still manage to pant a breathless, “Good morning, Ms. Rachel,” as they ran by. I cannot say enough about how polite these kids usually are. Positions reversed, I’d probably rather give an overly enthusiastic teacher standing, and barely sweating I might add, on the sidelines, the finger instead of a greeting.<br /><br />Exhausted from the heat, I spent my afternoon off taking a nap with Ella followed by a hot yoga class. I settled-in for a quite Friday evening with a movie and some homemade popcorn, which I proudly popped myself in my microwave-less kitchen over the stove.<br /><br />Saturday was spent lounging on the beach with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Steph</span>, and, in the evening, we joined Jacob at the movie theatre to see the musical “Nine.”<br /><br />On Sunday morning, picnic breakfast in hand, I made my way to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">MacRitchie</span> nature reserve to do a 13 kilometer solo hike complete with a tree-top walk through the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">rainforest</span> and around a lovely reservoir. The majority of the hike was peaceful and uneventful, spent enjoying some quality time with Lady Gaga on my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">IPod</span> and an occasional break to read a bit. However, toward the end of my hike, things escalated from uneventful to eventful and unusual really fast.<br /><br />Apparently, monkeys have an exceptional sense of smell. And though I had re-wrapped the leftover biscuits from my breakfast, a monkey detected my secret with his laser nostrils. Soon after walking past this clever little fellow, I suddenly felt a tug on my bag. Before I knew what was happening, there was a monkey in my purse. Needless to say, I walked only a few steps before dropping my bag on the ground in a panic. I proceeded to watch the smug fellow remove the biscuits from my purse, climb a tree, open the package with his little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">opposable</span> thumbs, and finish my leftovers all the while happily looking at me with a sort of “finders keepers” grin.<br /><br />Now, while I will say I was rather frightened of this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">opposable</span>-thumbed, cat-sized thief at the time, looking back it is a pretty surreal experience. I mean how many people can say they carried a monkey in their purse? And how many people can say they “shared” their breakfast with a monkey in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">rainforest</span>? Not many, would be my guess.<br /><br />Such is my life in Singapore.<br /><br />Despite the cold, my week in school has passed-by fairly smoothly thus far. Maybe I should knock on wood though as I am accompanying 38 students to the National Museum of Singapore’s “Quest for Immortality” Egyptian exhibit tomorrow afternoon.<br /><br />Stephanie’s U.S. friend, McKenzie, arrives on Saturday morning, and Tim’s plane lands late Sunday night. As I will be enjoying my time re-discovering Singapore and subsequently discovering Bali for the next two weeks, look for an exciting blog post near the middle of March covering all my yet unknown adventures.<br /><br />Cheers and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">TiA</span>,<br />Rachel<br /><br />Pictures have been added to the "Year of the Tiger" album, including some of the sticky-fingered monkey: <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/YearOfTheTiger">http://picasaweb.google.com/rachelknutson.knutson8/YearOfTheTiger</a>#Rachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6070068889210366908.post-208855690212865812010-02-24T23:13:00.000-08:002010-02-24T23:41:57.501-08:00Culture ShockThey, as in the metaphorical “they” to whom everyone is always looking for advice on any number of life’s great questions, say that it is perfectly normal, in fact expected, for a person living abroad, at one time or another, to experience a sort of culture shock. “They” even have theories about how and why it occurs and can actually map the thing out. (In case you are wondering, it is in the shape of a “U” with the first peak being the honeymoon phase during which everything is, well, like a honeymoon…the best kind. The literal and metaphorical low point is the bottom where the actual culture shock in its ugliest form rears its head, and during this time one tends to reject the new culture believing that everything in his/her own culture is somehow better, right, or normal. The other peak is the adjustment when one starts to feel comfortable in a culture, and this all eventually levels off.) Most people who are on their way to spend a significant amount of time abroad are perfectly aware of this phenomenon, and many actually take precautions to reduce its effects.<br /><br />I, however, had felt quite certain until recently that I had outsmarted “them.” “Their” scientific theories and U-curve graphs just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span>’t apply to me. I mean I had spent three blissful months abroad in London without the slightest sensation of sliding down into the depths of the U. Culture shock? Nope, not me. Sorry guys, but I just don’t fit the mold. Reverse culture shock…maybe. (Tell me you would not experience the same when coming from London where your Friday night, if you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">weren</span>’t in Barcelona, consisted of a trip to the Royal Ballet, followed by a glass of good cider, and maybe some dancing with your friends, back to a place where a big night out consisted of reading a bit of a good novel followed by upgrading from a toddler to a small cone at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Zesto</span> if you were feeling really crazy. Not that a good book and a strawberry cheesecake twist cone don’t sound pretty good right now, but still.) Culture shock just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wasn</span>’t for me.<br /><br />And I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ve</span> been happily riding the honeymoon wave in Singapore for the last six delightful months. But this week the surf broke and I ate it...hard.<br /><br />Trying to figure out which side of the sidewalk to walk on (by the way, as of yet I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ve</span> pretty much decided that there is no logical order to this here) no longer seemed like a game. It was just annoying trying not to run into every woman who decided to stop suddenly and change directions or to maneuver my way across the street in the midst of the oncoming throng of people walking in no particularly recognizable pattern. (Side note: In college I wrote a thesis paper for an independent study about the differences between Asian and Western dance forms that arise due to cultural variations. The different ways that members of these cultures relate to space was a major section in my paper. After living in the literal space of Asia, I would definitely add a footnote to my paper now: These differences in the way we relate to space translate out of the dance studio and onto the street.)<br /><br />Public caning, a form of punishment during which a boy is literally hit with a cane at the school assembly, no longer seemed like an imaginary archaic Singaporean stereotype, when my roommate sent me a shocked message one day because she had witnessed one such event at school.<br /><br />“Can” or “cannot” are not now, nor have they ever been, normal or acceptable answers. “Yes” or “no” are appropriate answers to most questions. (“They” would diagnose my culture shock immediately here upon seeing the use of the words “not normal” to describe my reaction to a culture other than my own.) And while we are on the subject of proper English, my name is Ms. Rachel, not “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">cher</span>” (short for “teacher,” which, by the way, is also not acceptable for middle school students to be calling me.)<br /><br />Here, I would like to take a quick pause from my crazed culture shock rant and return to my normally culturally sensitive, optimistic self to make a quick note about the can/cannot phenomenon. “Can” and “cannot” have found their way into the everyday language of Singaporeans not because Singaporeans wish to intentionally speak poor English. (In fact, for many of them, speaking proper English is one of their top priorities, and I often notice how self conscious some of my Chinese or Malay-speaking colleagues are when they are speaking to me, a native English speaker. They need not worry about me being judgmental, however. Considering that if I tried to speak to them in Mandarin our conversation would be limited to “thank you,” “hello,” “don’t want,” and “make it cheaper” their ability to communicate so well in their second language is really quite incredible.) In Chinese Mandarin, there is actually no word that can be translated to mean the direct “yes” or “no” that we use in English. (This may explain why it is often so hard to get a direct answer about many things here.) But rather, when Chinese people want to say “yes” or “no” to something they respond with words that can be translated into English meaning, of course, “can” and “cannot.”<br /><br />And now back to your regular programming:<br /><br />And, after all this, when you go to the doctor and spend a solid five minutes explaining your medical history only to be told you need to repeat everything much more slowly, because he could not quite understand your accent (Hello, why <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">didn</span>’t you interrupt me four minutes and 28 seconds ago to tell me that?), you tend to look like a complete crazy person who should be a the doctor for mental health issues rather than a skin irritation when you break into a bout of uncontrollable sobbing…and we’re not talking glistening tears cascading down soft fleshy cheeks here but rather the gasping for air, blotchy, red face, high pitched voice, slobbery kind of bawling.<br /><br />It’s been a rough week.<br /><br />Looking back on it all, though, as I sit here contentedly, I dare to say almost happily, sipping a mango fruit tea at the Coffee Bean in Holland Village I have to admit it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">isn</span>’t all that bad. Walking dilemmas, communication misunderstandings, corporal punishment, public displays of insanity all considered, I have actually managed to chuckle a few times in the last couple hours. I mean, just picturing myself at the doctor’s office all blotchy-faced, sporting a skin irritation that looked like a reverse <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Kool</span> Aid mustache, blubbering away for some unexplained reason to the poor doctor who could not even understand what I was saying has conjured images of comedy sitcom re-runs. Alas, this is my life in Asia.<br /><br />And now, at the risk of sounding like a completely bizarre, bipolar, schizophrenic, crazy person, I’m going to proceed by sharing the details of the wonderful Chinese New Year holiday trip I took to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Kuala</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Lumpur</span>, Malaysia last week.<br /><br />At 11:30 p.m. on a Saturday evening, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Steph</span> and I boarded a bus for our five hour long journey to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Kuala</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Lumpur</span>, Malaysia where, upon arrival at 5 a.m., we proceeded to have breakfast at, where else, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">McDonalds</span>. Three hours, two egg muffins, and eight and a half cups of coffee later we were checked into our hostel, majorly hopped up on caffeine, and on our way to complete a walking tour of Chinatown, Little India, and the colonial district.<br /><br />Walking through dazzlingly ornate red and gold temples, weaving through the Chinese New Year worshippers ceremoniously burning prayer flags and lighting candles in the already fiery morning air, watching the rising sun catch and dance upon the billowing incense while small children move like ghosts, silent, graceful, mysteriously serene, between and around the spirit world, a part of the incense itself, is nothing but other-worldly…appropriately so, I suppose, considering the setting.<br /><br />But upon transcending into the spirit world, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Steph</span> and I were quickly brought back down to Earth when we realized that we were being followed through the market by two men who seemed rather intent on ruining our meditative happiness by snatching our hand-bags. Fortunately, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Steph</span> and I are both veteran travelers at this point and had our money safely stored closer to our person than in our vulnerable hand-bags. In addition, when we made the gentlemen aware that we knew perfectly well they were following us, they became bored with their prey and moved on. To shake the sort of jitters that always seem to accompany this sort of situation, though, Stephanie and I sought refuge, and a quick break in yet another of America’s proud exports…<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">KFC</span>.<br /><br />From the lively and spirit-filled temples of Chinatown, we made our way to the tranquil oasis of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Masjid</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Jamek</span>, KL’s landmark mosque. Set in a grove of palm trees in the middle of the bustling city this mosque, a lovely creation of creamy onion-shaped domes and towering minarets, provides refuge from the many crowded tourist attractions in the surrounding area. Clothed in floor-length robes, hair covered in the appropriate scarves, we wandered in complete silence appreciating not only the impeccable architecture but also the surreal calm that seemed to blanket the mosque, tucking it deep into its soft folds.<br /><br />From the mosque, we visited the colonial district and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Merdeka</span> (Independence) Square, where at midnight on 31 August, 1957 Malaysia’s independence was proclaimed. The flag pole that anchors the square is one of the tallest in the world, displaying Malaysia’s flag at an impressive 100 meters high. Our last adventure for the morning was conquering the maze-like streets of Little India where a bazaar atmosphere is only enhanced by the street vendor’s sweet smelling flower garlands and the scent of secret family curries wafting from the small Indian cafes placed mosaic-like among the fabric and tapestry shops.<br /><br />The afternoon was spent enjoying a slow, four-course Lebanese meal at the Islamic Arts Museum, which was, and I am not exaggerating in the least bit when I say this, the best meal I have eaten in Asia, if not in my life. A spread of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">mezze</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">esqu</span> appetizers including hummus, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">baba</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">ganoush</span>, pickled vegetables, eggplant, pita bread, and crisp salad was followed by wheat germ soup. The main course, a saffron-glazed salmon with couscous and lemon vinaigrette tossed salad, was as good as it sounds and better. And Stephanie and I literally cried tears of joy, (this time they <em>were</em> the glistening tears cascading down fleshy cheeks though) when we tasted the baklava, a rich, sweet pastry made of layers of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">phyllo</span> dough and filled with chopped, sweetened pecans.<br /><br />Stuffed like turkeys at Thanksgiving and tired like we had been awake since 11:30 the previous evening, which, with the exception of some sporadic, uncomfortable bus dozes, we had, Stephanie and I went back to our lovely little hostel for a much needed nap. Then, this day being not only Chinese New Year but also Valentine’s Day, we headed out on the town to experience all that KL’s nightlife had to offer. A quick drink (roses included) in a place reminiscent of Alice’s mad tea party, Tiff’s Jazz Bar, was followed by live music and finally a roof top bar with a spectacular view of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Petronas</span> Towers. These landmark buildings were the tallest in the world until 2003, and the 88-story, steel-clad twin towers remain the city’s iconic symbol today.<br /><br />The morning of day two was spent doing what any true and good Singaporean (or, in my case, person who has spent enough time in Singapore to internalize some of the culture) would do…shopping, of course.<br /><br />In the early afternoon, we joined a guided tour for an out-of-town excursion to the nearby fishing village of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Kuala</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Selangor</span>. During the trip, our guide, Stevie ("as in Wonder" as he put it), took us first to visit the monkeys atop <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Bukit</span> (meaning “hill” in Malay) <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Malawati</span>. There we enjoyed views across the mangrove coastline as well as seeing the remains of the old Dutch fort and the British lighthouse that still dominate the hill. We, along with the Australian family of four generations and a young <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Kazakhstani</span> backpacker who were also on our tour, enjoyed taking candid shots with the stars of the show: the silvered leaf monkeys (see Picasa photos here).<br /><br />Our sunset diner consisted of salted crab, crab stew (actually imitation shark’s fin soup; see an earlier blog entry here for my not-so-subtle opinion about the actual shark’s fin delicacy), vegetables, rice, and prawns all served family style at a restaurant that was actually standing in the water. Moments before our meal, we watched a group of fishermen haul in the day’s catch. It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">doesn</span>’t get much fresher than this.<br /><br />As the evening settled comfortably in around us, we made our way to watch the fireflies gather for their nightly ritual in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">berembang</span> trees that line the banks of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Sungai</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Selangor</span> river. Malay-style wooden rowboats took us out to enjoy the natural light show during which male fireflies flash roughly every three seconds in a unified call and effort to preserve their bloodline.<br /><br />As our boat cut swiftly through the black water, our way lighted by these insect stars so close I could have reached out and pulled them from the sky, I was transported back in time to one far away Iowa summer. Suddenly, I was an innocent eleven years old again, scouring my aunt and uncle’s backyard for a similar creature to capture in a jar for a nightlight. Wonderfully, strange <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">isn</span>’t it…the tapestry that our memories weave.<br /><br />Here I physically was in a wooden rowboat on a river in Malaysia, yet, for several quiet moments, I am mentally at total peace in the place of my childhood innocence, running barefoot, squishing the cool summer grass between my toes as I reach out in a vain attempt to capture the little lightening bug in my smooth, old jam jar. When I am finally ready to give up, my uncle takes the jar and swiftly, with expert hands that only come from many years of boyhood practice, maneuvers a little flickering spark into the glass vessel and closes it tightly shut. We walk hand-in-hand back to the porch and say goodnight to Nicodemus the visiting toad. Sometime after I fall fast asleep, the glow of the little bug still dancing on the back of my eyelids, my uncle sneaks into the room and frees the creature into the night. Then, as quickly as it came, it is gone. Both the bug and the memory.<br /><br />And if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Steph</span> and I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">hadn</span>’t had enough of America’s finest exported products, we stopped for an A&W root beer float before settling into firefly dreams back at the hostel.<br /><br />The third and final morning of our trip was spent visiting the Blue Mosque (aka <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Masjid</span> Sultan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Salahuddin</span> Abdul <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Aziz</span> Shah, which is why I will be referring to it as the Blue Mosque from here on out). The Blue Mosque is located just outside of KL in a staunchly Muslim city where bars, amongst other sins, are illegal. The Blue Mosque is aptly nicknamed for the azure dome covered in delicately written verses of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Quran</span>. It is one of the largest mosques in South East Asia, capable of accommodating 24,000 worshippers at once, and boasts some of the tallest minarets in the world.<br /><br />While many people find their meditative states in yoga studios or in quite Ashrams in small Indian villages, I feel mine is best achieved in the beautiful places of religious serenity to which I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">ve</span> been exposed on my travels. Regardless of the specific religious creed, I seem to find the most solace, and to achieve the most calm in my soul (and for those of you who know me and my oh-so-restless soul, you know this is quite the feat) in lovely temples, tranquil mosques, and grand cathedrals the world over. Again my mind races back to a time of pure bodily peace as I sat in the small cathedral of Christ's blood in Brussels, Belgium several years ago floating in a cloud of calm so other-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">worldly</span> that it may as well have been an out-of-body experience.<br /><br />Before returning to Singapore, there was one final task which had to be accomplished, and that was the finding and the consumption of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Nyonya</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">laksa</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Laksa</span> is a popular spicy noodle soup from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Peranakan</span> culture, also known as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Baba</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Nyonya</span>, which is a merger of Chinese and Malay elements found in Singapore, Indonesia and Malaysia. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Nyonya</span>, or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">lemak</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">laksa</span> is a type of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">laksa</span> made with rich coconut gravy. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Lemak</span> is a culinary description in the Malay language which specifically refers to the presence of coconut milk which adds a distinctive richness to a dish. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Nasi</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">lemak</span>, for example, is coconut rice.<br /><br />The three days of school last week flew by in a sort of “still full from Chinese New Year food but let’s eat more anyway” blur, during which I indulged in more <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">yu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">sheng</span> salad with my colleagues. The weekend was spent recovering (sort of) from the food and travel induced coma with a dinner date for yet more lucky salad with my induction mentor, Mrs. Tan, Jayme, Jeremy, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Steph</span>. A reggae concert at which our friend, Aaron, made his debut as the band’s trombonist was another of the highlights.<br /><br />On Sunday, I attended the “coming out” party of my co-worker’s one-month-old grandson and his mother. Many traditional Chinese rituals and customs surround pregnancy and childbirth. (To be completely honest, it seems, many traditional Chinese rituals and customs surround almost everything in life (see “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">heaty</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">cooly</span>” foods blog entry here).) But nonetheless these rituals range from the belief that pregnant women should guard their thoughts, avoid gossip, and read poetry to the idea that if a woman eats light-colored food during pregnancy, her child will have fair skin. Often a strong herbal potion is drunk to ease the pain of labor, and strict rules regarding food preparation and exercise are followed both during pregnancy and after birth.<br /><br />In addition, traditionally Chinese women and their newborns "sit the month" after birth. The website “Medical Chinese” from NYU explains: “Depending on regional differences, women may not leave their homes, take a bath, wash their hair, expose themselves to cold water, cold temperatures and wind, or ingest ice water or "cold" food (raw vegetables, salads or fruits) in the first month after giving birth. It is believed that women are undergoing a cold stage right after delivery due to loss of blood. In order to restore balance, they need to consume foods considered "hot" (i.e. hot water, soups, ginger, wine and food high in protein).”<br /><br />Being a part of the new mother’s and baby’s presentation to the world after this period of “sitting” was an exciting, and culturally eye-opening experience.<br /> <br />Despite a rough start to the week, which started out with a sick day on Monday to recover physically from the aforementioned reverse <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">Kool</span> Aid mustache and mentally from feeling a bit homesick, I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">ve</span> actually felt really quite successful as a teacher this week. I guess part of that success comes from the fact that I am teaching news article writing to my classes right now (sort of my forte), but I also like to think I’m just getting better at this whole teacher (“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">cher</span>”) thing.<br /><br />Because I began this blog entry with a sort-of crazy pessimistic rant, I think it only appropriate (and important for my own sanity) that I end with a list of blessings for which I am thankful this week:<br /><br />1.) My students, who are more excited about the learning journey on which I am taking them next week to the National Museum of Singapore than I could have ever expected a group of 13-year-olds to be; sometimes their innocent curiosity and naïve wonderment of the world around them really touches my heart.<br /><br />2.) My roommate, who, after hearing me complain that “for the next ten days while on this antibiotic I cannot eat seafood, eggs, or drink alcohol…the only good thing left is chocolate”…proceeded to surprise me with three large Cadbury chocolate bars after school one day. (The giant bars, due to my upcoming Bali trip, have been safely tucked in the back of a drawer, and will be removed for only one small morsel here and there.)<br /><br />3.) My co-workers, who, despite occasional misunderstandings, really do try to understand the weird American teacher and who have been nothing but caring and concerned after my bout of sick leave.<br /><br />4.) My family, especially my mom, who listened to me rant about how terrible this tropical paradise of a life is, over the phone one morning at 7 a.m. her time while she could have been getting ready to go to work...in a blizzard, no doubt.<br /><br />5.) My good (despite the occassionaly weird skin irritation) health.<br /><br />6.) My upcoming spring-break vacation to Bali and additional week spent in Singapore with Tim.<br /><br />Yes, life is not so bad after all.<br /><br />TIA,<br />RachelRachel Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01862309929613386712noreply@blogger.com0