Mandolins and Moustaches

Short, sweet, buns

2008-07-27T15:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was sitting in a coffeeshop with a friend of mine named Selin. It was my last day in Istanbul, and we were reflecting on what I had to look forward to upon my return to the US. Selin is Turkish, but had spent some time in the States a few years back. In telling me what she missed about it, she started explaining a dessert flavored with cinnamon. "They are sweet," she said. "With sugar. And cinnamon."

It took me awhile to figure out she was talking about cinnamon buns, but not because of any specific fault in her description. Instead, it was her classification of cinnamon buns as a dessert. Cinnamon buns are not desserts. Cinnamon buns are an institution. Any frequent visitor of US airports can attest to the fact that there is an entire restaurant chain devoted to the sale of these tasty-yet-nutritious snacks. As I tried to describe the cinnamon bun within the context of traditional American fast-food cuisine to Selin, I felt a little tug at my homesick heartstrings. There is no comparable analog in Turkish culture. Sure they have baklava shops, but the servings at such places are practical: two, maybe three pieces for an individual serving. At Cinnabon, the minimum order is a roll of six miniature cinnamon buns, but those are for the kids. The real buns, those unreasonable, brick-sized behemoths that can serve as breakfast, lunch or dinner, those are the real thing. Selin would have none of it. Although her English is rather good, she attributed her inability to understand how we could eat dessert all the time to a misunderstanding, and we moved on to less sugary topics. I, however, ended up leaving the conversation with a strange sense of pride, of longing. A desire to be back among my people. People who proudly proclaim, "Food pyramid be damned, we will eat dessert whenever we jolly well please. We are Americans," and "Where is the Cinnabon in this terminal?"

I am currently staying with friends in Dorking, England and will be heading back to the US on the 30th of July for the Watson Fellows Conference, where I will talk about my feelings with a lot of other lonely kids in Nashville, TN. It should be pretty wild. I will then bounce around to Williamstown and Kansas City, before finally settling back down in Northampton at the beginning of September to try my hand at the music gig. This is thus my last post of my Watson year, and I want to thank all of you who have read and kept up with me for the duration of it. I cannot wait to see and meet up with all of you back in the US.

Soon to be stateside,

Auyon

P.S. I am seriously considering re-starting the blog when I get back up to Northampton in September. I have a feeling my burgeoning music career will provide ample hilarious material. I hope you are as excited as I am.

Fourth of July Special

2008-07-06T16:38:00.001-07:00

On July 4th, my friend Laura and and I took a half-hour ferry across the Bosphorous to a neighborhood called Kadiköy, on the Asian side of Istanbul. We sat on a rocky beach, drinking Miller Light and declaring our love for the US between bites of homemade chicken salad sandwich. For the bulk of my 11+ months abroad, although I missed home occasionally, I never once wished I could just board a plane and head back to the US. About a week ago, though, something snapped. A combination of the proximity of my return (less than 3 weeks now) with my now-solidified plans when I get back to the US (no job yet, but I am working on it) has left me fantasizing about my return constantly. I have compiled a short list of things I miss greatly about America, as well as things I am looking forward to. I hope you enjoy it.

1) Not having to bargain for everything

In Istanbul, sticker prices are rare outside of grocery stores. The price of any given item is invented on-the-fly, and is a result of three factors: the actual value of the item, the ruthlessness of the vendor, and the gullibility of the customer as gauged by said vendor. I was aware that bargaining occurs at certain places, like the famed Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. I was not aware that bargaining is necessary to buy something like batteries at a neighborhood store, or a memory card at a camera store. The few times that there are sticker prices, they are often the inflated, arbitrary result of some clerk with a sticker machine.

2) Microbrewed beer

When I left the US in August, I was just beginning to appreciate the vast range of beers that are available in an average American spirit shop. In Turkey, there is one beer. It is called Efes, and although it is good, it is not that good.

3) Having a bed

I realize that people regularly sleep in beds in both the US and Turkey, but as the self-interested author of this piece, I will ignore all of those people. When I first moved into my place in Turkey, there was a mattress on the ground. I was told that my landlords would be “purchasing a bed shortly.” After learning that a bed would actually be rather expensive, my landlords informed me that I would not be receiving a bed. I also discovered that the mattress was a bit soft and subsequently removed it. I now sleep on a sleeping pad and some sheets on the hardwood floor. I don´t really mind it all that much, but it is always uncomfortable to ask people to take off their shoes in my room and to kindly not step on my bed. We all know it is a farce. They are not stepping on my bed; they are stepping on the floor, which I have chosen to sleep on. Whose fault is that?

4) Not getting hit on by transvestite prostitutes on the walk home from the supermarket at 2 pm on a Sunday

This is rather self-explanatory.

5) Not feeling guilty about wasting time

Although the initial exoticism of the city has worn off, I still feel guilty when I want to take a nap mid-day, or sit inside and read rather than go to a cafe. I am in Istanbul, I think to myself. I should go eat some baklava, or some Turkish delight at the very least, not sit here in my pajamas and read Lolita, as enjoyable as that may be. This is not a problem I have in the US. I can sit in my pajamas and read for hours in Prairie Village, without a trace of guilt at the end of the day. Sometimes I can even sit and read wearing no pajamas at all, provided I lock the door. In Turkey, my room door has no lock. It does not even have a handle, and I have to jimmy it open with a butter knife every time I want to open it. Fortunately, if I really need to get out in a jiffy, I can just jump through the sheet that I taped on to where the window in the door used to be before it shattered because of a strong cross-breeze.

I think that list about covers it. I will probably post one or two more times before my flight to London on the 27th (and then to Nashville on the 30th).

I am so excited to see all of you.

Much love,

Auyon

Beautiful

2008-06-25T06:56:00.001-07:00

Twice a week, every week, I strap a saz to my back, secure a my camera to my belt, and then navigate down a narrow, single-lane road littered with stray cats, dirty kids, speeding automobiles and headscarved Kurdish wives lowering baskets out of their windows to purchase corn from the street vendors. Once I reach the bottom of the hill, I swing a right onto Dolapdere, a major Istanbul artery that runs through some of the less pleasant neighborhoods in the city. The street smells of cigarette butts, exhaust fumes, stale urine and the occasional whiff of kebabs being cooked, all mingled into one. I walk down Dolapdere for about a half mile, past two traffic lights, a number of car-repair shops, and approximately 15-20 mannequin shops. Before arriving in Istanbul, I did not know that mannequin shops existed. I assumed mannequins were the sort of things one orders in a catalog, like fake palm trees or lawn ornaments. I am reminded of my naivete every time I pass by the series of shops featuring white, black, silver, gold and metallic blue men and women, buck-naked and with exquisitely coiffed hair, reclining comfortably within large glass cases. After the second stoplight, I head left up a long flight of stairs and then ring the doorbell at the home of Emre, my saz teacher.

Emre is a stout, heavyset man in his early 30s, with a friendly moustache and a warm disposition. His English is not particularly good, but it is better than my Turkish, which stagnated at basic-conversational after I realized I lacked the funds to continue taking private lessons. As a result, our initial meetings were marked by a strange mix of Turkish, English and enthusiastic hand-gestures. After 2 months together, although my Turkish and his English have not improved significantly, our communication has developed in an intriguing way. Our deplorable language abilities, combined with the extended nature of our interactions, have forged a novel means of communication, a new language of sorts, replete with grammar and vocabulary. The primary rule of engagement of our new language is that if something is not imperative, do not attempt to say it. Another important rule is that all speech must be dumbed down to a simple subject/adjective format. Sometimes we may use verbs, but we do our best not to. For instance, “Yes, thank you, I am hungry.” becomes “I hungry. Me.” Part of the translation difficulties are rooted in the fact that Turkish lacks the verbs “to be” and “to have,” and instead simply adds personal suffixes to denote attributes or possession. Our language has evolved such that the verbs have been done away with altogether, whether we are bastardizing English or Turkish. Pleasanteries are also too complex to be dealt with, and for that reason we operate under the mutual assumption that all statements should be interpreted in the least rude way possible.

Vocabulary is perhaps my favorite part of our interactions. Although we use real English and Turkish words, they are all used in slightly different ways, so that although we both know what the other is saying, an objective onlooker might think we are a strange couple. When Emre likes something I am playing, for example, he tells me I am beautiful (the subject-adjective relationship remains a source of contention.) Under most circumstances, I would have thought it a bit odd that a large, Turkish man should want to repeatedly tell me that I am beautiful, but at our lessons, I have come to expect it. He also describes different improvisational techniques as “attractions,” which I enjoy. It makes the whole lesson seem like a theme park. I could correct him, of course, but why bother? On my end, I am constantly trying to come up with Turkish words that I half-remember. Turkish is laden with little traps, wherein single syllables can transform a word from something innocent into something filthy. I thus often try to say something about my saz only to look up and see that Emre is giggling. To further complicate matters, the word “um” in Turkish is a vulgar reference to the female anatomy.

Our new language is unfortunately not foolproof. Certain things remain lost in translation. Last week, for example, Emre tried to explain to me that we are learning a very difficult technique, called the Konya style (Konya being a city in Turkey). He then went on to explain that when he had been trying to learn the style a few years back, he had done strength training by attaching a heavy metal ashtray to his wrist and then doing speedwork. I glanced at his wrist, which is about as thick as my bicep and probably more muscular. There were a number of things I thought I might say to him, most concerning the fragility of my person and why I think strapping ashtrays to my wrist is a bad idea, but alas, these were all thoughts I lacked the ability to convey. Instead, I smiled, nodded, and told him I would look for a nice ashtray, and perhaps some duct tape. Our new language leaves no room for excuses.

Much love,

Auyon

A day at the temple

2008-06-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

On the morning of June 3rd, I found myself ambling along a tree-lined, mulberry-strewn path leading from Selçuk, a small town on the western coast of Turkey, to the ancient city of Ephesus. My mother and older brother were a bit further ahead, and my father, a mulberry enthusiast, was trailing behind as he patrolled the trees for ripe fruit. In inspecting his bounty earlier, I had discovered that mulberries, along with cherries, apples and the Brazilian jaca fruit, induce a rather unpleasant allergic reaction in my mouth, so I made sure to avoid both the berries and my fruit-laden father for the rest of the walk.

About half-way to Ephesus, we left the mulberry path for a short while to visit the Temple of Artemis, which was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Not much remained, save a single column accompanied by a few piles of white marble rubble. What proved to be more enagaging were the vendors who prowled the surrounding area. There were the requisite three or four “ancient coin” sellers: shifty Turkish men with inexplicably large collections of highly valuable, authentic Roman currency jingling in their pockets. Next to them were a number of tables with statuettes of Greek gods, primarily Artemis and Priapus. For those of you who are as uninformed as I was, Artemis is the Greek goddess of the forest and hills, and is typically portrayed as a huntress. Priapus, on the other hand, is a rustic fertility god, protector of livestock, fruit plants, gardens and male genitalia. Priapus' statuettes appropriately featured a small man happily clutching his enormous, erect penis with both hands. My father pointed the sculptures out to the rest of us, and we meditated on the Greek pantheon as a family as we meandered through the wild poppies and grasses that had blanketed the ruins.

As we walked away from the tables, one of the coin-sellers snuck up behind me and tried to strike up a conversation in English. I am always eager to practice my limited Turkish, and responded in his native language, catching him off-guard. Once he regained his composure, the seller posed a familiar question: “Where are you from?” The combination of my dark skin, unruly hair and decidedly handsome moustache tends to fuel Turks with a burning desire to know my ancestry, and I typically have some fun with them.

“America,” I replied.

The man narrowed his eyes, confused, and then asked his question again. When my response did not change, he shook his head. He then asked where my parents were from, and I said India. He nodded understandingly. “So you are Indian.” I politely disagreed and repeated my initial answer. He grew a bit upset, but I did not stick around to pursue anything since my family had moved further afield. I rushed to catch up to them, and described my interaction with the coin-seller with a broad smile on my face.

Afterwards, I was surprised to find that my parents were not as amused as I though they would be. Instead, my father asked, quite simply, if I knew what I was doing (I had told them that this was a favorite game of mine). Of course I did, I told him. I was having some fun at the expense of others. The fact that a coin-seller could not come to terms with immigration was not my problem. The question he meant to ask regarded my heritage, not my homeland, and I felt entitled to play games with the semantics.

My parents frowned at me in unison, and then my father began again. He first assured me that it was fine for me to say whatever I wanted, but thought that I should at least know how I was being interpreted. I was answering the question on my terms, but had not realized that my interrogator's conception of identity was a far cry from my own. In America, individual identity and worth are typically defined by one’s accomplishments and abilities. In places like India and Turkey, much more value is placed on one’s bloodline and roots. Identity is thus synonomous with ancestry, and for me to describe my identity as having nothing to do with my parents or forebears was perceived by the Turks as not only disrespectful, but downright offensive.

When my father finished, I felt uncomfortable and did not know how to respond. Stranger yet, I had trouble putting my finger on what it was about our interaction that had caused my discomfort. I certainly had not realized the baggage that my playful response to the coin-seller had carried with it, but that was not it. Nor was it the unsettling fact that after two months in Turkey, I had remained completely clueless as to the way identity was constructed within the culture. Rather than attempt a rebuttal, I continued to walk alongside my family in silence, shaken but unable to understand why.

We finished our short tour of the pillar, rounded the edge of the field and once again came upon the statuette tables and vendors. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I suggested that we purchase one of the Priapus statuettes for my younger brother, a connoisseur of all things vulgar and lewd. My parents nodded in agreement, and I proceeded to bargain. When the price was right, the vendor plucked the statue from the table by its natural handle, it's manhood, and then proceeded to wave it in the air at my parents to ensure that I had selected the correct piece. My mother blushed with embarrassment and then shooed him away, instructing him to put it down. On cue, I then picked up the statue in the same fashion and waved it even more ostentatiously, so as to inform everyone in the vicinity that my parents wished to buy a little statue of a man with a big johnson. My mother started shaking her head as she suppressed a smile, and it was at that moment I realized what had been bothering me earlier. Having been on my own for the past ten months, I have been forced to undergo a good deal of growing up, and my interactions with my parents have been reflective of it. My father's well-warranted lecture, however, transported all of us back to the instructive parent-child roles of my youth, and that was what had made me so uneasy. Somehow, watching my mother struggle to feign anger while I waved a statue around by its penis clarified this shift, and simultaneously made me realize how content I am to continue existing as my parents' middle, idiot son while I adjust to my new adult skin. The future from here on out will certainly bring about further changes in my sense of self, but the ability to be guided by my parents is something I value too much to lose. Perhaps I should buy a second pocket-sized statue and keep it close at hand, just as a little reminder. I will ask my mother if she will buy it for me.

Much love,

Auyon

My new favorite restaurant

2008-05-24T12:51:00.000-07:00

Before beginning my Watson year, I had never lived in a big city. On the contrary, the only two towns I had called home were the sleepy suburb of Prairie Village, Kansas, and Williamstown, Massachussetts, where the 2,000-person college makes up a quarter of the population. It was thus a rather rude shock to come to terms with the sprawling metropolis of Rio de Janeiro. My response to the impossible magnitude of the city was to consult my guidebook at every turn. Since my days primarily consisted of scavenging for food and playing music, the restaurant section got especially dog-eared. Most nights I cooked for myself, but the few times I treated myself to a meal out it was with Lonely Planet´s blessings. Once or twice, I got a bit bold and forayed out without a recommended restaurant in mind, but those instances tended to end poorly because I could not yet read Portuguese. I recall one time when, in my ravenous state, I ordered too quickly and ended up with a massive dish of fried sausages and three side dishes of bitter greens. My stomach did not sit well for the rest of the week.

It was only in my later months that I finally built up enough courage and language skills to venture out into the restaurant-unknown. I lived on the hill of Santa Teresa, and at the bottom there lay the seedier neighborhoods of Lapa and Gloria. I remember the first time I walked out of a hole-in-the-wall joint in Gloria, having successfully ordered a steak with french fries and rice. Although the meal was terrible, I felt great. The experience was indicative of a newfound ability to exist independently of Lonely Planet without making a complete ass of myself. It was as though a whole world opened up within Rio, and I only lamented that I had not gotten a bit braver earlier.

In Istanbul, I was determined to get off-book as soon as possible. Since I had adjusted to big city life, only my Turkish language skills were holding me back. Learning Turkish has been slow-going here. My funds have prevented me from taking intensive lessons like I did in Rio, and English is more broadly spoken here, so I do not get to practice my Turkish unless I wander off into sidestreets and the less-frequented pockets around my apartment. Last week, though, I decided enough was enough. Speaking abilities notwithstanding, I was going to have myself an adventure. I headed into one of the less English-friendly neighborhoods and ducked into the first eatery I saw. It was a single room, with a vertically rotating spit laden with chicken that was shaved off with a large knife, a plastic box of rice, a pan of mixed mystery meats floating in a tomato broth and some vegetables. Nothing more. The owner was a stout little man with a bushy moustache and a thickly jowled frown. I liked him. He grunted at me when I entered, and in response I pointed to the mystery meat. He nodded and prepared to serve me. As he began ladling, I tried to ask what kind of meat it was. He looked at me sharply, and I was quite sure he misunderstood me. To confirm my suspicions, he spooned a piece of steaming meat into his bare right hand, declared it “good,” and then unceremoniously shoved it into my surprised mouth. I was in shock, having never reached that level of intimacy with another man before, but he, unfazed, simply ordered me to sit down. I did. The meal was good. God knows what part of what animal I was eating, but it was tempered nicely by the fresh yogurt.

I am now almost halfway through my time in Istanbul, and a little more than two months away from my return to the United States. I am looking forward to a slew of visits from family and friends in upcoming weeks. It is usually during these visits that I realize how accustomed to life in foreign cities I have grown, and to be able to share my favorite reading spots, music and cafes is a welcome interruption to my mostly solitary lifestyle here. I will be keeping my favorite mystery meat joint a secret, though. With that kind of service, it is a place I want to keep all to myself.

Much love,

Auyon

The Moustache Diaries

2008-05-15T06:57:00.001-07:00

This is a fictionalized account of a moustache grower, inspired by my own real-life experiences. It is, in short, based on a true story.

Week 0

Has been 3 days since last shave. Beginning to look grizzled.

Am beginning to get funny looks at work. Boss asked if home life is fine, told him cat is doing well and that I am growing a moustache. He wished me luck and wanted me to say hey to cat for him.

Week 1

Thin but respectable growth all around. Neard (neck beard) area getting uncomfortable, but am hoping to get used to it.

If I squint and dim the lights I look like Eric Bana from Troy.

Cat has gotten friendlier.

Week 2

Week before the big shave. Anxiety attacks are settling in. Have been eating a lot of peanut butter.

Have been writing to keep thoughts organized. Considerations include

1) Height of shave. Peach fuzz on cheeks has gone out of control, but if I shave it will it just come back thicker?

2) Shape of moustache. Have been investigating wikipedia´s entry on moustaches. Cannot decide whether to stay within confines of the 2007 World Beard and Moustache Championship subcategories or to break out.

3) Will cat recognize me?

Week 3

Shorn. Shaved neck, chin and sideburns. Freshly exposed moustache gently rides over upper lip before stopping and lingering sensuously around edges of mouth.

Sensation is akin to having a small, friendly pet living on my face, in which bits of cream cheese occasionally get stuck.

Friends at work are split by sex. Men respect me, want to buy me beers. Women are disgusted. Spirits remain high.

Week 4

Significant improvement in thickness, girth. Overall growth coming along handsomely.

Was able to plant the stem of a spinach leaf just under my nose and then eat said leaf out of the moustache. Guys at lunch were impressed.

Cat no longer knows who I am, has grown lonely, confused. Licks self often, refuses to eat.

Week 5

Re-shaved to define edges. Moustache has started to naturally curl up at the edges, resembling wikipedia´s English.

Am feeling bold, daring. Want to buy a motorcycle.

Tried conditioner this week. Moustache became pleasantly soft, pliable. Will continue.

Cat is in heat.

Week 6

Was woken up several times this week by cat attempting to seduce my face. Stopped using conditioner.

Man in tight pants informed me that my moustache was too bushy to be ironic. Told him I like country music and grew up in Kansas.

Peripheral hairs have been getting unruly, prompting me to stroke moustache with thumb and forefinger frequently. Feels good, natural.

Week 7

Bought motorcycle, quit job and am heading back out west.

Will leave cat and conditioner with boss.

Rio vs Istanbul: a cross-cultural study

2008-05-07T16:57:00.000-07:00

Objective
To discern essential cultural differences and between the cities of Rio de Janeiro and Istanbul, focusing on two primary points of analysis: cats and old men.

I. Cats
The majority of local street cats I happened upon in Rio were mangy, flea-ridden creatures. They prowled around the neighborhood of Santa Teresa in small gangs, suspiciously eyeing all passers-by and looking tough until the local dogs were out on their walks. There was one crazy lady who put food out for the cats, but their gaunt, scrawny frames were a testament to the insufficiency of her efforts. The rest of the neighborhood was tolerant of the unsightly, unfortunate things, but one would have been hard-pressed to find anyone harboring much affection for them (outside of the crazy cat lady, of course, but there was a reason we all called her crazy).

Upon my arrival in Istanbul, one of the first things I noticed was a rather tubby cat stretched out in the middle of a sidewalk outside of our hostel. I watched it for a short while, as it lazily rolled in and out of the sun, and noticed that the animal possessed no trace of predatory tendencies. This cat was not a hunter. It was not sleek, sly or cunning. It was a sluggish, fat and arrogant. I was puzzled for a few minutes, but then reasoned that it must be a domestic animal that had found its way into the street. There was no way that any self-respecting street cat would be caught in such a state of indolent lethargy.

As our first week progressed, however, I found more and more pudgy felines puttering around in the streets, in markets and outside of fast-food joints. Unless Turks are utterly incompetent at keeping their pets indoors, my escaped-domestic-animal hypothesis was incorrect. I could not figure it out. At one point, I decided the difference might be explained by the street foods of each city. Brazilians prefer their snacks deep-fried, and fried balls of manioc paste stuffed with meat or cheese leave little in the way of street-droppings. Döner kebabs, on the other hand, which are shavings of cooked meat (usually served between two slices of bread) that can be found on most every street corner in Istanbul, seem to be designed such that half of the meat must fall to the ground. I was rather proud of my explanation until I discovered that I was once again wrong. The truth is that Turkish people just love cats. They feed their street cats. They leave cat food outside of their shops, restaurants and homes, and sometimes butchers even leave bits of offal out for the animals to feast on. One of the neighborhoods, Cihangir, is specifically known for its beloved street cat population. Perhaps the crazy cat lady from Santa Teresa should look into moving here. I have a feeling she would fit right in.

II. Old Men
One of my favorite scenes in Rio was that of old men drinking beer outside of the bars and small restaurants that dot the streets. The men were usually in pairs or groups of three, sipping from small glass cups as they sat around plastic tables with a big bottle of beer between them. I have heard that sharing large bottles of beer is a common phenomenon across Latin America, and I believe that the practice offers an interesting insight into the region’s drinking culture. Beer out of oversized bottles inevitably becomes a shared commodity, and the effect is not unlike breaking bread with a friend. The sharing of beer might even improve upon the metaphor, since no amount of bread would induce an individual to drunkenly profess his or her love to said companion.

In Istanbul, there is no such beer-soaked camaraderie among the elderly. Being the cultural and historical capital of an Islamic state, alcohol is much less publicly visible in Istanbul than one might expect of a major European city. Old men here sit outside just the same, but outside of nargile (hookah) cafés rather than bars, drinking tea rather than beer as they focus on the tavla (backgammon) board between them. There is no laughing or smiling. These are serious men playing a serious game while sipping tea out of voluptuous little glasses. The conviviality of shared libations in Rio replaced by the thrill of competition, the sweet taste of victory and the bitterness of defeat. Welcome to Istanbul.

Further Reading
Ethnic differentiation abilities aside, I have found that the bulk of my interactions and experiences in foreign cities are more predicated on how I am physically perceived than any effort or cultural understanding on my part. In Brazil, for example, when I was clean-shaven and wore my hair tied back, I was almost always mistaken for a native. Since I was not living in the best of neighborhoods, I accepted my faux-Brazilian identity whole-heartedly and never carried a backpack for fear of being labeled a tourist. In Istanbul, in spite of my handsome moustache, I stick out like a sore thumb. My skin is too dark to allow me to seem Turkish, and while there are plenty of fair-skinned tourists, I have seen almost no South Asians since I arrived. Since assimilation is futile, I have reverted to carrying a backpack and camera everywhere. If they all know I am a foreigner, I may as well embrace it. Hopefully my slowly-improving Turkish will soon be good enough to make some shop-keepers and restaurateurs do a double-take, but for now I will have to settle for smiling and nodding and explaining that I would like the part of the meat that is not given to the cats. Yes, yes and a glass of tea. Thanks.

Much love,

Auyon

Quarterly Report III

2008-04-30T14:34:00.000-07:00

Following the submission of my second quarterly report in January, I cast aside my mandolin for a week and analyzed — with an objective and dispassionate gravity— the hedonistic Carnaval festivities that engulfed Rio in early February. My study concluded that these celebrations are good and should continue. I then headed to the small town of São Pedro for a week-long national choro workshop (IV Festival Nacional de Choro), which proved to be one of the highlights of my stay in Brazil. My improved Portuguese permitted me to learn from and discuss music with the plethora of fine musicians surrounding me, and the classes were taught by some of the top choro musicians in the country.

My experiences at the festival broadened my understanding of both self-expression and virtuosity within the music. The melodic line of any choro piece is rarely played as it was originally written. Melodies are typically exchanged between single musicians in a roda, or jam session, and such solo performance allows for flexibility and improvisation in both rhythm and pitch. Great playing will often toe a fine line, incorporating creative, arpeggiated embellishments but still keeping the tune recognizable. Furthermore, the relatively short and well-documented history of choro (its origins are in 19th century Rio, but the music truly blossomed with the advent of popular Brazilian radio in the 1920’s and 30’s) allows for the specific improvisations of the old masters to be alluded to and incorporated by contemporary players, adding another layer to the music’s interpretation.

Improvisation is not limited to the melodic instruments (mandolins, flutes and clarinets), which make up just a fraction of any roda. The cavaquinho, a Brazilian ukulele, is a chordal instrument recognizable by its high pitch and complex strumming patterns. From speaking to cavaquinho players at the festival, I learned that the intricate chord progressions of choro pieces are open to rather liberal interpretation. The most virtuosic cavaquinistas are those who are able to toy with the chord sequence while simultaneously voicing each chord to support the melody. The mandolin and the cavaquinho are only two representative examples of the host of other instruments in choro rodas, including six and seven-string guitars, pandeiros (tambourine-style hand drums) and wind instruments.

Here, as in Ireland, I found the balance between self-expression and celebration of community a compelling one. There is certainly a great emphasis on solo performance in choro, but the way the melody is traded back and forth among soloists in a roda invokes a sense of playful conversation rather than spotlighting any one individual. Additionally, as I learned more about the cavaquinho, six and seven-string guitars and pandeiro, I found myself decidedly more interested in handling of the structures beneath the melody than the tune itself. The intricate, syncopated melodies, while beautiful in their own right, are dependent on the driving cozinha (or kitchen, as the rhythm section is referred to) for support and context. In an interesting twist, then, Irish trad places little value on solo musicians in group performances but the music may be played just as easily by a solo musician, whereas in choro, soloists are emphasized in group performances but a single player cannot play choro authentically without the support of a group.

While my analytical investigation of choro was a successful one, my time in Brazil also brought about a number of personal challenges. Perhaps most significantly, I decided to forgo the medical career I had spent the bulk of my undergraduate experience preparing for, and to instead try my hand at writing and music upon my return to the US. To begin exploring job options as an aspiring writer with no formal experience, and while abroad, was a largely fruitless and depressing task. On the music front, I spent a great deal of my time in Brazil practicing choro on the mandolin, only to realize at the beginning of March that I had not gotten as good as I had hoped I might. This confluence of realizations and decisions left me in a rough state towards the end of my stay in Rio. Fortunately, I was able to pull myself back together by the time I left Brazil.

I flew into Turkey in early April, and have just begun to settle into a rhythm. I found a Turkish teacher, and have been spending a few hours a day attempting to learn the language. I also started lessons on the uzun saz, which is a long-necked lute with seven strings and quarter-toned frets up and down the neck (meaning it includes notes that do not exist in Western music). While the intricacies of ornamentation remain beyond me, I have learned a lot about the diversity of playing styles. Each region of Turkey has its own style of saz playing: the use of plectrums (picks), how the instrument is held and even the way the strings are tuned vary accordingly. There is a gentleman from whom I hope to take lessons in the coming months who has studied a number of different styles, but he only speaks Turkish. I am hoping my language skills improve quickly.
In spite of the language barrier and musical difficulties, I believe I have set a strong base for the rest of my time in Istanbul. I am very much looking forward to the coming months. As much as I am enjoying the city, though, I am quite sure that when the end of July comes around, I will be ready to come home. I look forward to seeing you all in Nashville.

Brothels that look like nightclubs and other assorted fun in Istanbul

2008-04-30T14:33:00.004-07:00

I spent my first night in Istanbul at the Antique Hostel in Istanbul, a much-lauded spot in the heart of Sultanahmet, the sight-seeing center of the city. I arrived there at around midnight, and was greeted at the desk by a guy wearing a button-down shirt opened halfway down the front of his chest, and sporting a well-coiffed head of shoulder-length hair that he flipped often, not unlike women in luxury shampoo commercials. I learned that his name was Adem, and he worked the night shift. “My friend,” he told me, “you are bed six in the Mickey Mouse room.” He then handed me a keychain with a little stuffed Mickey Mouse hanging off of it. I headed down to the room, only to find that none of the beds were made. I went back up to Adem, who was now playing video games. There was also a small boy next on a stool him, watching him play.

“Adem,” I asked, “can I have fresh sheets and a pillowcase?” Adem looked up from the screen and and I repeated myself more slowly. He then whirled around to face the child and barked at him in Turkish. The little boy almost fell off of his stool backwards. He then ran upstairs and fetched me a sheet and pillowcase. I went back down to make my bed, but then realized that I need another sheet. This time I knocked on the desk to get Adem’s attention, and then timidly asked for another sheet. Adem did not even look at me. He instead snarled more forcefully at the boy, frothing a bit at the mouth. The boy scrambled upstairs again and delivered my sheet with a nervous smile. I then headed back down and made my bed, spending a few hours working on my journal before going to sleep.

The next day, Aroop and a crew of four fellow Williams men arrived, and we quickly left Adem, the Antique Hostel and my entirely strange introduction to Istanbul the previous night, to begin exploring the city. I fell in love immediately. The crystalline blue waters of the Bosphorous and Golden Horn next to the magnificent domes and minarets that characterize the Sultanahmet skyline make for an addictive combination. The adhan, the call to prayer that envelopes the city in a beautifully haunting melody, sung by a muezzin five times a day, adds an unearthly charm to the entire scene. As one leaves the historic center and gets closer to Beyoglu, effectively Istanbul’s downtown, the main thoroughfares grow broad and proud, dotted with both kebab sellers loudly pitching their wares and the Starbuck’s-esque restaurants and coffee shops expected of a cosmopolitan city. The good people of Istanbul also seem intent on ensuring that no visitor should leave without knowing what the Turkish flag looks like. Accompanying the ubiquitous flags is the visage of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, founder of the Republic of Turkey and quintessential Turkish hero, with a borderline religious following throughout the entire country (ironic given that Ataturk’s primary program was secularism). The five of us had a fantastic time walking around, taking in the sights and sampling cuisine throughout the city. Highlights included our time at a hamam, where we were each pummeled and scrubbed lovingly by a large, mustachioed man, and accidentally stumbling into a whorehouse we mistook for a nightclub. The large number of cigar-smoking Turkish men in suits outside should have tipped us off, but we went in anyway. Upon seeing the collection strangely dressed, overly made-up women clustered around the bar inside, though, someone yelled “Brothel!” and we ran straight out again. It was a good night.

Aroop and crew left me a little more than a week ago, and I have since started to settle down. I found a fantastic place with a couple named Cem (pronounced “gem”) and Buket, who cook for me often and feed me fresh squeezed orange juice in the mornings. They are both musicians, and strangely enough, Cem spent several months in Ireland playing folk music there. It is strange how these things work out. I just bought a saz, the long-necked lute I am studying here, and have slowly been learning Turkish. Portuguese came relatively easily thanks to my familiarity with French and Spanish, but it took about a week for “Thank you” in Turkish (“Tesekkur ederim”) to sink in. Getting used to the culture here has also been a different sort of adjustment— what has made it interesting is that Turks are renowned for their hospitality, but their salesmen are some of the greasiest in the business. I thus have a hard time telling when someone is genuinely being nice, or just trying to dupe me. They have a number of tricks, like when a shoe shiner “accidentally” drops his brush as you walk by. He then pretends to be so grateful when you point it out that he must “shine your shoes for a discount price.” He doesn’t tell you the price until after the shining is over, at which point he gouges you. Another example is from a few days ago, when I was waiting for a friend next to a roasted chestnut vendor. A gentleman came up to me and asked if I am Indian (I recently started sporting a moustache). I responded positively, and he told me he was half Lebanese. A few minutes into what seemed like a perfectly friendly conversation, he began to advertise sex. It was 4 p.m. on a Sunday, in broad daylight, and this man was pleasantly informing me in a thick, Turkish accent that I could have a great time for 30 lira ($25). I smiled politely at him, just as my mother taught me to, and then walked away briskly.

Pushy salesmen aside, I am very excited to end my Watson year here. The food has been spectacular, and my favorite indulgences are currently Turkish Delight and Iskender kebabs (thinly sliced meat drizzled with tomato sauce, served over toasted pide bread with yogurt.) The music is mesmerizing, and I am giddy about the prospect of getting decent on my instrument. The city itself is such a pleasure to walk around in, and I have been quite busy staking out favorite waterfront reading spots. Perhaps most notably, though, this is a land where sex and chestnuts are sold side-by-side. It is going to be a good three and a half months.

Much love,

Auyon

Things that happen at airports

2008-04-30T14:33:00.003-07:00

As I stood in front of an empty check-in desk at Rio’s Galeão airport, due to the extended disappearance of the airline representative who had failed to inform me that she would be taking her dinner break sometime between asking me for my passport and handing me my boarding pass, I came to pass some rather harsh judgments on certain aspects of Brazilian culture. For the bulk of my time in Brazil, I was able to live rather self-sufficiently, and thus did not have to deal with the lax adherence to schedules characteristic of the country. My final day, though, began with my landlady showing up 90 minutes late to view my apartment and reimburse me for my rent deposit, followed closely by the cab company forgetting to take me to the airport because the power had gone out at their headquarters. After finally arriving at the airport and waiting for an hour to check in for my London flight, the lady who had begun checking me in decided to play hide-and-seek. I was stressed and exhausted. After about 15 minutes of clerklessness, I turned to the representative at the desk next to me and asked him if he knew where she had gone. He said he did not, but did assure me that “he knew she would be right back,” as he flashed a condescending smile. I wanted to hit him. After another 10 minutes, I caught sight of her running around all of the desks except her own, actively avoiding eye contact with me. She eventually calmed down and returned to the desk, only to inform me that there was a problem with my flight, and that I would need to go to a special room. She led me to a small, windowless room and sat me down with my bags. The whole experience was not unlike the many hours I spent in “time-out” as a youth, except this time I was being sentenced by an airline, rather than my mother, and I did not even have the pleasure of doing something inappropriate to deserve it.

There were a few fellow travelers who had been quarantined along with me. Our discussions led us to understand that Tam, the Brazilian airline we were flying, had overbooked the London flight, and that we were the victims. One fellow asked if it would be possible to fly business class, to which the gentleman beside me, named Augusto, responded that he was supposed to be flying business class anyway. Things were looking grim. Not long after our discussion, though, Augusto was tapped. The process involved a single, shifty-looking Tam representative entering our den of the oppressed, looking around nervously and then motioning for Augusto to follow him out of the room. Soon afterwards, another representative entered the room asking for me. I followed him back into the terminal, and let him explain why I was being removed from the plane in broken English (“There was very big plane. Now it has gotten small. Small plane has not enough seat-places. We are sorry.”) My mother’s interactions with service-personnel have taught me a thing or two, and I firmly told the gentleman that I bought my ticket approximately a long time ago, and that I wanted, nay, needed, to get to London. The rep looked down and fumbled with his papers before leading me back to my seat. A few minutes later, I was invited back out and told that they do, in fact, have a seat for me. I had passed the angry customer test. I boarded the plane that night, after purchasing my dinner, which consisted of granola bar, a bread-covered cheeseball and a bottle of water. I then promptly fell asleep for the duration of the hour-long flight to São Paulo.

As I was collecting my luggage from the hold above my seat, I caught sight of Augusto, and we exchanged congratulations for making it airborne. He saw my mandolin, and we started discussing Brazilian music. I learned that he plays MPB (popular Brazilian music, or Música Popular Brasileira) on his guitar in his spare time, and is an engineer by trade. We continued speaking all the way to the gate. Upon reading that our flight was delayed by at least 3 hours, Augusto suggested I try to get in to the Business Class Lounge with him, as sometimes friends are allowed in. I thought this was a terrific idea. I made it through without a hitch, grabbing a handful of toffees and flashing a thumbs-up to guy behind the desk as I passed by. As I entered the actual lounge, however, it was immediately apparent to me that I was wildly out of place. The establishment was filled with fair-skinned men and women over the age of thirty, dressed in business suits and ironed button-down shirts. I, on the other hand, was as disheveled as ever, clad in a dirty hooded sweatshirt and jeans, with unruly black curls splaying out from under my navy skullcap. I greeted their looks of surprise with enthusiastic nods, and then dropped into a chair and observed my surroundings. There were gaudy, white and black zebra-striped chairs, crocodile-skin footrests, leather futons, and, to my great delight, a minibar. I headed straight for the food, and found an assortment of delicious little pastries, as well as sandwiches with brie, sundried tomatoes and prosciutto.

I spent the bulk of my time either eating or using the free internet to watch YouTube videos. Life was good. At one point, I gathered the courage to approach the well-stocked liquor cabinet. After some deliberation, I decided on cognac. I usually don’t drink hard alcohol, but cognac felt appropriate. I poured a generous little glass for myself, and then settled down in my zebra chair, just in time for a show. It had been a few hours, and the airlines was starting to play the “only one more hour” game. I had seen this game played many times, but only with fellow coach-class passengers. Things are different in the Business Class Lounge. Rather being allowed to maintain a distance, or escape into the safety of the off-limits walkway, the airline personnel in the BCL have nowhere to hide. Additionally, I think coach class passengers tend to be more likely to relate to the sad state of the personnel delivering the unfortunate news of the delay, realizing that the kink is probably further up in the line of command and that demonstrating against the gate attendants would do little good. Such is not the case in the Business Class Lounge. As I sat down to sip my cognac, a fellow passenger was beginning to incite protest. “They don’t respect us!” he first cried in Portuguese. I took a sip. “They don’t respect us!” he repeated in English, for the benefit of the foreign travelers. I looked to the personnel. Rather than making any move to calm the man or assuage his anger, they instead just looked blankly ahead, as the passenger berated and criticized them collectively, gathering a bit of a crowd. About half an hour later, we were allowed to board the plane. I have no doubt the vociferous passenger truly believed that he had bullied the lounge attendants, the same people who refill the toffee jar, into getting the plane fixed up more quickly for him. I hope to have that kind of faith when I grow up as well.

My time in England was spent visiting family and old friends around London and Cambridge. England, more specifically Oxford and Cambridge, has taken on a revitalizing, almost cathartic role in my year, as it has been where I have stopped to transition between each country move. It was a great break, and five days later I stepped into Heathrow airport to begin my journey to Istanbul. I arrived in Istanbul on the 5th of April, and was picked up at the airport by Eric Phillips, a close friend from Williams who is currently studying abroad in the city. Eric was kind enough to let me store my junk at his place, so I was able to head to my hostel in Sultanahmet (the part of the city containing the Hagia Sophia and most of the rest of the Istanbul featured on postcards) with no strings attached. The next day, my baby brother Aroop arrived with several friends from Williams and beyond. Revelry ensued. Stories are coming soon.

Much love,

Auyon

Good Morning

2008-04-30T14:33:00.001-07:00

Dawn is breaking. It is the beginning of my last day in Rio. I just woke up on the floor of the 9th story apartment of a Dutch painter named Dré in downtown Centro, and am currently stationed on the balcony of said apartment, wearing a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, headband and a woman’s sweatshirt that fits me quite snugly. The story here is unfortunately not as exciting as some of your sordid imaginations might suggest— my friends Jennie (a dear friend from Williams who just moved to Rio) and Sarah threw a going away/birthday party for me and Sarah, respectively, and they are looking after their friend Dré’s apartment while he is in Holland for a few weeks. I cooked some coconut chicken, Jennie whipped together some tiramisu and Sarah provided the wine and whisky. There were candles, someone put the Buena Vista Social Club on and things got crazy. I fell asleep on an air mattress at 1:30, but not before Sarah gave me a sweatshirt because I was cold and sickly. I am sorry to disappoint.

I usually never wake up before 9, and never get out of bed before 9:30, but the excitement of packing up and moving on has inspired otherwise this morning. Looking out from within the city I usually only see from above, as Santa Teresa is on a hill, I have been moved to reflect on my past four months here. I arrived here scared, anxious and uneasy. My first thought as I walked off of the plane into Rio de Janeiro airport back at the end of November was “Only four more months. Then I can go.” I spent a lot of time studying Portuguese, and even more time alone in my room with my mandolin, trying to get a handle on choro and samba. Although I made friends, I sacrificed what little social life I could have had for my music, in the hopes that I would get great. Three months later, following a humbling experience at the national choro festival, and a slew of visits from loved ones, I had my last lesson with Rudá, my friend and initial mandolin teacher. During the lesson it became clear that I had not gotten particularly good at the mandolin, and this was a frustrating discovery. All of a sudden, those 150+ hours spent with my instrument seemed ridiculous. I had given three months to studying a relatively random Brazilian folk music, and came away with so little to show for my efforts. It was the first time I had failed so spectacularly at something, and it took me some time to come to terms with this.

At that last lesson, Rudá suggested I see another teacher for a change of pace, and gave me the number of a young hotshot mandolinist named Luiz. I set up a lesson, and showed up at Luiz’ place a week later. I was greeted by a kid no older than 19, with a goofy smile, a unibrow and a tendency to laugh at everything he said. He led me to his room and asked me to play something for him. I began Cochichando, the first piece I learned. About 30 seconds in, he asked me stop. I looked up and realized he was giggling. “You play the same as all the other gringos. You pick like this,” he told me, as he loosened the wrist of his right hand and imitated a bluegrass picking motion. “You need to pick like this,” he continued, as he demonstrated a movement that was restricted to a flexion of his thumb and forefinger. I was willing to try anything. That afternoon, I went back to my room and tried Luiz’ picking style. By the end of the night, my playing was significantly better. Something still did not sound quite right, though. A week later, I bought a Brazilian mandolin from a luthier just outside of Rio, named Barros. I had been playing a $120 bluegrass mandolin I had purchased in the US, which I have not touched since my trip to Barros’. Brazilian mandolins truly sing, as they sustain their sound much longer, allowing for an entirely different level of expression. The novel picking style in conjunction with the new instrument has made all the difference. Over the course of two weeks, I went from being entirely disappointed with my playing ability to being quite satisfied with how far I have come. Last week, I played with a live group in a bar, with amps and microphones. I only jumped in for three pieces, but for those three, I was the only lead instrument. To be able to hold down my part alone felt fantastic. That kind of playing had been my goal from the start, and it was a highly cathartic experience to come away from the bar that night.

My final month in Rio has been a fine one. Outside of my music, I spent a good deal of time with friends I have made here. While I had no core group of friends, there are a number of people to whom I have grown very close, as a result of our friendships being based on one-on-one interactions rather than group-based relations. It was nice to be reminded how much I have learned from all of them, and how much I have grown as a result. I was also able to take a trip to Buenos Aires, Argentina, to see a few Williams friends and check out another country in South America before I head east.

As a result of the confidence I have gained after living in and learning to love Rio, I am nothing but excited about my imminent departure for Istanbul. My recent decision to pursue writing and music upon my return to the US has also put me in a more stable place. I don’t have a job, nor do I have any idea what city I’m going to end up when I get back, but I do know that I’m looking forward for everything that’s coming my way in the near future. Especially kebabs.

Much love, and my apologies to those who prefer more lighthearted reports of my wanderings. I have a feeling Istanbul will bear many such stories.

Auyon

Family Matters

2008-04-30T14:32:00.001-07:00

My parents and Arnob, my elder brother (who will heretofore be referred to as “Da,”) arrived at Galeão, Rio’s international airport, at 1 p.m. on February 16th. I had left the choro festival in São Paulo a few days early, on an overnight bus, in order to meet them as they walked out of customs. Following a few hugs and Da’s perfunctory disapproval of my unkempt appearance, I excitedly explained everything I would be showing them. I specifically emphasized the city’s abundance of juice bars and caipirinhas (Rio’s signature sugarcane liquor cocktail). My father and I have our differences, but one thing we share is a passion for sweet, delicious fruit drinks. Not even his bushy moustache could hide the childlike delight that my mention of fresh juices and exotic cocktails stirred in him. It was going to be a good week.

We headed back from the airport and settled my parents into a private room at Casa Manga Manga, which is the Santa Teresa hotel/hostel where I spent my first few nights in Rio. It is also just a few houses down from where I am now staying. My brother stayed with me, which was an experience for both of us. To call him a creature of habit would be a gross understatement, and thus to explain to him that there are no hot and cold knobs for the shower— there is just the knob, and that is all— or that toilet paper must be thrown into a trash bin and may not be thrown in the toilet, otherwise it gets clogged, was something of a trial. We had a good time nonetheless. My brother has a moderate learning disability, so he and I tend not to have particularly deep or weighty exchanges. Our mutual zeal for potty humor, however, keeps things rolling. There is nothing quite like getting one’s older brother to squeal with disgust by mooning him after not seeing each other for seven months.

We spent the first few days of the family vacation in Rio, bumming around Copacabana and Ipanema watching fut-vollei (a highly impressive version of volleyball played without hands,) drinking coconut water and sampling snacks and juices as often as possible. At one point, I decided to take a dip in the ocean, and as any good Rio native would do, I stripped down to my sunga. The majority of men do not wear board shorts in Rio. They wear sungas— skimpy speedo-esque swimwear that leave little to the imagination. I bought a bright yellow one during my first week here. My father was not pleased. His Indian sensibilities are sometimes a bit conservative, and seeing his 21-year old son parade around a beach in golden undies was apparently too much. Cultural differences can be a tricky thing.

Following visits to Pão de Acúcar (Sugarloaf peak) and the Atlantic rainforest, we caught a flight to the city of Salvador in the state of Bahia. The airport was a good ride from our hotel in a neighborhood called Barra, so we got to see a lot of the Bahian coastline on the way over. Our hotel, which I had booked through a travel agent, was something I was looking forward to. The travel agent had said good things. He lied. We ended up with a view of the brick wall of a building next door, and a bathroom where the faucets fell apart upon contact. The city, though, made up for it. Salvador is known as the cultural heart of Brazil, and is incredibly rich in music. There is a great deal of African influence, as the population is predominantly made up of the descendants of ex-slaves. The city itself is beautiful, with a lot of fantastic colonial architecture (it was the first capital of Brazil) and surrounded by white sandy beaches. Salvador is the only place in Brazil where one can see the sun set over a large body of water, since the Brazilian coastline faces the Atlantic to the east. Salvador, though, is located on the western bit of a peninsula that juts out into the ocean, with a bay to the west. Thus, when one sees the sun set in Salvador, it looks as though it is over the ocean.

Our first foray out of the hotel led us to a few of the aforementioned beaches, and a number of restaurants along them. After some deliberation, we entered a family-owned joint that had a few police officers eating inside. If local police ate there, we figured, it must be good. We were seated by a friendly elderly gentleman, who first expressed his delight that we had chosen his restaurant, and then continued by describing everything on the menu that he did not have. Sometimes he would say that he did not have specific dishes in certain sections, but then at other points, he would just cut out entire pages, like “pasta.” His Salvadorian accent made comprehension tricky, but I understood him to say things like, “The bus did not come in today,” so “there would be no sandwiches this week.” We smiled and nodded pleasantly. My father then asked if I wanted to check out another place, but as I looked back and forth between the overstocked menu and the enthusiastic owner, I though we should give it a shot. We ordered one of each of the three dishes that were available, and they turned out to be great. We paid and thanked the gentleman for the meal, and then, as we were leaving, he gave my mother a small plastic Bahian trinket with a keychain attached to it. A token of his friendship. I was glad we had stayed.

The next day, we headed into the city. One of the main squares in the city is known as the “Pelourinho,” which translates to “the whipping post.” It used to be the site of public floggings of slaves, and is now a lively, cobbled crisscrossing with shops and vendors aplenty. The street vendors in Salvador, usually selling shelled jewelry or small knickknacks, are much more aggressive than in Rio. They often attempt to give you a “present” of a free colored band to tie around your wrist, but then pester you incessantly if you accept their gift. We navigated through the bustling streets and ended up in front of a jewelry shop. My mother walked in, and my older brother and I followed her. My father stayed outside. This proved to be a good move on his part.

Brazil is famous for its gemstones, and the store’s vast spread of stones, jewelry and sculptures housed quite a variety. There were no other shoppers when the three of us entered, so the salesman inside started chatting to us. He was impressed with my moderate grasp of Portuguese, and informed my mother that since he liked our family, he would be giving us a good deal. The poor man had no idea what he was getting himself into. My mother is a charmingly candid, vivacious woman. This salesman’s mistake was to confuse her forthrightness with the naïveté often ascribed to gringos. As he would soon find out, shopping and haggling in the Indian markets of her youth have forged my mother into a merciless shark of a customer. I had forgotten how painful it is to watch her cheerily cut vendors down until they offer a price, often ludicrously below anything reasonable, with which she is happy. This particular transaction took 45 minutes to negotiate, and ended with my mother walking out of the shop with a little bag and an innocent smile on her face, leaving behind the ashen-faced salesman to slowly come to grips with how he had just been broken. I relayed the gory details of my mother’s exploits to my father, who responded quite simply, “That’s why I don’t go in.”

We continued on to a small shop stocked full of colorful paintings typical of Bahia. My mother wanted to buy a few gifts, and instructed me to ask the man in the shop how much each of the paintings were. I was apprehensive about getting involved, simply because if my mother decided to bargain, I would have to play translator. In the jewelry shop, I was allowed to be a spectator, since the salesman there spoke English. I did not have much of a choice, though, and relayed to my mother that each of the smaller paintings was R$40. She told me to ask him for five for 80. I asked the man, who then responded with an offer of 150. My mother shook her head, and repeated her offer. I informed her that my understanding of bargaining was that each side progressively makes concessions, in the hopes that a mutually acceptable middle ground is eventually reached. I was told to shut up, and that I did not understand. I turned to the vendor. My mother’s inability to speak Portuguese afforded me the capacity to say whatever I wanted. “My mother is difficult,” I said. “She won’t budge from 80.”

“I cannot do 80,” the man said. “That is cheaper than how much I buy them for.” I am aware that such a tactic is commonly used among greasy salesmen, but this man did not look like the sort. He was a short, pudgy man, wearing a tattered baseball cap, a faded T-shirt and jeans. He had honest, sad eyes, and spoke slowly. I liked him. “130 is as low as I can go,” he said.

I turned to my mother. “He says 130.” My mother responded with 90. I relayed her offer to the salesman.

“Your mother is a hard woman,” he said.

“She’s crazy,” I agreed. “Imagine being her son.” The salesman looked at me with a mix of pity and wonder. He then took a phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. I looked back to my mother and suggested that when someone has to call their supervisor to ask about how low prices can go, things have gone too far. I was ignored. After the vendor had gotten off the phone, he explained that the lowest he was allowed to sell the paintings was 100. Otherwise he would lose his job. My mother conceded, and the man wrapped up the paintings, glad that we were finally leaving. As we walked outside, I asked my father how he reconciles my mother’s bargaining techniques with his own good conscience. He looked at me and paused to think. He then instructed me to fetch the vendor from the shop. The man walked outside, confused. My father greeted him with a hearty pat on the back and asked him what he would like to drink. We ended up buying a green coconut for him. He thanked us, grateful for the acknowledgement that he had been wronged, and then hurried back to his shop. It made me feel a little better, too.

The rest of our trip consisted of more city wanderings, a guided tour and a few music shows. The tour was a difficult experience for me. After having lived in Rio for a few months, enjoying the way my skin color allowed me to blend in, and generally knowing my way around, it was uncomfortable to be a part of an obvious group of foreigners. It was probably healthy for me to be forced off of my high horse, though, and the tour did have its redeeming points. The highlight was the church in the city center, one of many which was built by the Portuguese during colonial times. The interior of the church was massive, and the area surrounding the altar was done up ostentatiously, with bevies of cherubs flitting around walls that glistened with gold leaf. The best part of the church, however, was not immediately apparent. Our tour guide explained that while the church was commissioned by the Portuguese, it was built by African slaves, who themselves were disallowed from practicing their religion (candomblé, a spirit-based belief system with African roots). As a result, the slaves slipped a number of candomblé references into the construction of the church, like lion heads and serpents carved into the woodwork. Additionally, the slave artisans who fashioned the angels deliberately sculpted them to look sickly and unpleasant, and often gave them engorged genitalia or apparent secondary sexual characteristics. Unfortunately, the bloated genitalia had been trimmed down since, but the rest of the angels had not been fixed, and upon closer inspection it became clear that many were suffering from gout. I have heard many people say that the greatest churches they have ever visited are in Italy, but these people have clearly never been to Salvador.

The music we got to see in Salvador was, as expected, fantastic. One show that stuck out was an open-air forró performance in the Pelourinho. Forró is a fast-paced music from the northeast of Brazil, and is readily distinguishable from other Brazilian musics by the presence of an accordion. I had seen a couple performances in Rio, neither of which was particularly noteworthy, but the Salvador show we saw was some of the best music I have seen in Brazil. On another occasion, I believed a taxi driver who told me he could take us to “a great beach show,” that was “free and not too far.” Believing this man was not one of my finer moments. We got into the cab after calling him later that night, and he took us to a place that was a) not a beach, b) not free and c) not close by. Although the show was very well done (Carnaval-style samba), the whole experience was tainted by the fact that I had swallowed a cab driver’s pitch hook, line and sinker. It was also a pointed reminder that, even after learning to speak proficiently in Portuguese and getting a good sense of Brazilian culture after 3 months in Rio, I can still get caught with my pants down as just another gullible gringo.

All of our misadventures made for an excellent family vacation, and I was sad to see my parents and brother leave at the end of their week in Brazil. It was nice, though, to get back in control of my life and get re-settled for my last month in Rio. It is now the 26th of March, and I leave for London on the 31st. I plan to make one final post in Brazil before I head out, to bring everyone up to speed with the going-ons of my last month.

Until then, and much love,

Auyon

IV Festival Nacional de Choro

2008-04-30T14:31:00.002-07:00

It was 9 a.m. on February 9th, and I was sitting on a bus bound for São Pedro, a 30,000-person town in the middle of the state of São Paulo, for the fourth annual National Choro Festival. The Rio contingent of choro enthusiasts had organized for a direct shuttle to the hotel where the festival was being held, and I, exhausted from the Carnaval festivities that had just ended, was grateful for the convenience. I had chosen to sit at the back of the bus, and was soon joined by a rowdy gang of 13-15 year olds armed with cavaquinhos (Brazilian ukeleles), guitars, bandolims (mandolins) and a pandeiro (the tambourine-style hand drum). My efforts to catch up on sleep were thus frequently interrupted by spontaneous samba exhibitions, and I would have been annoyed had the kids not been excellent musicians. We reached São Pedro at 5 p.m., having stopped for an hour or two for lunch, and I got my room assignment at the reception desk. I then proceeded to wander around and inspect my new digs. The whole hotel compound was rented out for the festival— the rooms surrounded three sides of a large central square, which featured a pool, a restaurant/bar with a patio, and a children’s playground covered with giant, grinning, LSD-inspired plastic animals. At the fourth side of the square was the dining room and a small gated pond, no more than 30 feet in diameter, that was periodically filled with fish for the pleasure of those occupants who enjoyed fishing out of small ponds. It was, in short, a strange but not unfriendly place to call home for the next week.

I soon found my room, and saw that there were a handful of guys on the porch jamming. I began to ask, in Portuguese, if they were my roommates, only to have one of the guys respond in English, with an American accent, asking me where I was from. The festival organizers had apparently played a neat little trick and quarantined all the gringos into one apartment. After meeting the other guys, I heard honking noises and walked outside. We had all been instructed to leave our luggage on the bus, and I had wondered how I would later get it. My queries were answered. A massive, brightly colored tractor carrying everyone’s luggage was leisurely driving around the central square and tooting the horn every so often. I retrieved my things, thanked the driver, and then watched him drive away very slowly. After unpacking, I headed over to dinner with the other guys, and later saw a concert put on by a few of the teachers and older students. The concert ended at 10 or 11, and was followed by an entire night of impromptu rodas (choro jam sessions), wherein people would bring their instruments out to the patio and play until the wee hours of the morning. The rodas were spectacular to watch, but I never got the courage to jump in. Unlike in Ireland, where I could fudge the tunes by ear and no one would notice since everyone plays together, the rodas are all about solo performances. The principal solo instrumentalists (mandolins, flutes, clarinets) trade the melody back and forth, with only one of them playing at any given point. The guitarists (both 6 and 7-string), cavaquinho and pandeiro players compose the rhythm section, playing the chords, counterpoint bass lines and percussion beneath the solo. In watching the rodas that first night, I learned that most every participant at the camp was a highly accomplished choro musician. My two-and-a-half months of exposure were not going to cut it.

Classes started a day later, and I had three of them: mandolin technique, band practice, and harmony. The technique class was great, but it was downhill from there. I had signed up for band because it was the only word on the list I had understood (“banda”), way back in December, but it turns out that there are normally no mandolins in band. The band consisted of brass instruments, guitars, flutes, clarinets, and big drums. And, this year, a single gringo mandolin. I was able to seem Brazilian most of the time, but whenever I spoke Portuguese, or took out my instrument, I was a marked man. Brazilian mandolins are largely undecorated and feature a single, central soundhole. My mandolin is painted bright yellow, and has two ostentatious f-holes on either side of the strings. Were I a hotshot mandolinist, I might have pulled it off. Instead, I was one of the least talented musicians at the camp. I wore my instrument like a golden badge of shame. Finally, my last class of the day was a two-hour beast on the intricacies of harmony and chord progressions in choro, taught exclusively in Portuguese. Enough said.

The true highlight of the camp, though, was not class, nor was it the pleasure of living amongst Real American Dudes again (although that has been sorely missed), but was instead the nightly festivities. The only formally organized events were a few concerts in the auditorium, but somehow, in addition to the rodas, every night turned into a celebration. It seems that all Brazilians need to start a party is some kind of percussion instrument (if drums are missing, then empty cans are often used). No DJ or alcohol necessary, although the latter might speed things up a bit. These are a people who have no hang-ups about singing or dancing publicly. One night, someone snuck in a large floor drum, and a group of around 20 individuals proceeded, at 2 a.m., to have a Carnaval-style bloco parade through the streets of the compound, complete with inebriated dancers trailing behind them. In class the next day, we got a stern rebuking from one of the head organizers, who made it clear that “there would be no more marching parties. Only still parties. Drums stay by the pool.” The ringleaders nodded sheepishly. The same thing had happened last year. Another night, someone brought a small hand drum and started hammering out some incredible beats. Then someone started singing, and out came the cymbals. The party had started. What I enjoyed most about that night was that one of the guys must have thought to himself, “There will probably be a party tonight. I suppose I should bring my cymbals.” America could learn a lot from the example of this young man. I’m buying cymbals.

In more recent news, I’m now well into my last month in Rio. Nothing much noteworthy has happened, except that I have now tired of cooking for myself, so I’ve been eating a lot of papayas. I have also come to accept that I am not going to leave Rio as a particularly good choro mandolinist. I had rather high hopes when I arrived, and was sure that with a few months of dedicated practice I would reach my goal. Unfortunately, it will take a lot more than four months of practice for me to get to a satisfactory point, but my study has been quite fruitful here nonetheless. I’m now focusing on trying to learn Turkish, and have been listening to a bit of Turkish folk music as well. They use different scales, with notes that don’t exist in Western musics (quartertones), and instead of measures of 4 or 8 beats, they use “cycles” of up to 32 beats. It is a good thing I am no longer afraid of failure.

Much love,
Auyon

Carnaval

2008-04-30T14:31:00.001-07:00

Although Rio Carnaval was one of the most eagerly anticipated events on my Watson calendar, it was also the source of much anxiety. Going out alone on a normal Saturday night in nearby Lapa, a seedy neighborhood chock-full of great music joints and transvestite hookers, was enough of an adrenaline rush for me— the prospect of weathering a wild, four-day pagan celebration of hedonism was on another level entirely. I was thus delighted to have two dear friends, Whitney Hunter-Thomson and Katie Josephson, a pair of strapping, able-bodied young women, to accompany me for the duration of the festival.

There are three primary components of Carnaval: the street parties (called blocos), the Carnaval balls and the samba school parade. Our story begins on Friday, February 1st, as the three of us hunted through the streets of Santa Teresa for the Carmelitas bloco, one of the most famous in the city. A bloco consists of a slow-moving truck with a great deal of sound equipment, someone playing a little ukelele called a cavaquinho (ca-va-kee-yoo), and another individual with a microphone, who sings the lyrics to a single song that is repeated for the entirety of the parade (usually a few hours). Both the cavaquinho and the vocalist are hooked up to the huge speakers on the truck, which is itself surrounded by a massive, marching bateria, or drum corps. The bateria is the heart of the bloco, and is made up of men and women armed with drums of all sizes, providing the powerful pulse of the party. Enveloping the bateria are the throngs of carnaval revelers, who come in all sorts of costumes and in all states of inebriation. Beer is sold from accompanying push-carts, in case anyone needs a pick-me-up or three. The bateria is also usually cordoned off from the crowd via a human chain, to prevent over-enthusiastic participants from harrassing the drummers. This motley crew is then followed through the streets by more merrymakers, as well as vendors selling cheap food and more beer. The generous consumption of alcohol, combined with the fact that the blocos parade throughout all avenues of the city, often makes available restroom facilities conspicuous by their absence. Following the passage of a bloco through any thoroughfare, a perceptive observer can spot anywhere from 5 to 10 men relieving themselves on trees, walls and potted plants. These gentlemen quickly take care of business, zip up, and then rush to catch up with the rest of the crowd, lest they miss anything. During Carnaval, there’s no time for shame. Only for partying.

Most blocos advertise the time and place that they will begin their festivities, but the Carmelitas group kept it a secret this year, in the hopes they would get a more local, Santa Teresa crowd. There are upwards of 50 blocos, each with its own bateria and theme song, that parade throughout the city over the four days of Carnaval, so veteran partiers will often plan their schedules according to their favorites. Katie, Whit and I had spent the earlier part of the day shopping for costumes in Centro, or downtown, so that if and when a party hit us, we would be ready. I was particularly proud of my costume. It was less of a costume, though, and more of a hat. The hat was a fuzzy, multicolored top hat meant to resemble a birthday cake, replete with frosting, perky candles sticking out of the top, and “Happy Birthday!” embroidered on the front. I sported it with a styrofoam pink-and-blue bowtie, and no shirt. I will never again look that good. We set out into Santa Teresa, hat in hand and bowtie adjusted, in search of the bloco. It did not take long to find it. Blocos begin at their concentração, or fixed location, and remain there, pumping the crowd up for a little while, before beginning their pre-determined parade through the streets. Following our ears, we found Carmelitas’ concentração only a short walk from my apartment. It was quite a scene. Thousands of revelers crammed into the picturesque, cobbled streets of Santa Teresa, with street kids weaving through the masses, busily collecting cans to redeem. This was the first big bloco in the neighborhood, so people were out in full force. The costumes and gimmicks were also a sight to behold. A few of my favorites included a shirtless man riding a tiny motorcycle back and forth through the crowd, and an elderly East Asian gentleman, dressed in a crimson and white toga and a golden foam Roman helmet, happily puffing away at a cigarette. After a little while, the mob started to move, nudged along by the bateria at the back. We could hear the drums far before we could see any of them. The parade was massive, and the energy infectious. Of all the blocos I got to see during Carnaval, Carmelitas was far and away my favorite. I saw a few other great costumes— like the jovial, obese gentleman, clad only in skimpy green shorts, who had smeared red paste all over his body, drawn on little black seeds and then donned aviator sunglasses and a watermelon peel-helmet— but no other bloco compared to the spirit of the Carmelitas party.

After a few hours of bloco-immersion and people-watching, we retired back to the room to prepare ourselves for the Red and Black Ball, reputed to be the most scandalous of all the Carnaval balls. The balls are gala events, typically held in large dance halls in Leblon (one of the more upscale neighborhoods, near Ipanema), and we had gotten quite excited about the evening. Whit and Katie brought dresses for the occasion, and looked fantastic. I, deciding to go all out as well, wore long pants and a shirt with buttons. We ate dinner at a barbecue put on by Vinicius, my paraglider pilot/gourmet chef friend, and then headed on to the ball. We got there at 11 p.m., and, upon presenting our tickets, walked in, expecting to be shocked and appalled at the depravity and sin to which we were so looking forward. Instead, we were mostly disappointed. The dance hall was packed, there was a large samba outfit on stage belting out tunes, and there was a long line for drinks. The whole affair was not unlike a large college dance party. We stayed for a little less than an hour, and then decided our night would be better spent at home so that we could get started early the next morning (some blocos start as early as 8 a.m.). The only notable events of the night were the valiant yet unsuccessful attempts of a few daring young fellows to court Whit and Katie. These endeavors proved to be a recurring theme of our Carnaval experience, as beautiful American girls tend to attract attention. The efforts of these young men also prompted me to realize that I have not been wooed by a single Brazilian woman over the course of my three months here. As a virile, young foreigner who was looking forward to getting taken advantage of, this has been a disappointment. Once, an elder lady cashier did tell me, “You have a nice face.” I suppose I’ll take what I can get.

We woke up early the next day, and were thrilled to find that the sun was shining. The weather had been poor the past week, so we took the opportunity to venture over to Copacabana, where we lolled around in the sun and headed into the water to let the waves crash over us. Copacabana was once the jewel of Rio, home of the rich and famous, the loveliest beach and the most coveted properties. That title has since passed to Ipanema, as Copacabana fell into a bit of a decline a few decades ago. The crescent-shaped beach of Copacabana is now a bit dirtier than the straight stretch of sand at Ipanema, and is not particularly safe at night. We had been to Ipanema a few days before, though, and thus decided to check out Copacabana this morning. As we lay on our chairs and beach towels, letting the sticky salt water evaporate off of us, we ordered açais (a-sah-ees) from a vendor. Açai is a deep purple Amazonian berry, touted as a superfruit since it is packed full of antioxidants. The fruit is typically served as a frozen, sugary smoothie, with granola and honey liberally added to the mix. A perfect beach food. We then toweled off and roamed around the city, going from Ipanema to Botafogo (two other neighborhoods in the south zone of the city), chasing blocos and jumping into the festivities. That night, at sunset, we took a cablecar up to Sugarloaf, a famed peak that looks out over the city, and then returned home and wandered around Lapa before calling it a night.

The next day was rain-filled and generally depressing. Rio is a rather sad city in the rain, and we opted to wander around the downtown area and see what we could find. The blocos continued to happen, but were a bit less spirited, as the weather put a damper on everything. We cheered ourselves up with caipirinhas (kye-pi-ree-yas)— Rio’s signature cocktail, made with sugarcane liquor, sugar and crushed limes— and hotdogs, which are served with corn, peas, mayonnaise, ketchup, potato slivers, cheese, and a quail egg. We were cheered up in short order.

By Monday, we were ready for something different. We hit up a few more blocos, but spent most of the day gearing up for that night, since we were going to the Sambódromo, a massive, single-purpose stadium built expressly for showcasing the samba school parades. There are over 70 samba schools in Rio, all of which parade at some point during the four days of Carnaval. The schools aren’t actually institutions of learning, but are instead more like samba teams, each with its own fan club and history. The top few schools parade for 80 minutes through the Sambódromo, to a repeated, original song, with colorful, ostentatious floats and extravagantly costumed dancers. The biggest and bestest 12 schools parade on Sunday and Monday nights, and often feature up to 10 floats and 5,000 samba dancers. The schools practice, build, and compose for the 11 months preceding Carnaval, and the result is absolutely spectacular.

We arrived at the Sambódromo on Monday night at around 11 p.m., and looked for people hawking tickets. The bulk of the pre-Carnaval tickets are bought up by tour guide companies and hotels, and then resold to tourists at inflated prices. The remainders are then distributed on the streets. We had decided that we were willing to spend a maximum of 60 Reais per person (approximately $40 a ticket), and I approached a shifty looking individual who looked like he might be hawking. “How much for 3 tickets?” I asked.

“130,” he responded. I was pleasantly surprised. Only R$ 130 for the three of us? I enthusiastically agreed, and he dove into his pockets to produce three white plastic cards, each enveloped in a paper envelope labeled with a seat number and “SECTION I.” It all looked very official.

“See the envelopes? It means these are legit. Section 1 is the best,” he explained. “So, that will be R$390.” It seemed we had a miscommunication. I explained that we were willing to pay R$130 for three tickets. He looked at me, looked down at the tickets, and then shook his head. “One moment,” he said, as he once again searched through his pockets. He produced three bare black plastic cards that read “SECTION XIII”. No paper envelopes. “Section 13,” he said. “R$ 200 for all three.”

I inspected at the cards suspiciously. “Is there really a Section 13?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“But where are the paper envelopes?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“But you said…” I trailed off. “Are these real tickets?”

He growled. I nodded understandingly, and then conferred with the ladies. We decided to take a chance. In retrospect, I should have bargained. Or at least suggested another price. Instead, I handed the man four R$50 bills, thanked him for his time and moved on.

Section 13 did, in fact, exist, but it was a very long way from the entrance to the stadium. At one point we were walking on a highway. We eventually made it, and were glad to find that the tickets scanned properly. After wading through the crowded bleachers for a few minutes, we eventually found a narrow space where the three of us could fit. We then turned around to face the parade, and what a magnificent spectacle it was. The endless rows of extravagantly dressed dancers, moving in perfect unison to the music powered by the equally impressive drum corps moving with them, was enough to impress anyone. The gargantuan, elaborate floats that towered over the whole parade, though, put the whole affair over the top. The floats featured everything from massive, statuesque Amazonian warriors, to immense smoke-breathing dragons, to real waterfalls that poured over the scantily clad women dancers who were featured on every float. I later read in the paper that there was even a float with a snowy ski slope, that had dancers skiing down it in rhythm for the duration of one team’s parade, but we did not get to see it. As though we needed any more entertainment, there was a family from São Paulo seated next to us who had brought their young son along. He had decided to amuse himself by throwing paper airplanes into the bleachers below us, and, in his more daring moments, up the stands into the faces of those behind him. When he grew bored of this, he began blowing up condom balloons. The source of his seemingly endless supply of paper and condoms remain a mystery to me, but I do know that his presence made my evening complete.

The next day— which technically marked the end of Carnaval, as it was the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday— was mostly spent recuperating. We saw a few blocos, and took a bus up to see the Christ the Redeemer statue, but our energies were sapped. It had been a good ride. Katie and Whit returned home the following Wednesday and Friday, respectively, and I was once again left friendless and lonely in Rio. Until I went to Brazilian band camp that Saturday, but that is a story for my next post.

Until then, and much love,

Auyon

P.S. I must include a special thanks to Hattie Cobb, a fellow American residing in Rio and Carnaval veteran, who was kind enough to provide me with a guide detailing the history of the festival, bits of which I regurgitated and/or flagrantly plagiarized in the above post.

The Watson Fellowship: An Experiment in Free Verse

2008-04-30T14:27:00.001-07:00

The Watson Fellowship
is when you decide,
“Tonight, I will make salmon,”
because you have never
cooked fish before
and if there is any time to try
something new
it is now.

So you buy a salmon
steak
and you lovingly chop the garlic into
tiny bits
and you slather some
olive oil
all over the fresh
pink flesh
and you put it in your little gas oven
and wait
excitedly.

But half of an hour has passed
and nothing has happened.
Your oven,
you realize,
is a piece of
shit.
Not to worry—
you are industrious,
clever,
gifted and able.
You are, in short, a
Watson Fellow.
You will panfry the little bastard.

But you do not know how
to panfry salmon,
and watch as your perfectly pink steak
is rendered brown
and inedible
by your incapable
hands.
Looks like you’re having
dried fruit
for dinner
again.

You leave the pan
unwashed
in the kitchen
and throw the fishy mess
into your trash bin,
wanting to forget,
to forgive yourself
for ruining what could have been
a lovely meal.

You walk
to your bed,
feel the cold concrete
under your bare feet.
You lay down,
exhausted.
It wasn’t that far of a walk,
since your kitchen is
technically
in your bedroom
but
failure
can be
so
tiring.

You try to sleep,
the stench of poorly cooked
salmon
lingering heavily,
palpably,
invading your nostrils.

Your doze is
cut short
when you hear a rustling
in your trash bin.
There is
a cat
in your garbage.
A furry white intruder,
with brown speckles.
You did not even know
that cats could get in
through the metal grate
outside your window.
Now you know
though.

You yell obscenities
at the cat;
its presence
adds only insult to injury.
You have been wronged
by an oven,
a fish
and now,
a cat.
You feel sorry for yourself.
The cat
leaves.

The Watson Fellowship
is when you try
something new
and then your apartment
stinks
like fish
and then
you have
cats.

Columbus, Magellan, Mukharji

2008-04-30T14:26:00.002-07:00

One of the most spectacular vistas I came across in Ireland was at the Cliffs of Moher. I remember speculating how it must have felt for the first Irish explorers to come upon the massive, mist-enveloped rock faces looming over the waters below. To not know how far the ocean extended, or what strange beasts lived in the caverns within the cliffs— the scene would have prompted an entirely magical sense of wonder. I, on the other hand, was led to the cliffs in a bus by an eccentric Irishman named Desmond who warned us not to venture too close to the edge, and made disparaging comments about the other bus-tour companies. The inevitably sterile feel of my visit, as just another tourist and sightseer, caused me to fantasize further about life when “explorer” was still a viable and socially acceptable career option. Although there are many, and decidedly more, fields of discovery that exist in the academic world today, there was something that remained singularly attractive about the prospect of setting foot on uncharted soil. I returned home from the cliffs that night feeling unfulfilled.

My galavanting around the city of Galway did not satisfy my budding urge to explore. While Galway was certainly foreign to me, the commonalities in customs, society and language made me feel very much at home. My discovery of free broadband internet at the library was a fine illustration of this sentiment. I had been paying for web time at cafés and shops for my first two months in the country, and had learned about the free library wireless through chance circumstance. Rather than being happy about my finding, I was only annoyed. I felt as though I should have known about free public internet access, and that I had discovered it so late was only a result of my ignorance. The basis of this reaction was my expectation that I would easily understand and assimilate into Irish culture, and thus any shortcomings were a source of frustration.

My arrival in Brazil quickly purged me of any presumptions regarding my ability to seamlessly integrate into the culture. It took an entire month before I could even understand what people were saying to and around me. I lived off of the advice of other English speakers, and my own limited, but expanding, understanding of my new stomping ground. Six weeks into my stay here, I discovered a supermarket in my neighborhood. I had been shopping at the tiny local grocery store, which had been a disappointment. I am a sandwich man, but the abysmal offerings at the store, where the meat smelled like cheese and the cheese smelled like fish, and the entire store stank of fish, caused me to swear off sandwiches for a good while. This supermarket I discovered, though, was a real American-style beast of a warehouse. I was ecstatic. A place where I could buy both insecticide and decent wine was a godsend. Strangely enough, there was no frustration regarding the tardiness of my finding. A lack of expectations allowed me to wallow in my own cleverness rather than care that I should have found it earlier. The library broadband in Galway was not a discovery— it was a right I had not known about in a world I understood. Rio, however, is uncharted terrain as far as I am concerned. A place where old men sit on the sidewalks in pairs with big bottles of beer and little glass cups, where hot dogs are served with peas, corn, potato slivers and a quail egg, where hardened lady-butchers don’t wear plastic gloves, and where I had no idea there was a supermarket in my neighborhood. This is my new world.

With only two months until my departure and my Turkish lessons underway, I’ve also grown pretty excited about my discoveries in Turkey. I’m specifically excited about discovering a serious Turkish massage from some mustachioed masseur in a hamam, but I’ve still got a few more months of Brazil to explore. I will keep you updated.

Much love,

Auyon

P.S. I have been informed that my blog posts of late have been ill-received by Jared Mayers, a dear friend in the more northern America. There has been a bit too much thinking and not enough doing. Next week is Carnaval, a week of drunken, saturnalian revelry. I plan on doing a day-by-day account. There will be no thinking. Get excited.

Quarterly Report II

2008-04-30T14:26:00.001-07:00

The night before I left for Brazil, I stood in front of my little brother’s bathroom mirror at Oxford and talked to myself. “I don’t have to go to Rio,” I told me. “I could just go back home. My parents would be disappointed, my friends would think less of me, and the Fine Folks at Watson Headquarters would make me return the remaining fellowship funds, but at least I wouldn’t be alone in Rio. At least I wouldn’t get shot.” Over the course of my four months in Ireland, I had gone from being incredibly excited to visit Brazil to being scared out of my mind. The transformation was the result of a number of factors, including my realization that the solo existence afforded by the Watson was difficult enough to adjust to in Ireland— I was disturbed by the prospect of repeating my first month in a country where I did not speak the language, in a city infamous for its violence. The impassioned and relentless requests of my mother, a wonderfully unsubtle woman, to skip Rio and stay in Ireland for an extra four months, also did not help. My self-help session in the bathroom, however, helped me to summon the courage to board the plane the next day, and the following morning, I woke up over the azure waters, white sand beaches and lush forests of Rio de Janeiro.

My first month in Brazil was a frustrating one. To complete any basic task, such as finding a fan for my room or shopping for groceries, was a massive ordeal, due to my poor grasp of Portuguese and unfamiliarity with the city. Fortunately, loneliness was never a problem, as I had learned to enjoy living independently in Ireland, so I was able to focus my attention on getting established as quickly and efficiently as possible. By the end of my fourth week, I had settled into a rhythm, having set up intensive Portuguese (6 hours/week) and music lessons earlier in the month. After seven weeks of study, my Portuguese has improved immensely. I am now conversational, and am able to understand the majority of what goes on around me.
My efforts to understand and study Brazilian music have not been as fruitful or as straightforward as my Portuguese studies. The many regions of Brazil have spawned a multitude of varied musical styles, including bossa nova, forro, maracatú, samba, choro, and many more, all of which can be found to some degree in Rio. I have focused primarily on samba and choro (which is a more intimate, instrumental type of samba), and have been taking mandolin lessons with a teacher for a few weeks now. Samba is defined by the specific beats and rhythms that accompany the singer or melodies, and thus to gain a better understanding of the music, I have also been taking weekly lessons on the pandeiro, a hand-drum ubiquitous to the musics of Brazil.

I attempted to begin my study of self-expression within choro early into my stay. Soon after the first few interviews, though, I recognized that my lack of familiarity with the rudiments of the music prevented me from discussing it intelligently. While the stable structure of Irish music was immediately comprehensible to my classically-trained ear, choro is much more like jazz, in that improvisation in both melody and rhythms are integral to the music. Without understanding the basic structure of rhythm over pulse, it is impossible for one to appreciate or even distinguish the intricacies inherent in these improvisations. I thus resigned myself to learning these fundamentals, so that by my later months, I would be able to better understand and carry out my study of the music and the musicians in earnest. It has been this elementary step that has proven vastly difficult for me. As a violinist, I have always thought of music in terms of melodies rather than chords and rhythms. Prior to coming to Brazil, I had never even studied chords on an instrument. Before learning any new mandolin piece, though, my teacher insists that in order for me to understand the melody, I must understand the structure beneath. To learn foreign rhythms while attempting to teach myself the basics of chordal theory has been an arduous undertaking. In order to ensure I don’t run out of time in Brazil, I have been practicing upwards of six hours of music a day. I have never practiced or focused so heavily on music before, and in spite of my vested interest, to keep up has proven difficult. My apparent lack of progress has been especially wearisome— I have learned a number of pieces now, as well as their chords, and yet nothing seems to be getting easier. I am just hoping that with continued devoted practice, things will start to click in the near future.

Personal disappointments aside, I have been enjoying my stay in Rio immensely. The city is beautiful, and the musicians I have met and heard have been warm, welcoming and accessible. I have also signed up for a week-long choro workshop in mid-February, in the state of Sao Paulo, in which I will get to meet a number of world-class musicians, and also learn a bit about the history of the music. It will be entirely in Portuguese, but I believe my grasp of the language will be adequate by that point. I am hoping that both through this workshop, as well as my increased understanding of the music by the end of my stay in Rio, I will be able to write my next quarterly report with a bit more substance on the nature of self-expression within choro. Until then, I’m going to go practice some more.

The Sunday Feira

2008-04-30T14:25:00.001-07:00

Every Sunday morning, after a quick shower, I head down the hill of Santa Teresa into the neighborhood of Gloria for the weekly open-air market, or feira. I went with Vinicius my first time, and paid close attention to his instructions.

“First,” he explained, “we don’t buy. We just look.” The countless tables of exotic fruits and vegetables (some of which I had never seen or heard of before), fresh meats and fish and plates of brightly colored spices, not to mention the vociferous, often aggressive vendors who stood behind them, made for quite a spectacle. Vinicius, however, carefully inspected each table from afar, eventually leading me to one of the last stalls, where food was being served. He ordered something from the cashier, and within seconds, I was presented with a small plastic cup of sweet, greenish-yellow liquid, and what looked like a fried ball of dough. The drink was caldo cana, or sugarcane juice, and the ball was fried cheese covered in manioc paste. Although I felt sick for the rest of the afternoon, it made for a rather delicious breakfast. The meal was also indicative of my broader findings regarding street food in this country. Brazilians generally like their snacks deep-fried, and their drinks sugary. Sugar is generously added to every flavor of fresh fruit juice at the botecos, or juice bars— even orange juice.

For the rest of my first visit to the feira, I followed Vinicius around like a lost puppy. I couldn’t speak much Portuguese, and quickly got intimidated when anyone spoke to me. I have found that when an individual realizes you don’t speak their language well, rather than choosing to speak more slowly, they simply increase their volume. I got anxious when anyone spoke to me in the first place, so when they started yelling, it did not help matters. I am now somewhat conversational in Portuguese, so this has become less of a concern, but I still grow frightened when surly Brazilian men bellow at me to purchase their mangos.

Another memorable experience was when I decided to buy some chicken. Vinicius was not with me this time, but I did not have to look far before I found the poultry stall. The row of dead, whole chickens hanging by their necks from the crossbars, each with a little baggie of blood tied to it (there is a Brazilian sauce made with chicken blood) was what tipped me off. I gestured enthusiastically at one of the whole chicken breasts in front of me, and the pretty lady-butcher behind the table smiled understandingly as she picked it up. Any presumptions I had about the soft, feminine nature of this woman based on her warm smile were quickly put to rest, as I watched her wield her knife high above her head before bringing it down swiftly and fiercely, as though to make sure the poor creature was dead. She cut the fat and filleted the meat with surgical precision, quickly and efficiently, and without wearing gloves. Serious Brazilian lady-butchers have no time for pretensions about hygiene. She then looked up from the grisly little mess and asked if that was all. That was all, thanks, I said. I paid for my chicken and looked back up to wave at my new friend, but she was already busy hacking away at some other customer’s dinner. What a woman.

My trip to the feira is an occasion I look forward to every week. There are open-air markets throughout the week in Rio, but Sunday is the only day it’s close to home. Most everything at the market is dirt cheap, so it’s a convenient way to stock up for the week. I am currently finishing this post on a Sunday night, and thus have a fridge full of freshly (and violently) filleted chicken, broccoli, oranges, mangos, bananas and (homemade) chocolate peanut butter. I am ready for anything.

Much love,

Auyon

On Pride and Peanut Butter

2008-04-30T14:24:00.000-07:00

At some point during our senior spring at Williams, my good friend Merritt Edlind and I attempted to determine who, between the two of us, was more amused by our own thoughts. This exercise had nothing to do with who was more entertaining to other individuals, but was instead meant to compare our self-images—which of us found ourselves wittier. We eventually concluded that I find myself funnier than Merritt, mostly because Merritt is a rather modest sort, and I think I am hilarious.

Any extended period of solo travel affords one a great deal of time for self-reflection, and in my more pensive moments, I find myself coming back to Merritt and my discussion. I have now concluded that the primary reason I enjoy myself so much, often more than I should, is rooted in my hugely inflated sense of self-worth. The experiences I have had abroad have shown me that I think I am far funnier, more clever and better-looking than I actually am. Although my unabashed egotism may not have been apparent to many of my friends and acquaintances back home, it is only because I am also (exceptionally) good at feigning modesty. This discovery, though, has not really made me any less full of myself— it has just allowed for some interesting analyses of my behavior.

While at home or at school, my self-infatuation was often tempered by conversations with friends or distractions like schoolwork or females. Now that I am alone, I have a great deal more free time to think and let my mind wander. As a result, I grow more impressed with myself each day. More often than not, the sources of this pride are irrational and entirely unfounded. I was, for example, proud of myself after I delivered two massive sacks of laundry to the laundromat in Largo do Machado, a part of town 20 minutes away. My discovery later that day— that I could have spent far less at a place walking distance from my house— did not put a dent in my swollen chest. As far as I was concerned, the day, and I, had been massively successful.

I have not been more proud of myself over the course of my entire five months abroad than in the moments following the creation of my first batch of homemade peanut butter. For all four months in Ireland, where peanut butter is readily available, I never once got the urge to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As soon as I landed in Brazil, though, the cravings hit, and I headed straight for the store. After spending an hour in the spreads aisle, being teased by jars of exotic jams and jellies, it became apparent to me that peanut butter is not eaten in this country. I returned home a broken man, and reported my findings to Sadakne, a friend living in the same house. Sadakne is also from the Midwest, but has lived in Rio for the past few years. “No biggie,” she said. “Just make some yourself. Oil, peanuts, salt and sugar.”

It was another couple of weeks before I had moved into my own place and purchased a blender, but I did not forget. After purchasing 4 little baggies of peanuts from the store, I returned home and churned out some Americana. My first batch wasn’t that great. It was too oily, and didn’t taste good by itself. On sandwiches, it got the job done, although the superb guava jelly that I splurged on was probably what tipped the scales. In short, my creation was nothing to put Jif out of business*. Yet, over the next few days, I probably ate upwards of 10 bananas with peanut butter. Because it was my peanut butter. Peanut butter that I had made. I mentioned it incessantly in conversation with friends and family. I didn’t even have the decency to slip it in casually. I was that proud.

Aroop: So what have you been doing in Rio? Playing a lot of music?

Me: Yea, yea some music. And eating. Eating bananas.

Aroop: Cool, bananas.

Me: Yea I eat them with peanut butter.

Aroop: Word, I like b—

Me (cutting him off): That I made. Peanut butter that I made.

Aroop: You make your own peanut butter?

Me (nonchalantly): Yea, I guess I do. No big deal. You know, you do what you gotta do.

Aroop: Wow. You should write a blog post about that.

Me: Yea maybe. I do a lot of stuff like that though, I don’t know.

My last statement was, of course, a lie. I haven’t done anything as cool as making my own peanut butter outside of when I accidentally charred most of the hair off of my right hand with my oven, but I already wrote about that. Clearly I was going to write a post about the peanut butter. Although not all of my little victories have been quite that glamorous, however, I have found that I have a much easier time dealing with the minute yet significant challenges inherent in living abroad when I view them not as obstacles, but as more opportunities. Opportunities to impress myself time and time again. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for the other Watson fellows who may not be as full of themselves as I am. In the midst of these meditations, however, I usually get distracted by my own radiant genius and thus never get too much time to think about them. Intellect has its price, I suppose.

On a less self-aggrandizing note, I hope everyone’s holidays back in the US (and wherever else) are spectacular. It’s now the height of summer in Rio, and I went to the beach on December 24th, took my shirt off, and drank fresh coconut water. It’s a bit surreal, but I’m coping. There’s also supposed to be a massive New Year’s party on Copacabana beach, so if any of you back home don’t have any plans, there’s space in my apartment for you to crash. I only have one pillow, though, so keep that in mind. If you don’t make it down, have a great New Year’s and I’ll see you all in 2008.

Much love,

Auyon

*Batch two, on the other hand, was a different story. I got my oil/peanut and sugar/salt ratios down, and then, in a moment of brilliance, melted down some of the dark chocolate Toblerone I had in the fridge and added it to the mix. Words cannot describe how dazzled I was by myself when I was finished with this masterpiece.

Julio, Brazilian knuckle grooming and Mr. Brojangles

2008-04-30T14:23:00.000-07:00

Last week, Vinicius and I strolled around Santa Teresa in search of some suitable accommodation for me for the next four months. We saw a few lavish apartments, all of which came with price tags to match. Although the Real (the Brazilian currency) is more forgiving than the Euro, my decision to take both intensive Portuguese classes as well as mandolin lessons in Rio has rendered me unable to afford much more than a modest rent. At the tail end of our tour of the town, after seeing a mouth-watering little place with huge windows and hardwood floors, the owner said that he had something else that might be more suitable. We descended down a number of staircases, deep into the bowels of the apartment complex. When we got to what seemed like the bottom floor, he led us down another small, narrow concrete staircase hidden in the corner, leading to an unpainted wooden door. He opened the door, revealing a concrete floor littered with the belongings of the current occupant, a bed, a mini-table and a small kitchenette with an oven and a sink. Although I wasn’t overly impressed, the price he quoted was exactly what I was looking for, so after some deliberation, I took it.

I returned later that day, sans Vinicius, in order to procure the contract from a lady named Andrea to make it all official. I walked to the desk at the entrance of the building, and met Julio, a behemoth of a man with deep black skin and intensely white teeth, for the second time. I had the pleasure of meeting him earlier, when Vinicius and I first entered the building. Vinicius had shaken hands with him first, recoiling in pain afterwards and informing me to “Watch out.” I then nervously looked up from my own extended hand to Julio, who exposed his teeth in an intimidating grin, and then gripped my hand and shook it like a dead rodent. Our second encounter began with a simple “Olá”, as I made sure to keep my hand in my pocket lest he try to mangle it again. We were all alone, and since Julio speaks no English, I took a stab at Portuguese. For the benefit of all you gringo readers out there in cyberspace, I will be recounting our conversations in translation.

“Hello Julio. I… Andrea. Where. Andrea.” It wasn’t really a question, but he understood.
“She’s not here yet.”
“Yes,” I agreed.

A slight pause ensued, followed by Julio’s attempt to make conversation. “It’s pretty hot outside,” he said slowly. I then decided to try one of the phrases I remembered from my Rosetta Stone course.

“I… I am. I am hot.” I continued. “You. You are hot. We are. We are hot.” These were some of the first full sentences I had constructed in Portuguese, and I was hugely proud of myself. Only later did I realize what a blathering idiot I must have sounded like. Julio cut me off.

“The beach would be great today. Have you been to the beach?”
“I love beach.”

It was at this point that Andrea, a pretty lady in her mid-30’s, walked into the room. Julio informed her that I needed the contract, and she then turned her back to us to walk to the desk. I then looked back at Julio. His arms were outstretched, and he was framing Andrea’s posterior in a little window he made with his fingers, wincing as though he were experiencing intense pain or pleasure. He then grinned at me and flashed a thumbs-up sign. I nodded vigorously. Over the course of our short interaction, language barriers aside, we had established that we share an interest in both beaches and the jean-clad female form. I can’t think of a more solid foundation for friendship. I hope to see much more of Julio.

I moved in to the apartment last week, and found a few surprises. Most were minor, like a broken board in the bed, but I also found that the oven didn’t work. When I informed one of the men who work the desk, he called the gas company to bring a new tank. He then fixed it up for me, and watched as I tried to light it. I had recently gotten comfortable lighting gas ovens, since I had cooked a bit with Vinicius in his house. I took the lighter in hand, turned up the gas, and flicked the lighter. Foot-tall flames erupted out of the oven, singing most of the hair off of the knuckles of my right hand and scaring the shit out of me. Antonio, the gentleman who had helped me hook the tank up, frowned and muttered something in Portuguese. I cradled my hand and inspected the damage. The results weren’t all bad. I admit that my knuckles had been getting a bit hairy, and could have done with a little trim. Engulfing my hand in a gas-borne fireball, however, would not have been my preferred method. Antonio then instructed me to use the oven on very low heat, presumably to prevent lighting the building on fire. I agreed.

Outside of my flaming oven, the apartment has been great. I have two decently sized windows that look out onto Santa Teresa, so I get a nice breeze and a view. I also have a pet cockroach named Mr. Brojangles who lives under my fridge. When I first saw him a few nights ago, I tried to goosh him, but he’s a very clever boy and scuttled back under the fridge. I recently sprayed Raid all over the apartment though, so I’m afraid I might not be seeing much of Mr. Brojangles anymore.

In all seriousness, I’m starting to get really settled down here and am really enjoying Rio. I had my first mandolin lesson with a guy named Rudá, and am absolutely loving the music. The language barrier makes for a much trickier adjustment than anything I experienced in Ireland, but my Portuguese is getting better by the day. Hopefully I’ll be able to speak well enough to get my oven fixed soon.

Much love, I’m missing you all,

Auyon

Welcome to Rio

2008-04-30T14:22:00.002-07:00

My first meal in Brazil consisted of a small, floppy cheeseburger and a strangely flavored milkshake at a little joint called “Bob’s Burgers” in Rio de Janeiro airport. Upon consumption, I headed outside to catch a cab to Santa Teresa, where my friend Vinicius is staying. These first two interactions with Cariocas (inhabitants of Rio)— the cashier at Bob’s and the cab driver— made it quite clear to me that I had been operating under false pretenses for the past 4 months. Before my arrival, I had convinced myself that since Rio is such a popular tourist destination, I would be able to get around speaking English. Sure, I thought, Portuguese would help in communicating with the musicians, but my limited knowledge of the language via the Rosetta Stone course, combined with my familiarity with French and Spanish, would make the transition hardly noticeable.

Fallacies.

The cab driver tried to make conversation, but soon realized I had no idea what was going on, and instead resorted to the few English words he knew. “Favela,” he pointed out as we passed by one of the many poor shanty towns that dot the city. “Dangerous.” I nodded. We drove several minutes in silence. “Beautiful, this city,” he continued, pointing at the towering mountains, lush green forests and white sand beaches that lay in the distance. I nodded vigorously. We eventually got into Centro, or downtown, and then drove up the hill that leads to the neighborhood of Santa Teresa.

Santa Teresa was at one point one of the most fashionable places to live in Rio, and the huge, colonial style houses that line many of its streets are a testament to its glory days. The often dilapidated and decrepit façades of the buildings, though, are evidence of the area’s later decline. Today, Santa Teresa is experiencing a rejuvenation of sorts, and is reputed to be the city’s booming arts district. All the guidebooks I read, though, make clear that Santa Teresa retains a rather rough edge, as it is close to many favelas. “Take care,” they warn, “as muggings do occur often here.” I looked around as the cab climbed up the cobbled streets, and noticed that all the houses had sizable gates and fences, tastefully decorated with barbed wire and chunks of broken glass to discourage uninvited guests.

We soon reached no. 587, Rua Joaquim Murtinho, at which point I thanked the cab driver profusely and collected my bags from the trunk. The driver zoomed off, and I headed towards the gate. It was locked. There was another gate, though. Locked as well. I looked for a doorbell. There was one inside the second gate, and I reached through and rang it. No one answered. I rang it again. I then took a minute to survey my surroundings. There was no one in sight— just stretches of cobbled street and high fences on either side of me. I was all alone. In Rio. I took ten deep breaths, and then collected my thoughts. “This is it,” I thought. “I’m going to get mugged. I’ve been in Rio for all of 45 minutes, and I’m going to get mugged. And when they mug me, they’re going to laugh at me, because I’m wearing this god damned fanny pack I promised my dad I’d wear to keep my passport safe and—”

“Olá!” buzzed a man’s voice through the speaker above the doorbell behind the gate, followed by several incomprehensible words in Portuguese.

“Amigo. Amigo de Vinicius,” I said in what I thought was a Portuguese inflection. I heard a shuffle, and then saw a little shirtless man wearing Bermuda shorts walk down to the gate. I could have kissed him.

The man, named Eduardo, opened the gate, and relieved me of one of my suitcases. We then headed up to the main house, a watermelon-red mansion with white trim and surrounded by foliage. I found the owner, a lady named Julie, and tried desperately to explain my plight. “I speak English,” she said, after I trailed off into Portuguese-gibberish for the third or fourth time. I later learned that Julie is in fact Irish, from Belfast. Small world. She put me up in a hostel area in the basement of the house. There were no other hostel-dwellers at the time, however, leaving me with 10 beds to myself. Glorious. I took a long hot shower, and then looked around for Vinicius. He had been gone when I arrived, but was around when I checked a second time. The man is a paraglider pilot, musician and graphic designer. I want to be like him when I grow up. We spoke for a little while, and then I headed into town to try and buy groceries. It turns out everything is much more interesting when you can’t understand what’s going on around you. Unlike Ireland, though, I don’t look at all out of place here, which is a welcome change. I spent about an hour buying 5 things from the supermarket, and then headed home, quite proud of myself.

Over the next few days, I managed to get a decent sense of the city and how to get around. This was accomplished primarily by getting on bus headed to some chosen destination, like Ipanema beach. I would then fail to get off at the right stop, because there are no official stops here. You simply push a little button, and the bus slows down and stops wherever you please. This is fantastic for anyone who knows the city, but I did not have that luxury, making every bus ride a little adventure of its own. Constant vigilance is not a forte of mine, and thus I got off at random points in the city more often than not, realized I had no idea where I was, and then would try to catch another bus. The cycle continued until I found my way home. 3 hours is my average travel time, regardless of destination.

I’ve also gotten completely hooked on samba and chorinho (a more intimate, instrumental type of Brazilian music), and have been looking for a teacher. For the next few months, I plan on primarily concentrating on learning Portuguese and getting to a decent point on the mandolin. Before I arrived, I had entertained fantasies of learning to surf, dance, fight capoeira, et cetera, but I recently realized that my time will be much more effectively spent getting good at a few things rather than spreading myself too thin with too many.

In other news, I just found a place to live for the next four months. I don’t know the exact room number yet (I move in on Saturday) but will post the address as soon as I can. I also just started some intensive Portuguese classes, and will hopefully be at a conversational-fluent point within a couple of months. My current lack of ability, however, will certainly lead to some entertaining encounters. Get excited.

I miss you all. More stories soon.

Much love,

Auyon

Party Time

2008-04-30T14:22:00.001-07:00

Some of the first advice I received about living in Ireland was to move out before winter set in. In my last week here, I’m beginning to see why my friend was so emphatic about this suggestion. Only a few weeks into November, purplish-grey clouds perpetually blot out the sky, casting a gloomy shadow over the countryside and robbing the inky-black rivers and lakes of their shimmer. The days are shorter and I have begun wearing long underwear around the house because I’m so cold, much to the amusement of my housemates. I would be depressed were I not moving to Rio in 2 weeks. Admittedly, though, my last few days in Ireland have been great. This past weekend, Aroop came to visit and I did my best to show him everything I love about this country. On the Friday he arrived, he was rather sluggish as a result of his academic commitments at Oxford. We had planned to take it easy to allow him to recuperate a bit, and were in the midst of debating whether to buy a cheap burger in town or eat some pasta I had at home when my mother called. She called to ensure that Aroop had indeed made it to Galway safely, and also to wish us “Happy Diwali.” Diwali is the Hindu festival of lights, and celebrates the homecoming of Lord Ram in one of the great Hindu epics, the Ramayana. My mother then did something entirely unexpected. She informed me that, as a Diwali gift, everything my brother and I did this weekend would be on her. Neither my brother nor I had ever received a Diwali gift from anyone before. We used to receive Christmas presents when we were very young, but that ended when we learned that Santa didn’t exist. I have heard it’s traumatic for kids to learn that Santa isn’t real, but my brothers and I came to this realization with the accompanying admission from my parents that “we aren’t actually Christian,” so “we wouldn’t be getting a tree next year.” Much crying ensued.

Scarring childhood experiences aside, I thanked my mother profusely and then hung up the phone and informed Aroop of our good fortune. All of a sudden, the bags disappeared from under his eyes and his exhaustion was replaced with sheer joy. “We,” he informed me confidently, “are going to the best god damned restaurant in this town.” I clearly had no choice but to acquiesce. Upon his departure from the US, Aroop was given a credit card from my mother “to be used for emergencies,” and it was this card my mother had instructed us to use. I got curious, though, and asked Aroop how often he uses it for miscellaneous expenses. “It’s a grey area, really,” he said. “I’ve been doing some thinking, though. I think I’ll start paying for my own alcohol.” I felt so proud of Aroop when he said that. My baby brother is growing up.

Following an overly-indulgent meal, Aroop and I retired home and passed out, fat and happy. From this point, the weekend only got better. We had been invited to a party in Dundalk, which is north of Dublin (across the country from Galway), hosted by Eimear’s parents (Eimear being a family friend who has graciously had me over several times over the course of my stay here). Aroop and I stopped off in Dublin for a few hours and then headed north, and walked into a house filled with a lot of delicious food and even more beer. Michael, Eimear’s father, notified us that he had placed a large trash bag outside the bathroom where we were to put empty cans. “You two,” he continued, “are responsible for filling that up. Clear? Good.” Aroop and I went to work, diligent as we are. It was a fantastic night. We woke up the following afternoon and made our way back to Galway. We caught a concert put on by Damien Dempsey, an up-and-coming Irish singer/songwriter, and then headed home once again to prepare for Aroop’s departure early the next morning. It’s a busy life we vagrants lead, but someone has to do it.

The next blog post I compose will be written outside of Ireland, as I leave the country in six days. I will spend a little more than a week in England to celebrate American Thanksgiving with the Schmidt family, and then head on to Rio on the 29th of November. Thus, if you have any packages of candy or kittens that you plan on sending me in Ireland, make sure to mark them “Express,” otherwise the candy will go bad, and I hate stale candy.

Much love,

Auyon

God Save the Queen

2008-04-30T14:21:00.001-07:00

Having called Ireland home for the past three months, I have begun to embrace a number of Irish habits and sentiments as my own. It was thus with an abiding sense of hatred of the English that I arrived in London last Monday to visit friends and family. I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, though, and upon consumption of a delicious traditional Cornish pasty at Gatwick airport, I chose to give the country a second chance. All of the English could not possibly be as snooty as my Irish compatriots made them out to be. How could they possibly take themselves that seriously, with subway stops like “Piccadilly Circus” and “Cockfosters” dotting their hallowed capital? These people, I decided, must be hilarious.

The night we arrived in London, Dave and I took a train into Oxford to stay with my younger brother Aroop and good friend Harris Paseltiner at the Williams-Exeter house, just outside the center of the city. Much love was exchanged, and I got to hear about Aroop’s latest antics, which included joining the Exeter Amateur Boxing Club (Aroop, at 130 lbs, will be competing in the super featherweight division) and his purchase of a badger-hair shaving brush from Crabtree and Evelyn. Once Dave and I had sorted out our respective sleeping situations, and had each raided Aroop’s closet for fashionable items we would don later in the week, we headed out to a pub. Upon arrival, we approached the rather crowded bar. One of the bartenders, a surly, stupid looking man, made eye contact with my brother. Aroop smiled back at him, and politely requested a few ales. “Yes. Yes of course you can get that. When you’re served,” replied the brute, sneering. He then whirled around and lumbered back to his cave, or perhaps to the other side of the bar to serve some other lucky customer. Aroop went into a brief state of shock. I was furious. No one speaks to my baby brother like that. A few of us then began loudly discussing the extent to which the bartender was an asshole. At this point another bartender, this one more rodent-like than boorish, instructed us to “not make ludicrous demands.” I was so angry I had to urinate. When I got back, I ordered a round from a different bartender, and made sure to go out of my way to be extraordinarily polite and gracious to everyone behind the bar, which threw them off a great deal.

The Bartender Incident was just the first of many negative experiences with service industry personnel in Oxford. Every second bus driver, cabbie and waiter seemed to have an enormous chip on his shoulder. I certainly enjoyed spending time with Aroop, Harris, and the Williams crew, as there’s little that can prevent one from having fun getting sloppily drunk with kith and kin (my cousin Shanto is studying at Oxford this term as well, and we celebrated his 21st birthday together on Thursday), but I did leave Oxford with a rather bad taste in my mouth. During my bus ride to London, I made a comprehensive mental list of the differences I perceived between Ireland and England.

1. Ireland uses the Euro. England uses pounds.
2. In Ireland, people drink Guinness. In England, people eat crumpets.
3. Cockfosters.
4. In Ireland, there is a warm hospitality that greets newcomers who are unfamiliar with Irish culture and customs. In England, any unfamiliarity or inability to immediately assimilate is considered offensive. This reaction is presumably rooted in the conviction that all things English are correct, and all things not English are not, which is most likely a sad, desperate throwback to the days when anything English actually mattered.

It is unfortunate that I only realize now, after graduating from Williams, that sociology/comparative anthropology is my true calling. In any case, I felt much better after an entire bus ride of mental England-bashing, and emerged onto the streets of London refreshed. I spent my first few hours in London hanging out with my freshman year crew coach, Ben Lewis. It was fantastic to catch up with him, talking about the old times and how we had been a crew entirely composed of misfits. I then met up with Cynthia Zwicky, a dear friend from Williams, and her boyfriend Simon. We all headed out to Brick Lane, which is renowned for its authentic Indian cuisine. It was a surreal experience: South Asians of all sizes and ages yelled and hawked in the streets, attempting to entice innocent bystanders into their restaurants. One well-dressed gentleman promised “discount beer” as well as a “table overlooking the cookery, where [we] could talk to the chefs.” We were escorted into an uncomfortably hot room literally within the kitchen. It was filled with a small army of short, unhappy looking South Asian men in white aprons, none of whom looked like they had any desire to speak to me. I held my tongue. The meal was actually one of the worst I have ever had. The saag, which is normally a delicious, spinach dish, was a yellow, milky curry with a few spinach leaves thrown in for good measure, and then drenched in honey. I couldn’t finish my meal. We retired to Cynthia and Simon’s graduate school apartment, the highlight of which was the foldout bed, and I fell asleep hungry and disheartened. The next day I headed to Cambridge to see a number of friends who are studying there on fellowships, and then returned to London the following night to fly back to Galway in the morning. I am now writing this post in the comfort of an Irish pub, a few empty pints of Guinness at my side and not a crumpet in sight. It feels good to be home.

Much love,

Auyon

H-A-T-E

2008-04-30T14:20:00.000-07:00

I was a bit nervous about my friend Dave’s arrival in Galway. He was going to stay for a few weeks, and although we get along very well (having been roommates freshman year), I had gotten quite comfortable living alone. As I waited for Dave’s plane to get in at Galway airport, questions raced through my mind. Would we have to walk in and out of town every day, or would Dave be able to balance on my handlebars? Would Dave be okay with the fact that I eat the same delicious hummus, chicken and cheddar sandwich for lunch every day, or would he demand variety? Do I have to share my muesli? Does Dave even like muesli? Would he prefer Hi-Fiber with Coconut, or Berries ‘n’ Cherries? I prefer Hi-Fiber. I was caught up in a complex web of queries when Dave made his grand entrance out of the tiny terminal of Galway airport. He emerged bleary-eyed, coughing and sneezing. We embraced and said a tender yet platonic hello, and then jumped into a cab driven by an amicable Nigerian man. Over the course of the ride, all of my questions faded into irrelevance as I realized that the only appropriate inquiry was how long I would have to play man-nurse. Dave arrived on October 15th. It is now October 28th, and he is still sick. I would like to say that the experience has brought us closer as friends and brothers, and that we gained a greater appreciation for each other. The truth is that all I now have is a greater appreciation for the thankless job all mothers do when taking care of whiny kids. Dave was very much grateful for my cooking and medicine runs for the first week, but the honeymoon was soon over. One day, I fixed muesli for Dave. I sliced a banana, as one does, over the muesli, poured milk over it, and presented it to him. “Don’t eat bananas,” he said simply. “Hate them.” I took a deep breath. I decided to explain to him that in my house, we eat my muesli my way. As I opened my mouth to inform Dave, he looked back up with sad, red eyes and reiterated, “Hate bananas. Hate them. Hate.” I shut my mouth, swallowed my pride, and dutifully removed the banana slices from his cereal. I have now gone from living entirely independently to de-fruiting bowls of cereal for demanding, sickly friends.

Dave and I spent a few days in Galway, and then headed over to Dublin and Belfast for a few days each. On our way back, we met up with Anna Condino, a friend who just graduated with us from Williams in June, and we all headed back to Galway. It’s been great to be among Williams company again, and in a few days Dave and I are heading over to Oxford to see Aroop and crew, which should be spectacular. In other news, my quarterly report for the folks at Watson headquarters is due in a few days, and I’ve thrown a draft together (with a great deal of help from Dave) and included it here. I hope you all enjoy it.

Much love,

Auyon

Quarterly Report I

2008-04-30T14:18:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Eyre Square in Galway, Ireland on August 1st with my mandolin, a backpack, a suitcase and a bag of shoes. The prospect of only arriving with a backpack, suitcase and instrument had a certain romantic appeal, but the good people of Kansas City International Airport had deemed my suitcase too heavy, so I had to buy an extra bag for my footwear. Kansans being more prairie-oriented than fashion-oriented, the only bag I could find was small and tan, and decorated with friendly black antelope. Thus, there I stood, clutching the mandolin and antelope close to my chest, surveying what would be my home for the next four months. My arrival in Ireland marked the first time I have ever truly been on my own, and it took a good while for me to adjust. Though surrounded by people— Galway is a bustling little city— I felt as though I lacked the ability to strike up a conversation with anyone. My studies led me to a number of open, nightly music sessions where I was introduced to a variety of musicians and publicans, and although these sessions did ease my transition to autonomy, it was still almost three weeks before I was comfortable existing independently. It was only at this point, once I had regained some measure of confidence and footing, that I was able to begin my study of Irish traditional music (trad) and musicians in earnest.

As I grew closer to the musicians with whom I played and met more people in the pubs, I started hearing about the All-Ireland Fleadh in Tullamore at the end of August. The Fleadh is the largest celebration of traditional music in Ireland, and draws several hundreds of thousands of people each year. For three days, musicians from all corners of Ireland play in pubs and on the streets of the town, inviting others to jump in and join them. Far from the intimacy of the small pub sessions in Galway, it was an experience I enjoyed immensely. One of my most enlightening interactions there was with Steven, the 21-year old with whose family I was staying during the festival. He was a skilled Irish dancer, star Gaelic footballer and something of a celebrity in his hometown. One night when we were meandering from pub to pub, I asked him why he danced. I asked what role his heritage and culture played in his affinity for the music. Steven paused for a moment. “That’s pretty interesting, what you just said about my heritage and all, but that actually has nothing to do with it. I dance because it’s my favorite way to relax. It’s not ‘Irish traditional’ music to me. It’s not a cultural tie-back, or a connection with my ancestors or whatever. It’s just music. That’s what music is.” I was floored. I had never considered that someone like Steven’s idea of music could differ so much from my own. He was just as well-versed in contemporary music as I was— just earlier that day we had compared and contrasted our favorite rock bands— and yet his conception of music was rooted in Irish trad. The fact that younger generations view trad not merely as a cultural tradition, but wholeheartedly embrace it as part of their identity, was a complete surprise to me. I immediately grew embarrassed of my naïveté and preconceived notions, and would have blushed had I not been of South Asian ancestry. Steven continued that the camaraderie inherent in Irish traditional music adds immensely to its appeal to him and other young people. The playing of trad is very much a social affair. At sessions, the focus is on bringing people together to enjoy and play music collectively. The repetitiveness and simplicity of trad simultaneously lets beginners jump in with relative ease, while it allows more skilled players to embellish with personal touches. Young kids and seasoned professionals can play side-by-side, having all studied and grown up with largely similar collections of tunes. Thus, while the performance of trad is rich with self-expression, the music itself remains a celebration of community.

My interest in the compositional methods of the music prompted me to seek out John Brady, an acclaimed contemporary composer of trad. When asked why he composes, he replied that each of his pieces represents a story or experience. Mr. Brady’s father’s death had prompted him to write “The Empty Armchair,” referring to the armchair his father used to inhabit in their home. What differentiates Mr. Brady’s compositional process from that of a songwriter is that Irish tunes have no lyrics— they are typically made up of two sets of eight bars of monophonic music. Thus, while a songwriter writes with the intention of sharing a perspective with the listener, this connection does not exist in Mr. Brady’s compositions. His writing is a more private and personal endeavor, resulting in a tune for others to enjoy rather than a vehicle to share his thoughts.

My interviews with composers and musicians like Mr. Brady, as well as my participation in sessions over the past three months, have restructured the questions I initially sought to ask. Among players of Irish trad, there is no balance between fidelity to culture and self-expression. Individuals who play trad are not balancing their heritage with anything else— they are simply playing what they know and love as music. A more appropriate investigation has been to determine the balance between self-expression and the celebration of community within the musical culture. This balance is one that each player strikes individually, and is entirely dependent on their technical prowess and ability to manipulate a tune. Even the most wizened players I spoke to, however, agreed that the greatest joy of playing remains in doing so with a group of friends and a few pints. On a broader level, my experiences in Ireland have completely reshaped my understanding of music as function of both culture and community. The notion of restarting this process from scratch in less than a month in a country halfway around the world leaves me both nervous and excited. My ability to exist independently in Ireland, however, has instilled a sense of confidence that will make the transition a much less arduous task. That, and I can now talk a great deal about horses in Portuguese, courtesy of my Rosetta Stone course. It should be quite an adventure.

These are not men who wear tight pants

2008-04-30T14:15:00.002-07:00

In the U.S., the word “musician” carries a great deal of baggage. For example, when I want cheap thrills, I tell my mother that I am thinking of becoming a musician. She then forthrightly explains to me the decline into drugs, alcoholism and poverty with which any career in music, especially rock music, inevitably ends. While her view might be a bit more extreme than most, the American notion of a musician is typically associated with a desire to express individuality, to break outside the norm. Two characteristically American styles of music— the singer-songwriter genre and jazz— further this conception, both emphasizing the importance of the individual performer and his or her relationship with the music. In pop culture, the musician is a trendsetter, a personification of youthful rebellion. The images that are splashed over the front pages of glossy magazines, of painfully thin, mascara-smeared, pouting young men, wearing skin-tight jeans and looking as though they might break into tears at any minute, readily spring to mind.

As my past few months in Galway have shown me, this is not the case in Ireland. Irish traditional music, or “trad,” is an integral, if not defining, aspect of Irish culture, and rather than being an expression of rebellion, it is a source of cultural and national pride. Trad is most at home in what’s known as a session— a collection of musicians playing any number of guitars, tin whistles, bodhrans (open-backed hand drums, pronounced “bow-rons”), banjos, fiddles and the like, crowded around a few tables in the back corner of a pub, surrounded by several pints of Guinness. Sessions are often impromptu occurrences, but can also be scheduled by the establishment, which would pay a few musicians to get things started and then provide free drinks to those who join in. At true sessions, there are never microphones nor set lists. The music itself, historically rooted in a centuries-old tradition of dance music, is characterized by rhythmic, steady progressions of lilting melodic lines played at a lively tempo, often with intricate ornamentation. There is also little focus on harmonies, as all of the musicians play together in unison (excluding the guitarists, who play chords, and the bodhran players.)

The true beauty of the music is rooted in the simultaneous complexity and simplicity of its performance. The playing of trad is very much a social affair—the repetitiveness and straightforward nature of the basic eighth-note structure of tunes allows beginners jump in with relative ease, while allowing more skilled players to embellish with personal flourishes. Young kids and seasoned professionals can play side-by-side, having all studied and grown up with largely similar collections of tunes. Thus, while the performance of trad is rich with self-expression, the music itself remains a celebration of community.

The character of the music renders the trad player much less a bastion of individuality and much more a symbol of Irish pub culture, in all of its beer-soaked, festive musical glory. As I looked around at my fellow musicians at a session I had joined last week, nothing could have been clearer. These, I thought to myself, are not men who wear tight pants. These men do not wear eyeliner, nor do they cry about their feelings or use music to express their sensitivity. These are men who smell like sweat and vinegar. They ride motorcycles. They drink dark beer, and lots of it. Some of them, in fact, drank so much at one point that they no longer drink, for the safety of their families and those around them. These are men who, when they enter a pub and see friends, will yell “What’s the story?” or “How the hell are ya?,” usually accompanied with a hearty slap on the back. “Mighty,” their friends will respond, or “Fierce fucking grand.” Fierce is an adverb in Ireland. These are men who are tied together by their shared love of a music representative of their country, culture and heritage, and I consistently find myself inspired by their willingness to welcome and share their love and pride with anyone wanting to join them or listen. Perhaps that is why I keep returning to these sessions. Perhaps I should ask my mother how she feels about me becoming a professional musician in Ireland.

Shameful

2008-04-30T14:15:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday, I took the bus to Dublin to welcome my parents to Ireland. It was fantastic to see them, not least because their arrival marked the first time I have eaten dessert or been seated at a restaurant with tablecloths in awhile. It also felt good to be able to share my knowledge of Irish traditional music and culture in a pub rather than over the phone or in my journal. What has stuck out most about their visit, though, is the way we have interacted. Somehow the fact that I’m living on my own has made my parents think that they now have the license to treat me as an adult. This has been unsettling.

It seems like as recently as a few months ago, my mother’s maternal instincts where the driving force behind our every conversation. One of the most common ways in which my mother expresses her motherly love is through harsh, unyielding and often irrational criticism. A few days before my college graduation, I had the misfortune of delivering some bad news to her. Over my first seven semesters at Williams, I had done rather well, and was hoping to do well enough in my final semester to be inducted into an honors society. Due to my poor performances in such classes as field botany and oil painting, I ended up not making the cut. A few of my friends with whom I had previously been on par, however, were inducted. When I shared this news with my mother, she stopped packing the box with which she was helping me, and sighed with disappointment. “Shameful,” she said, to no one in particular, and then went back to packing.

I responded that I didn’t think that “shameful” was an appropriate way to summarize my college career. In fact, I continued, I was pretty proud of myself, in spite of my recent performance. My mother did not so much as glance in my direction while I spoke. After I finished, she took a deep breath and looked directly at me, clearly disgusted. “Shameful, shameful, shameful,” she repeated, taking care to enunciate each syllable. She then hurled the nearest object, which happened to be an empty shoebox, at my head, in case I had any questions about the strength of her convictions on the matter. I did not.

Paradoxically, the harshness of my mother’s criticism is rivaled only by the intensity of her pride for her progeny. A few days following the shoebox projectile incident, I found myself on stage at the Commencement ceremony of my graduation from Williams College. I had been elected Class Speaker by my fellow graduates, and was thus allowed five minutes to say whatever I wanted on a stage in front of thousands of people. I chose to discuss personal problems and then blame the school for them. The speech went over well with both students and faculty alike, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. For the two weeks following Commencement, I checked my email several times a day, eagerly awaiting some kind of notification from the college. There were three student speakers— myself, the valedictorian, and the honors society president— and every year there is a cash prize presented to the student deemed to have given the best speech. After a couple weeks of empty inboxes, I assumed the worst and went ahead and emailed the registrar’s office. I soon received the reply that the valedictorian had won the prize. I was disappointed, but after some careful reflection, realized that such was the risk one ran when using the word “butthead” in a speech and calling the alumni association an incestuous bunch. My mother was not so forgiving. Upon hearing the news, she demanded I tell her who made this decision. I informed her that I didn’t know the specifics, but assumed that the deciding committee was probably made up of faculty and alumni. Old people, I reminded her, are easily offended. My mother’s eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened as she processed this information. After a few seconds of careful deliberation, she came to a decision. “I’ll kill them,” she informed me, quite seriously.

My father has fewer fiery tendencies than my mother—his paternal hallmarks have been to provide me with a great deal of eloquently explained and well thought-out guidance, but then to sit back and observe my development with a sort of distant amusement. While growing up, I often got the sense that my father thought of me as a mildly funny joke for which, due to circumstances beyond his control, he had been made responsible. A turning point in our relationship came during a plane ride when I was seated next to my father. We were sitting behind a group of whiny kids, and my father made some offhand comment about how much he dislikes children. I was probably 15 or 16 at the time, and this statement thus intrigued me. A few minutes later I pursued it. “Ba,” I asked, “you said you didn’t like kids. But you liked us, right? When we were small?”

He pretended not to hear me, and shuffled the pages of the newspaper he was reading. I repeated myself loudly next to his ear: “You liked us, right? Your own kids?”

My father put the paper down and bit his lip pensively, as though he was deep in thought. “Auyon,” he finally said, “I like you now.”

I was quite shaken by this incident, but the conversation did allow me to make sense of the majority of my childhood. From all the times my father shut his door when he knew my brothers or I were going to attempt to show him the latest classical piece we had learned on our violins or piano, to his firm belief that, as babies, we always seemed to soil ourselves as soon as our mother left him alone with us, everything became clearer. As we have grown older, my brothers and I have continued to be sources of both entertainment and bewilderment for my father. Perhaps the only change has been that the advice my father now gives me is slightly weightier, as my impending descent into the real world scares us both a great deal.

When I left the country a few months ago, I was comfortable with these regular and convincing lectures from my father, which instilled motivation and a sense of urgency when he seemed to think I needed one or the other. I was comfortable with my mother’s unreasonable criticisms and fierce pride. I was comfortable with the way things were, and with the fact that my parents were the primary guiding force in my life. Over the course of these two short months, however, it seems that so much has changed. Perhaps the fact that I have been able to exist on my own in a foreign country has marked, both to my parents and to me, my entry into adulthood. My parents now speak to me not in sermons but in conversation. Their advice is no longer presented as instructive or critical, but rather as a series of suggestions or alternate possibilities. I always thought it would be refreshing to be treated as an adult, but I instead find myself feeling stripped of my security blanket and left to face the world naked as a jaybird. I could go on whining for at least a few more sentences, but it’s my parents’ second-to-last day and we’re heading to a pub, and the earlier we get there, the more pints my dad will buy me. I suppose there are trade-offs to everything. Adulthood might be an intimidating place, but only adults can get drunk with their middle-aged Indian parents.

Much love,

Auyon

P.S. For those of you who are interested, the speech mentioned above may be found at the following address:

www.williams.edu/graduation/2007/mukharji.htm

Dirty undies and broken bikes

2008-04-30T14:14:00.001-07:00

The following conversation between my father (Ba) and younger brother (Aroop), which took place in our home in Kansas City, was relayed to me over the phone a few days ago. Liberties were taken by this author to make Aroop sound more eloquent and less effeminate. Success proved elusive on both counts.

Ba: Aroop.
Aroop: What?
Ba: Why are you prancing around in women’s clothing?
Aroop: It’s not women’s clothing. It’s European. And I wasn’t prancing.
Ba: It has a flower on it.
Aroop: Yea maybe. But the flower’s part of a crest. Crests are manly.
Ba: Why is it so tight? Why can’t you dress like a normal person?
Aroop (exasperated): I already told you, it’s European. It’s from a British company called Ben Sherman. You don’t know anything.

My father later confided to me that he remained unimpressed by either Ben Sherman or my younger brother’s fashion sense of late. Since mid-July of this year, Aroop has been sporting articles by companies like Lacoste, Ben Sherman, Calvin Klein and various other big names. The primary cause of this fashion rebirth was his grand entrance into the teenage nouveau-riche, subsidized by his short but well-documented career at a prestigious hedge fund this past summer. Aroop got the job through a best friend’s ex-girlfriend’s father. He was doing it primarily to pad his resumé, but also hoped to learn a little about finance. As those of us who received his regular email updates soon learned, the latter was naught but a pipe dream. Aroop’s biggest responsibility each week was to spearhead the office-wide “Fast Food Fridays,” wherein he and another intern would leave the building for two hours on Friday and then return in a blaze of greasy glory, laden down with sandwiches and deep fried goodies from one of the many fast-food joints around New York City. On days other than Friday, he slept in the bathroom and checked his email. He was compensated quite generously for his labors, which funded a complete revamping of his wardrobe. Aroop claims that he has “always been fashionable,” but my mother’s stranglehold over money he had earned had “held him down.” Aroop’s ability to now express himself through overpriced, bleached jeans from Calvin Klein is a victory for young boys with oppressive mothers everywhere.

Aroop just arrived at Oxford (where he will be studying for the year) a few days ago, and informed me that he was able to pack a good deal of fashionable clothing into his allowed luggage. He took two fifty-pound suitcases, a backpack and a bag containing tennis gear and more clothes. I reflected on the differences between our respective clothing situations. Aroop has more than 100 pounds of clothing, and will likely bring more at Christmas. I have 10 T-shirts, 10 pairs of boxers, 3 pairs of pants and two sweatshirts that will last me for the year. Aroop is excited about impressing his fellow Oxford students with his freshly purchased pullovers, track jackets and form-fitting hoodies. I recently started wearing my boxers two days in a row, because, quite frankly, I don’t soil them enough in 24 hours to warrant a full-blown laundry cycle. Much to my relief, Aroop has assured me that when I get back to the United States, he will do his best to “make me fashionable.” Other promises of his include him paying for my kids’ educations, since, he decided, I’ll be too poor to do so myself. Few people are as lucky as I am to have such a caring younger brother.

I suppose that now that I myself am living in Europe, home of all that is hyperchic, I could start dressing more nicely and really impress Aroop when I get to see him in November. Unfortunately, though, the limiting Watson stipend combined with the ever-plummeting dollar (I’ve been reading The Economist) forces me to spend quite frugally, to the point that my thriftiness has been catching up with me. My bike, for example, is falling apart. About a month back, I spent a few days looking for the cheapest bike shop in Galway. I soon found it: Europa Cycles. While the other bike shops are located on main streets and have windows, Europa Cycles is located in the basement of what seemed like an abandoned warehouse at the edge of a forest. I bought the bike from a greasy man who spoke broken English and, when answering my questions, preceded his statements with “Trust me.” I didn’t trust him, but he was selling me the bike for peanuts compared to the other places so I bought it.

A few nights ago, I was biking back home and got rather uncomfortable. My bicycle seat, which is made from whale-bone or a material of similar hardness, had rendered some of my more delicate parts rather tender, and I decided to stand up to alleviate my discomfort. I was carrying my mandolin in my right hand and steering with my left, and thus to stand up I was forced to place my right hand awkwardly on the end of the handlebar. The following events took place in rapid succession, and yet I can recall them with complete clarity, as I experienced them in slow motion. As soon as I put my weight on the handlebars, I realized why it was a bad idea: I had forgotten that the rubber grip of my right handlebar had come loose. Upon registering this crucial fact, my hand slipped off the bars with the grip and I was propelled directly over the right side of my handlebars. I enjoyed a few brief moments of flight, and landed with my legs intertwined with various parts of my bike and my mandolin case splayed out in front of me. I had my laptop in my backpack as well, but was far more concerned about the state of my mandolin. There are computers at internet cafes. My mandolin is how I have been preserving my sanity. Thankfully, everything save my ego was undamaged (I was wearing my helmet), and I biked back home in shame. The next day I got my wheels aligned and grip fixed by a surly Polish man who growled at me when I asked questions. I am now up and riding once again. Bulletproof.

Stay well, I miss you all,

Auyon

Dublin, the abolition of Belgium and pancakes

2008-04-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I slept with 13 people in Dublin. I had taken the train down to sort out my Brazilian visa, and decided that since I was there, I should check out the city. The cheapest room in my hostel of choice housed 14 people, and thus, there I stayed. I was really looking forward to making friends at the hostel, since I haven’t gone out of my way to meet too many people my age in Galway. I was, however, sorely disappointed. My fellow hostel-dwellers were all really young, really old, or really uncomfortable. The last two groups had a good deal of overlap. I did meet a few German kids who thought my mandolin was the cutest little guitar they had ever seen, but that was about it.

In Dublin, I saw the National Gallery, St. Stephen’s Green, and a lot of restaurants denoted as “Budget” by my guidebook. I also learned that sightseeing is something best done with others. Don’t get me wrong— I’m really enjoying living on my own, being able to do whatever I please, whenever I please. Since Ronan and Nora, my two housemates, both have real jobs, I spend the hours between 9 and 5 puttering around the house in some state of undress, learning phrases in Portuguese and belting Irish songs at the top of my lungs. I lead a glorious life. Being in Dublin and living out of a suitcase, though, was something I would have enjoyed far more with a companion. But, as my father often tells me, every molehill has a silver lining. Staying in Dublin for just a few days made me incredibly glad that I’m living in Galway. Galway is a neat, manageable city with a great deal of both Irish charm and traditional music within a concentrated area. Dublin is a sprawling metropolis, with what seemed like more tourists than native Irish. The few pubs I had heard were good for traditional music were few and far between, and were usually a good walk from the heart of the city.

When I got back to my room, I informed my mother that it felt good “to get back home.” Strange as it seems, I have grown pretty comfortable with my life here. After being in Ireland for more than six weeks, I am now accustomed to wearing my waterproof boots everywhere, even to the bathroom. I do yoga every morning, and feel empty if I go to bed without having played the mandolin for at least an hour on my own. My idea of a good night is biking down to the pub and playing Irish tunes with old dudes armed with tin whistles, accordions and banjos. A really good night is when I get fed multiple (2) pints of Guinness, and then subsequently inhale an order of curry chips to soak up the alcohol. Curry chips, for the uninformed, are freedom fries generously slathered with curry sauce, and are the standard late-night fare this side of the pond.

I also have started reading the Economist. I say this primarily to impress you all with my newfound pretension and intellectualness, but must admit that I read the magazine with a thesaurus in hand. I would use a dictionary, but we don’t have one at the house. I don’t think I’m allowed to buy one, either, since dictionaries are academic in nature, and that kind of thing is looked down upon by the folks at Watson headquarters.

A few days ago, I looked up the word “mooted” in my thesaurus. They only had it in noun form, which is the only way I had heard of the word. I’m pretty sure that “to moot” isn’t actually a verb, but the Economist does what it wants. They recently ran an article on why Belgium should be abolished. One would think that a serious newspaper would devote at least a few pages to a discussion as weighty as the existence of a nation. Not the Economist. They ran a half page article, and included the key point that while the Belgians do produce a lot of chocolate, they don’t need Belgium to do so. Word. It was one of the cockiest things I have ever read.
The Economist also runs a good number of articles on the effects of globalization. While many of the articles look interesting, they often get far too academic for my tastes, at which point I skip back and re-read the Belgium article. Having lived outside the U.S. for the past while, I have become all too familiar with the effects of globalization. Last week was Galway’s Americana festival, where they invited a number of bluegrass and American country artists to play in the city. I had never listened to much bluegrass before getting to Ireland, but my recent obsession with the banjo drove me to purchase tickets to a number of the shows in the festival, leading me to discover that I really like country music. Who would have thought that a kid who grew up in Kansas would discover bluegrass in western Ireland?
A far more disturbing result of globalization stared up at me from my plate at Lemon, a pancake bar in Dublin. I walked in expecting to buy a crepe for dinner— something sticky, sweet, and filled with Nutella. I scanned the menu and was about to order when, all of a sudden, I noticed the last item on the menu: Chicken Tikka Masala Crepe with Tomato. I had to order it. Never before had I seen the bastardization of one culture’s cuisine literally wrapped inside another. Globalization can be a messy affair. Someone should email this post to the Economist.

Much love, I’m missing you all,

Auyon

Making friends

2008-04-30T14:12:00.002-07:00

I was doing some thinking while I did the dishes last night. As I reviewed my daily activities, I realized that I do a lot of things that could be classified as romantic, except I do them alone. Two days ago, for example, I spent a few hours sitting on a rocky beach eating a picnic lunch and gazing out over the bay. I regularly take leisurely walks around the cobblestone paths of Galway, and I’m planning a nice little trip to Dublin next week. I’ll probably check out a few cafés, maybe see some shops. All by my lonesome. This insight prompted further analysis, in an effort to understand the cause of my solitude. I then came to my second great epiphany of last night’s dishwashing session: I have no friends here. I certainly have plenty of acquaintances, the people I meet in the pubs and with whom I play music, but not really anyone who I can call up and plan to meet up later that night. That’s not actually entirely true— Chris Doyle and Lauren Finn, two ‘09’s from Williams, recently arrived in Galway to study (a word I use loosely) for the semester— but the point I mean to make is that I haven’t met anyone in Ireland who I can call up as such.

Before you feel too bad for me, though, I should mention that I like to think of my friendlessness as a conscious decision on my part. Making friends and sustaining friendships when living outside of any organized social environment (i.e. school, a job) takes a good deal of effort and time. That’s time and effort I could be spending playing the mandolin in a pub, reading, working out or teaching myself the harmonica. I bought a harmonica for 30 euros a few days ago after watching a sweet video on YouTube of some guy beatboxing and playing the harmonica at the same time. I decided that if there’s any time to teach myself how to do that, it’s now, when my only real responsibility is to complete a three-page paper over the next 2 months. Best 30 euros I’ve ever spent. In any case, while it’s nice to have friends around, there have just been other ways I prefer to spend my time. I’m also quite happy with the friends I have back home, and see no need to replace them, even if they aren’t as hyperchic and Eurostylish as many of the young people around Galway.

I should also throw out a little disclaimer here. While I prefer to attribute my isolation to my own devices, it’s more likely a confluence of multiple factors. To be more specific, I bought a bike a little while ago, and with it, a helmet. I don’t remember the last time I wore a helmet. I got one because I live a good ways out of town, and am easily startled by fast cars, especially when I’m on the road as well. To put this in perspective for all of you non-Irish readers, there are a lot of people who ride bikes here. I have seen many of them. Of these many, I have only seen a handful of helmet-wearers. These people all fall into one of two categories: the elderly, and people who wear spandex. Fortunately I haven’t seen any individuals who fall into both categories, but I have heard that they do exist. Anyway, my helmet-wearing tendencies have dealt a serious blow to any street credit I may have possessed before, especially since my bike model has the name “Wildcat” emblazoned in big red letters down the main bar. I’m excited for a burly Irishman to point out this irony. I also carry my mandolin around everywhere. Thus, there I am— pedaling around town, a bright blue helmet strapped to my cranium, a mandolin in one hand, resting on the left handlebar, with my right hand wobbling to control the Wildcat, all while surrounded by the aforementioned Ben Sherman-wearing, designer sunglasses-sporting young people of Galway. I’m just saying that while I’m not actively seeking out friends, I’m also not coming off as the type of person others would want to be friends with either.

Three nights ago, I actually did make a friend, but he was a different sort of a fellow. He didn’t have a place to stay, so I invited him back to my place. He spent the night in the garden. I never got his name, because it didn’t say it on his collar; I’m not even sure if he was a he, but that’s neither here nor there. What happened was that I was walking back from a show called “Music at the Crossroads” (for those of you living in Boston, they’re coming to your city in the next month, and you should definitely check it out. It was a fantastic performance). It was about 10 PM and I hadn’t eaten dinner yet. I didn’t have my bike yet, so I was planning on walking back (which takes about 20 minutes) and stopping off at the grocery store on my way, to pick up a frozen pizza or something. Before I was even out of town, though, I saw a dog limping around, crossing busy roads with complete disregard for traffic. I picked it up and wandered around, hoping its owner would see and relieve me of the animal. No such luck. I then approached a few cabs and asked for a ride to the police station, which is where I figured I should take him. “No dogs,” was the standard reply. I then walked, with my furry friend tucked under my arm, to the police station, which took about 15 minutes. A number of drunk people (this was a Saturday night, so there were many) attempted to touch and/or tease the animal. I was not amused. I was sure, though, that the police station must have some kind of kennel or some place to put a dog for the night. Perhaps, I mused, I might get rewarded. Maybe they would cook me dinner.

I then reached the police station (called the Garda station here). The officer on duty, named Sean, was a spindly character who gave me a strange look when I informed him that I had found a dog on the street and didn’t know where to bring it. He called two phone numbers, both of which were busy, and then looked up and told me “I had come to the wrong place.” I asked him where I should go. “I don’t know,” he said. “Not here.”

He then told me that I should consider taking the dog home. I explained that I live in a single room a mile and a half away. I have no place to put the dog. “There’s really nothing you can do?” I asked. Sean shrugged. I was tired, hungry and frustrated. Sean then made matters worse by repeating his request, but in a patronizing way: “You were nice enough to bring him in, perhaps you’d be nice enough to take him home.” I considered being nice enough to tell him where he could shove it, but instead decided to fume quietly while the dog attempted to play with and/or hump my leg. Eventually, I caved. I told him that I’d take the dog home, but asked if I could at least get a ride back, since cabs are expensive. Sean scoffed, but did pick up the phone to call another officer. His conversation went something like this:

Sean: Hey, boyo I’ve got this kid here who-
Other Officer: (says something)
Sean: No really?! Haha that’s fantastic.
Other Officer: (says something again)
Sean: Hey that’s great. You enjoy yourself. Hahaha!

Sean then turned to me and told me, quite seriously, “they’re busy.” I said I would wait. After 10 minutes, he told me to get a cab. I said they don’t take dogs. He told me I should try harder. He then reiterated that the other officers were busy. “It’s cool,” I told him. I then asked if maybe he could give me a ride. He said no. I then bummed around the station for another 5 or 10 minutes, only because my presence there was pissing him off, and then ended up leaving the station to find a cab. I finally got a ride with a South African cabbie named Tim, and over the course of the drive, we came to the conclusion that the Garda are useless. It felt good to vent. Anyway, I put the dog in the garden, bought him some Pedigree Lamb ‘N’ Poultry in Gravy and then hit the sack. I called the number on his collar the next morning (no one had picked up when I called the previous night) and the owners came by, said thanks, and were on their way. I waved goodbye to my friend, but he just wagged his tail, licked himself and jumped into the car.

A few nights later, I was drinking a pint in a pub while picking up some tunes on my mandolin, and I started up with some more reflecting. Not only do I not have any friends, I realized, but also I don’t really hang out with anyone except old dudes. One look around the pub revealed that I was the only individual under 30, and of the musicians, the only one under 45. I looked up and saw one old guy who made an impression on me— he was dressed rather conservatively, and looked strangely out of place in the pub. He spoke little and mostly just sipped away at his drink and watched the musicians play. At the end of the night, a visiting American guy named Mark passed his guitar around so that all the musicians could sign it, a “unique souvenir,” he called it. All the musicians, myself included, signed it, and then Mark started to put it away. All of a sudden, the conservatively dressed man I had noticed earlier motioned for Mark to give him the guitar and the Sharpie, so that he too could write something. I was interested to see what gems of wisdom this wizened old Irishman would impart. Before he started writing, though, he furtively glanced around the pub, and then began violently sniffing at the Sharpie. He then giggled, and repeated this gesture several times. Once his tittering had subsided, he scrawled something on the guitar. When he handed it back to Mark, his signature of “KOWABUNGA!” was clearly the largest text on the instrument. It was at that point that I realized that I’m going to be okay. I might not have any friends, or anything that resembles a decent social life, but I do hang out with old dudes who take hits off Sharpies and have no problem writing nonsense on other people’s treasured possessions, which is almost as good.

I leave you with that. Much love, and stay well,

Auyon

7 Days in Tullamore

2008-04-30T14:12:00.001-07:00

The All-Ireland Fleadh (pronounced “flah”) is the biggest annual worldwide celebration of Irish music. This year, the festival was held in the town of Tullamore from August 20th through August 26th. The following is a day-by-day account of what went down.

Day 1: Banjo Camp

Today began, as most of my days in Ireland do, with a bowl of muesli, milk and a sliced banana. I then caught a bus in Port Laoise, and about an hour later, ended up in Tullamore. I found my way to the main fleadh office, where I saw a sign that said “Accomodations.” I was planning on going back and forth from Port Laoise every day, so I figured I may as well see if I could find anything cheap in Tullamore.

Me: Hi
Man: What can I do for you?
Me: I want a home.
Man: You aren’t in Schol Eigse, are you?
Me: I don’t think so. What’s that?
Man: It’s the week-long camp that’s going on this week. Anyway, we have a number of-
Me: Can I be?
Man: Can you be what?
Me: Can I be in the camp? Is it too late to sign up?
Man: Aren’t you a little old?
Me: No.

The accommodations man, a really nice guy named James, sent me across a few streets to a woman named Siobhan. Siobhan said I could join the camp, but they didn’t have mandolin, so I’d have to be in the tenor banjo class. Tenor banjos are actually tuned the same as mandolins and violins (GDAE) but are an octave lower. She said I had to be in class at 2 p.m. (there are 3 class sessions each day, but I had missed the first two), leaving me with a few hours to kill. I went over to café for lunch, during which it hit me that I was about to join a camp for kids who play banjos. I got really excited. When I was younger, I was forced to go to a classical music camp in Ottawa, KS. I didn’t really like classical music, so I really didn’t like Ottawa. This was different, though. This was Irish music camp, and I would get to hang out with kids who play banjos, and, I figured, since I was probably older than most everyone in the class, I would automatically be pretty cool. It was going to be a good week.

I walked into class at 2, and saw that my teacher, Shane, wasn’t much older than me. My fellow students, on the other hand, were a good 5-10 years younger than me. The class started with Shane showing us four to five bars of a tune. He would then ask one person to play the tune back. At this point, everyone in the class who wasn’t being asked to play would play as well, but usually other tunes. One kid kept on playing the dueling banjos theme from Deliverance. Another kid played the correct song, but would always capo it up a fret (meaning he would play it in a slightly different key), just to be an asshole. It was chaos. Shane would have to quiet the entire class every 5 minutes. There was a clique of kids in the back of the class that he would have to quiet more often than the rest of us. One of them, who had a shock of red hair and went by Steven, insisted that Shane was “racist against gingers,” to which Shane responded by relocating him to the front of the class, next to me.

Banjos are pretty loud instruments, so Shane could usually hear the kid he was listening to over the din. When it came to me, though, everyone had to shut up because mandolins are so soft. At this point I realized that I was not the cool older kid. I was the creep with the wrong instrument. Had I not been the only student who was more or less done with puberty, I have a feeling other kids might have picked on me. At the end of the class, Shane told me that tomorrow I might want to bump up a class because the other class might be quieter. I told him I’d give it a shot.

Afterwards, I went back to talk to James, my accommodations man. He told me that he didn’t have a place yet, but that I should come back the next day and check in. I headed back to Port Laoise on the 6 p.m. bus.

Day 2: Auyon finds a home, plays accordion

I once again took the bus into town, and decided to try the Banjo 3 class (I was in Banjo 2 the day before). The class had a few more adults, and did seem much quieter. Our teacher, Maeve, was a young woman who opened her eyes really wide whenever she said anything, like kindergarten teachers tend to do. It made me really uncomfortable. The class, as I said before, was definitely quieter, but strangely enough all of the tunes we were playing seemed really simple. At the end of the class, when Maeve started showing us the correct way to hold a banjo pick (everyone calls them “plectrums” here), I got suspicious. After the morning session, I told her that I think I should bump up to the next level, to which she responded “Oh that’s fine. Just head over to Shane’s class next door.” I returned to Shane’s class and stayed there for the rest of the week.

Between classes, I returned to the fleadh office to try and find housing. When I walked in, a kid named Garrett asked to see my mandolin, and he played a few tunes on it. We talked a bit, and I found that Garrett lived in town. James later called his parents, and I ended up staying with Garrett’s family, the Delaneys, for the week. Garrett was a friendly, outgoing 14 year-old, and he showed me around town later in the day. It was good to hang out with someone on a one-on-one basis again, and Garrett and I quickly found common ground when we discovered our shared passion for potty humor.

Garrett had an older sister named Eitne, who worked at a local doctor’s office, and an older brother named Steven, who was an accomplished Irish dancer and athlete. I would later end up being good friends with Steven. Garrett’s parents, Martina and Liam, were very kind to me, and for 40 euros a night, I was given room and board for the week. Liam also played just about every instrument, from accordion to banjo to guitar, and so they had all of the instruments lying around the house. I was immediately attracted to the accordion. Liam taught me the D-scale, and I soon played Happy Birthday and Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star. I was happy as a clam. I also fooled around on the banjo, which I can play reasonably well since it’s tuned the same as a mandolin. I’m buying one when I get back to the US.

Day 3: On Stage

After classes today, I went over to the fleadh office to buy a book of tunes. I was doing pretty well picking things up by ear in the pubs, but I didn’t have any tunes down by heart yet, so I figured I should build up a repertoire. I went up to a girl to ask her which book would be the best to buy, and she responded with a really strange Irish accent.

Me: So where are you from?
Girl: The US.
Me: Cool I’m from Kansas City
Her Irish twang disappeared at this point
Girl: Oh I’m with the St. Louis group. Do you want to perform with us at the youth concert tonight?
Me: I don’t know any Irish music.
Girl (thinking I’m exaggerating/being modest, because only a complete jerk-off would come to the fleadh without knowing any Irish music): Oh but you’ll know these.
Me: I don’t think you understand.
Girl: Can you fake?
Me: I used to play violin in a youth orchestra.
Girl: What?
Me: I’m incredible.
Girl: Cool I’ll see you tonight.
Me: Word.

She also asked me to spell my name, because she was announcing everyone who was playing. Later on that night, I met her at the hotel that the show was being held at. She told me that there would be around 50 kids playing, so it’d be easy to hide. She then gave me the names of all the jigs and reels that I would be “playing.” I told her that I knew none of them. She told me that when I heard them, I’d know them.

I walked into a large hall, filled with a pretty good-sized audience. This worried me a little, but at least I was performing with 50 other kids. Before the St. Louis group was scheduled, there was a group from New York. As they went on, I looked around at my Midwestern compatriots. I was definitely the oldest, but it looked like there were some kids who were close. Also, the girl who was organizing looked around 23 or 24, so at least I wouldn’t be the oldest on stage. As the NY group finished and we walked on stage, I had a string of realizations. First, the girl who was organizing, named Shannon, was not actually playing. She was just organizing. Second, darkness makes kids look older. As the stage lights illuminated their cherub-like faces, it dawned on me that I, once again, was surrounded by a collection of 10 to 15 year-olds, except this time we were on stage. I also had not shaved that morning, so my 5 o’clock shadow served to further accentuate the 8 ways I stood out from the rest of the kids on stage. Finally, I realized that when Shannon had said “50,” she actually said “15,” and the scant crowd on stage left me far too exposed. To really drive it home, when Shannon got on stage to announce our names she said “Introducing the St. Louis Youth Group, and Auyon Mukharji!” while pointing at me. I waved. Now they all knew my name.

As I sat down in the second row, I saw that there was a microphone pointed directly at my mandolin. I gingerly pointed it directly away from me, smiling as I explained to the blond 10 year-old next to me, “I don’t know any of this.” She nodded knowingly. When we started playing, my predictions were confirmed. I faked my way through a few tunes and then ran off the stage at the first sign of a break. I was congratulated by a number of adults on my performance that night and the next day. “It was nothing, really,” I assured them.

Day 4: Exotic Sandwiches

After classes today, I headed over to one of the local cafés, called Chocolate Brown’s. A sign that proclaimed “Organic Coffee, Fresh Juice & Exotic Sandwiches!” caught my attention. So I went in. I looked for the exotic sandwiches, but could only find sausage rolls and pizza baguettes. They didn’t seem particularly exotic, but I reasoned that, under the heading of “sandwiches,” pizza baguettes could be classified as exotic, since they aren’t really sandwiches at all. I then looked up and saw the drinks menu. I was initially going to go with my standard mocha, but then saw another item that read “Chai: Spiced Tea with Milk. A must try!” Below that, they had another item, called “Spiced Chai.” I was intrigued. A spiced drink of spiced tea and milk? I had to order it. I then sat down and started working on my journal. Soon, a waitress brought a tall, steaming, frothy cup to my table. I took a sip. It tasted like watered-down, hot eggnog. I normally like eggnog, but this was not the time or place. I considered approaching the ladies who served me and politely informing them that the spiced chai tasted an awful lot like Christmas, but I refrained. I ended up throwing most of it out and leaving, thirsty and disappointed. Later on that night, I went to a pub and jammed with some old dudes while getting tipsy on two pints of Guinness. All was well again.

Days 5-7: The Fleadh

The Fleadh really kicked off on Friday afternoon, with a huge parade of musicians and a giant stage set up in the main square. As with any public festival, the best part of the whole production was the collection of individuals who were inebriated before anything started, in this case, at 11 a.m. One of the individuals I saw was wearing a red winter hat, aviators, and a half of a pair of green short pants. His underwear (navy boxer-briefs) was plainly visible through the giant rip down the back of his pants. The gentleman in question was playing a game of “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” with a similarly dressed friend of his. They were spectacular. Later on, when there were a number of performers on stage playing music, both of these men, along with an assortment of their friends, played along with the band. They may not have known any of the tunes, but by they played their tin whistles and guitars with fervor. They also yelled and clapped their hands a lot. They would continue to yell and scream at appropriate and inappropriate intervals throughout the rest of the evening.

Even barring the guys at the festival, the fleadh was an incredible experience. There were more than a hundred thousand people in the town, and from Friday afternoon through early Monday morning, you couldn’t walk 15 or 20 feet without coming across a collection of musicians playing on the street, with crowds ebbing and flowing around them. On Saturday and Sunday, I got to see a number of world-class musicians compete for the All-Ireland title in their respective instruments. My favorite instrument is now the Irish Uilleann pipes (pronounced “illinpipes,”), which is the Irish version of the bagpipes. Rather than producing the air orally, the Uilleann pipers use a pump under their right arm to provide the air for the instrument.

I didn’t have too many more escapades during the fleadh, but due to some less-than-judicious management of my laundry, I ended up wearing the same clothes for four days. This in itself was not particularly exciting, but that fifth day, when I got to wear fresh underwear again, was something glorious.

Hope all is well back home, I’m missing you all.

Auyon

2008-04-30T14:10:00.001-07:00

Ain't no party like an Irish tea party

2008-04-30T14:10:00.000-07:00

In Ireland, there is traditionally no lunch. Breakfast is eaten in the morning, followed by dinner at noon or 1 p.m. After dinner, there is four o'clock tea, which consists of tea, scones, jam, butter, etc. I hadn't been exposed to the traditional meal schedule until my second week here, since I was living on my own and eating pasta at 11 a.m., 2 p.m., 6 p.m. and midnight every day (breakfast, lunch, dinner, drunk). The realization came in Athlone. I walked out of my room after a night of carousing, and Eimear told me that it was 11 a.m. and that we were supposed to be at some place an hour away for dinner, ''so we're late.'' Something didn't add up but I felt it wasn't my place to correct her mealtime assignments. I later learned that there is basically one large meal a day (dinner) and it's traditionally eaten at noon, but sometimes gets reassigned to later in the day for convenience. When I was staying in Port Laoise with Micheal and Patricia, this took some getting used to. I started out trying to eat a lot at noon, and then ate one or two scones at tea(s) later in the day (sometimes we would have tea 4 times after dinner). I have always thought of tea as a proper occasion, where one sips from a cup and eats delicately and behaves all gentlemanly-like. I soon discovered, though, that my hunger late at night was in no way proportional (inversely or otherwise) to the amount I ate earlier in the day. My solution has been to stuff myself at tea, consuming up to 6-8 scones, multiple biscuits and several cups of tea at each sitting. A decent person would feel like a pig, but I lost all sense of propriety at the ripe age of 17, and have found that since then the world has been a much simpler and more gratifying place. 5 points for reinforcing American stereotypes abroad

Tea is usually where most of our conversations take place. My American-ism is a never-ending source of amusement for Micheal and Patricia. They find it hilarious, for example, that we call jam ''jelly.'' Jelly in Ireland is gelatin.

Micheal: Auyon what kind of jam... oh I MEAN JELLY! HA! would you like with your toast?
Me (hatefully): Raspberry.

This happens on a daily basis. They also find the concept of peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches disgusting, which I found to be borderline child abuse. Last week there was a Danish couple who came over for dinner. They were a bit standoffish, but what really solidified my feelings towards them was when the lady started talking about combinations of foodstuffs.

Lady (with a thick Danish accent): Oh yes Americans eat some strange, weird things. Once, at a fancy dinner, I saw a girl take a banana and (dramatic pause) eat it with chocolate mousse!
Me: Yea that sounds delicious. In fact I could go for some of that right now.
Danish lady (scoffing): Well, I thought it was--
Me (aggressively): What? Amazing? Because it is.

That effectively ended the conversation, save a few condescending looks from the Danish couple afterwards. At the time, I thought of myself as being a staunch defender of one of my favorite flavor combinations, a culinary ambassador to foreign lands. In retrospect, I just came off as a boorish prick. 10 more points for the United States of George W.

My making of ass of myself has not been restricted to teatime, however. I was on a train back to Galway last week and was sitting across from a young Irish couple (late 20's). They noticed my miniature guitar and we started talking about music. They said that they were from around Galway, and I asked them about their favorite pubs, etc. They told me that although there's the drunken Irishmen stereotype, it's not all that true. Everyone, they asserted, drinks a lot. The conversation went from light-hearted to competitive very quickly.

Man: Those Eastern Europeans. They're fond of the bottle as well
Me: (nodding)
Man: You. Do you drink much?
Me: Only a little bit, not much.
Man: How much?
Woman: Yea, how much?
Me (not wanting to get competitive): Um.. not much.
Woman (getting pushy): How much? And of what?
Me: I like Guinness.
Man (giving me an approving look): Guinness. Good. How much Guinness?
Me: In one night? I don't know.. Probably like 3 or 4 pints. I'm a small guy.
Man and Woman look at each other and burst out laughing.
Me (getting defensive): What? What's so funny? How much do you drink?
Woman: He doesn't drink Guinness.
Man: I don't drink Guinness.
Woman: But he'll have maybe.. 14 or 15 pints on an average night.
Me: (shamed/emasculated)
Man (in a moment of self-realization): Maybe we do drink a lot.

I don't even actually drink 3-4 pints of Guinness in a night. I get full after 2. I just said 3-4 because I thought it sounded respectable. Clearly, I'm an idiot.

In spite of my inability to adequately assimilate into Irish culture on any front, I am having a good time. I think my favorite part of the day is reading the daily news. Galway is a pretty small city, so the average daily crime report is great. The typical article reads something like this:

August 25th, 2007.

Yesterday, a man from Kerry was found guilty on a charge of ''topless galavanting'' and public inebriation. Seamus O'Flannery was arrested at 4:00 AM on Sunday morning in Eyre Square, after reports of a man ''with no shirt, making a lot of noise.'' The defendant pleaded guilty. ''Yeap,'' recalls O'Flannery, ''I was pretty drunk.'' Mr. O'Flannery was assigned 40 hours of community service.

I envision the confessions of most of the defendants to be similar to the reaction one might elicit when telling a friend that, in a drunken stupor the previous night, he or she attempted to hook up with a houseplant after stripping naked and smearing mud all over their chest. ''Yea,'' the friend would have recalled, ''yea, I was pretty drunk.''

I like this city.

Much love, and I hope all is well with everyone back home,

Auyon

Day of Cleansing

2008-04-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I had an epiphany of sorts. For the past eight years of my life, my actions have been governed by responsibilities and appointments, which in turn have been dictated by my family, friends, school and sundry other authorities. This year, however, I am free of such influences, an entirely unencumbered existence save the few tasks assigned to me by the Watson Foundation. Such an immense shift in the shaping of my daily activities required that I make some serious choices. One option, I decided, was to use this year to test my own mettle, to dig deep and ask the hard questions, to make the year a check for my own discipline, to wake up early and seize the day, every day. I tried this for three days. By the third day, I came to a few conclusions. Firstly, I realized that I am far too impetuous of an individual to succumb to the drudgery of schedules. I live my life on the edge, a wild man, if you will. It's the sort of life that can't be inked out the night before in any great detail. For example, today I was supposed to go on a 5 mile run by the river. Instead, I went upstairs and took a 3 hour nap. That kind of impulsiveness cannot be contained. The second realization I arrived at was that my mettle and discipline had been tested time and time again. There are too many examples to count-- my stint (brief though it was, a stint nonetheless) as the number one player on Williams' Junior Varsity Squash team, and numerous other, far better examples which escape me at the moment-- that demonstrate that if I set my mind to something, I can and will achieve it.

Thus, I moved on to Plan B. This option is more of a philosophical study, inspired by the musings of John Locke, who, in his ''Treatises of Civil Government,'' endeavored to encapsulate the natural ''state of man.'' I have now taken it upon myself to determine my own personal ''natural state,'' to investigate my own actions and reactions in an environment free of accountabilities and social engagements, unfettered by questions of discipline and restraint. It’s been hard, attempting to give in to those wanton desires and primal urges which I had previously expended great energies to curb. In spite of all its difficulties, however, this exercise has taught me a great deal. I have learned, for example, that no matter what time an alarm is set for, if I have no responsibilities on a given day then I will sleep for a period of nine hours. I also no longer walk to other destinations. Instead, I amble, putter, dawdle or saunter, depending on my mood. You tend to walk differently when you have nowhere to go. I take time to watch interesting or strange-looking individuals, and continue to do so until they catch me peeping, at which point I smile at them. It is an entirely novel lifestyle, and one to which I am afraid I am growing quickly accustomed.

In all seriousness, it’s been really strange trying to adjust to the lack of, well, everything out here. I have a few things that I get done every day (learning Portuguese, yoga, writing in my journal, and running). Outside of those activities, and hitting up the pubs at night, I’ll strum the mandolin, listen to some of the Irish tunes I’ve accumulated, or read. The Irish jigs, reels and set dances are a lot of fun to play because they’re literally designed for the mandolin or fiddle- they are almost all in the keys of D or G, and since the instruments are tuned GDAE, they can be picked up in no time. They’re also all played in the first position (meaning the left hand doesn’t have to move up and down the fingerboard), so they’re easy on beginners. As far as reading is concerned, I just finished John B. Keane’s collection of humorous short stories, Owl Sandwiches, and have started Patrick McCabe’s The Butcher Boy. I figured if I’m in Ireland, I may as well kick it off with some Irish authors.

I also typically have one or two objectives to accomplish each day. These objectives could all theoretically be completed over the course of a single day, but then I would lack purpose for the rest of the week, so I decided to spread them out. On Tuesday, I cooked dinners. I say dinners because the food lasted me through Friday, and I still had to dump some of it out because I was leaving town. Those little bags hold a lot of pasta. On Wednesday, I got a library card. Thursday, though, was a big day. Thursday was Laundry Day. In college, doing laundry was a chore, an afterthought midway through an all-nighter, when I realized that I could turn my underwear inside-out no more. In Ireland, though, it’s an event. The physical washing of clothes is no different from in the U.S. It took me a few minutes to figure out the washer, but once I got things rolling I was set. Mostly because the door automatically locks once the cycle starts, so when I tried to open it afterwards, it wouldn’t let me. What makes laundry in Ireland special is the drying. I’ve only seen two houses here that have dryers. I don’t live in one of them. Instead, my house has a drying room, which smells like mildew because we keep wet clothes in it, and a clothesline outside. There are actually two clotheslines outside, but only one of them works. I didn’t know you could break a clothesline, but there’s actually an ingenious little pulley system behind them, which allows you to pin the clothes at a low level, and then hoist the line higher to display a glorious banner of underwear for all the neighbors to see. Someone broke that. Anyway, when I pulled my first load out of the washer, I had to make a decision. I opted for the clothesline, and started hanging my clothes up with little yellow clothespins. About halfway through the process, I realized I was enjoying myself. There was something freeing about being outside, hanging clothes up on a line and not really having a care in the world. Then the rains came. I started taking my clothes down. As soon as I got inside with my now-wetter clothes, the sun came out again. So I went back outside. I decided that from here on out, I would just leave my clothes up outside, because at least the rain doesn’t smell like mildew. I also decided that the neighbors must think I’m an idiot. When I got inside for the second time, I thought about heading into town. I have to visit the police station (police are known as Garda in Ireland) in order to get a visa extension. I then realized that I couldn’t go to town, because every pair of pants I owned were currently being rained on outside. I suppose I had my cotton Fab-India (that’s really the name of the company, not just something I like to call them) pants, but people in Ireland dress nicely. I wasn’t about to be caught waltzing around town in my pajamas. I’m already one of 6 minorities in the entire west of Ireland, so I have no reason to try to stick out further. Anyway, I decided to wait it out, but couldn’t help envisioning conversations with Nora later that night.

Nora: So what did you do today?
Me: I learned how to say ‘’The man is wearing the suit of the bathing,’’ in Portuguese.
Nora: Did you go to town?
Me: Couldn’t. No pants.

The pants dried eventually, but I never actually made it down to the police station. I’m sure I’ll head down one of these days, but I’m trying not to stress out about it.

I hope all is well, and much love to everyone,

Auyon

Bullshit competitions, matchsticks and Jack the autistic dog

2008-04-30T13:56:00.000-07:00

I have finally settled into my place in Galway. I have two housemates-- Nora, a lady who works in car insurance, and to whom I pay rent, and Ronan, a young guy who's working as an electrician. Both have been really helpful in helping me get adjusted. I'm about a 15 minute walk from town, and am separated by a number of cheap German grocery stores where I do my shopping, a McDonalds and a massive Dunnes store, which carries everything. My day typically starts out with my alarm going off at around 8:30. I wake up and turn the alarm off, which then goes off again at 8:40. This cycle typically repeats until just before 10. When at long last I wake up, I eat some yogurt, do some yoga, and then eat breakfast, which consists of muesli and a sliced banana with low-fat milk. They didn't sell skim at the German stores. During breakfast I usually read a trashy Irish magazine about supermodels and the like. I say ''a magazine'' not to denote different issues of the same publication, but instead a single issue of a single publication, because that is what is there. I also usually boil some water, because the water here has been contaminated for the past few weeks, so you either have to buy bottled water or boil it yourself. At this point I will once again retire to my boudoir and start a new Portuguese lesson. I am now on lesson 8. I can count to ten, say many different colors, and can say such simple yet useful phrases as ''Men are jumping,'' and ''No, the horse is not drinking the juice of oranges.'' After the lesson, I go on a run or do some other exercises, shower, and then eat lunch. Lunch is often the same dish as was eaten for dinner the previous night, which, coincidentally, is also what is served later that day for the following dinner. After lunch, I'll wallow around the house for half an hour and then head to town. The city itself is great. I've found a public library, which will be the source of the majority of my entertainment here. The neighboring rocky beach, in a town called Salthill, is my favorite place to strum the mandolin or fall asleep pondering my existence. I've been having a great time strolling around and exploring Galway as well, which has been pleasant because of its manageable size. There are a number of music stores, bookstores, internet cafes and Turkish restaurants, such as the Saucy Sultan, so there's always something to do.

The majority of my exposure to Irish music has come from the pubs in Galway. Twice a day, usually at 5:30 and 9:30, most of the pubs will have traditional Irish musicians come in and play sessions, which last an hour to an hour and a half. These musicians are paid, but they play around a table rather than up on a stage, and others are welcome to join. Although the musicians who join in are not paid, they are offered free drinks from the bar. These drinks are offered independent of the quality of music played by said joining musicians. For simplicity's sake, let us refer to these newcomers as ''Auyon.'' The gist of the matter is that some such Auyon may come into a bar with no knowledge of Irish music, plunk down with his mandolin and get not only a free lesson, but also (ostensibly) limitless free pints of Guinness. Twice a day, every day. Ireland is a beautiful country. Between the two sessions, I usually trudge back home and fix up dinner, and then head back. I carry my backpack everywhere because it rains multiple times a day, and the dinky umbrella I brought went inside-out 4 times when I tried using it, so now I just carry a pack with a stylish raincoat and rainpants with me.

Thus you have a typical day in Galway. This past weekend, though, brought about my first foray outside of the city. I first took a bus to Athlone, which is essentially the Kansas City of Ireland, being in the dead center of the country, to visit Eimear Heeney and her fiance Seamie. The connection here is that my father works with Eimear's uncle in Kansas City, and so I was able to talk to her a bit before I had left the US. My time in Athlone was absolutely incredible-- Eimear and Seamie took me out and introduced me to friends and family, and we even made a day trip to Kinvara for a boat festival (read: drinking). Kinvara is where Eimear's other uncle's family lives, and is on the west coast of Ireland, not too far from Galway. The following day, I headed down to the home of Patricia and Micheal in Port Laoise (pronounced Port Leash), where I have spent the past few days. Patricia and Micheal are Eimear's uncle and aunt as well. Just as Eimear and Seamie did, they have taken me in as though I were family and have shown me around the town and helped me find a pub or two in which to play. Today, I spent a great deal of time with their good friend, Roisin, who lives in a nearby town called Timahoe. Roisin took me to her home in Timahoe and gave me a lot of Irish music. While I was there, I met her four dogs. Their names are Mikey, Bailey, Quilty and Jack. While we were driving over, we had a short conversation about the dogs.

Roisin: So I think Jack is autistic.
Me: I've never heard of an autistic dog.
Roisin: He's never been quite right since the day he was born.
Me: Why's that?
Roisin: Well, for one, he never looks me in the eye. He also gets so excited that he runs into things a lot. Like cupboards and such. Usually the same cupboard.
Me: What else?
Roisin: Well you know how canines establish a pack order? Like wolves? Well, it's the same with my dogs. The problem is that Jack doesn't know his place in the pack. He kind of moves up and down. It's not supposed to be a secret. The other dogs have just learned to put up with it.

I had never heard of a socially awkward dog. By this point, I was pretty excited about meeting Jack. When I got out of the car, I found that three dogs immediately started sniffing me and jumping up to be petted. The fourth dog had a scruffy face, never met my gaze, and generally ignored my presence until I petted him. When I started petting him, I noticed that his tail started wagging, but not like anything I'd seen before. It was really slow, like a horizontal pendulum, as though it was something he had to think really hard about. He was also very easily distracted, and Roisin informed me that he often growls at the other dogs for no apparent reason. He doesn't go on walks either, since anytime something comes down the road, he sits and waits until it passes. I decided I really like Jack.

On the way back from Roisin's place, we passed a field.

Roisin: You see that field there?
Me: Yeap.
Roisin: We're going to have a bullshit competition.
Me: Sorry?
Roisin: A bullshit competition. You split up a field into square yards. People can buy a square for something like 10 euros. Then you put a bull in the field. If the bull shits in your square first, you win the prize.

I thought that this was the best idea I had ever heard. I was trying to come up with something similar I could do in Kansas, since I might have some trouble finding a bull. My favorite solution was going to something like a soccer field, and having all the participants in the bleachers. Then I'd send Aroop into the field, and we'd all watch until he did his thing. Everybody wins, because everyone likes Aroop, and Aroop likes that sort of thing.

Finally, I have a bit to share from a book that I was reading earlier. Patricia had lent me a book about Irish cooking, which has a brief culinary history of Ireland as well as a rundown of the major festivals. One of the festivals discussed was Halloween. On Halloween (Samhain, in Gaelic), they hide a lot of stuff in traditional dishes, like boxty pancakes, pudding, etc. I remember in French class in middle school, we used to eat a cake with an almond in it, and whoever got the almond was king or queen for the day. The Irish are much cooler. They hide stuff that's both good and bad. The key is as follows:

ring = marriage before the following spring
dried pea = spinsterhood
bean = riches
rag = poverty
matchstick = your husband will beat you

Upon reading this passage, I was left with two questions. The first is how do you hide a rag in a pancake? No one is going to pick the pancake that smells like Scrubbin' Bubbles and has seams. The second question is what would you tell a girl who finds both the ring and the matchstick? ''You're going to be getting married honey, but it's gonna be a doozy!''

I leave you with that.

Much love,

Auyon

Luck of the Irish

2008-04-30T13:55:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, on Thursday I believe, I was walking down Shop Street (the aptly named main shopping avenue) when I felt a gooey splat on my shoulder. I investigated, only to realize that a bird had dropped its goodness all over me. I immediately ducked into a pub and removed my shirt and jacket and began washing them vigorously. When a few Irish guys entered the bathroom, I felt compelled to explain to them why I was half naked and doing laundry in their bathroom sink. Upon explanation, one of the men exclaimed "A bird shat on you! Oi! Johnny, look at this, a bird shat on him!" He then turned to me and said, quite excitedly, "In Ireland, that's good luck!" I politely explained to him that in America, it's actually bad luck when anything defecates on you. "Thank god we're not in America then," he responded. As he left, he shot me a smile and instructed me to "Rock on."

When I emerged from the pub, I met Lissy on the street and we continued on our way as I told her about my forthcoming good fortune. We both agreed that I needed all the luck I could garner, since I was at the very beginning of my search for housing for the next four months. I ended up looking at 3 places that day, none of which ended up working out. The problem was that I am staying for a strange amount of time-- most places rent for short-term (1-2 weeks) or long term (6 months to a year), and four months falls awkwardly in the middle. Over the course of the next three days, I spent hours walking around to potential flats and houses, and pored over classifieds and ads online every night. I was starting to get worried, because Lissy leaves on Tuesday the 7th, and if I didn't get a place by then, I would be homeless. I also wondered where all that good luck had gone. It turns out that one bird was not enough.

Yesterday, I went out once again in search of a room. I found a great place about a 15 minute walk from the city, and even closer to the cheap grocery stores. It's in a neighborhood called "Sandyvale Lawns," and the other two people in the house were Nora, a middle aged woman, and an electrician who was in Holland at the time. The room was relatively big (a little bigger than a freshman single in the frosh quad) and the house was neatly kept. Nora even seemed sympathetic to my plight, and said she would speak to the owner to let me stay for just four months. I then walked back to the city to grab some lunch, and began eating under a tree. Only a few bites into my sandwich, destiny struck again, this time on my other shoulder and very close to my sandwich. I say "very close to my sandwich", but my sandwich had melted brie, which looks an awful lot like bird goodness, so that little bastard had more than likely nailed my sandwich as well. I was hungry, so I continued eating. I did not, however, possess the foresight to move from under the tree, resulting in another direct bomb on my leg, which exploded with a sickening "plop." At this point I was pretty frustrated. I was homeless and covered in bird poo. I finished my meal and then washed myself off in the bathroom (a different bathroom), and went on my way. As I walked home, though, I realized that I must be doubly lucky, now that two birds had shat on me in one day. In fact, the possibility that the first bird had actually unloaded into my sandwich, which I then ingested, made me virtually unstoppable. As fate would have it, I ended up getting the place with Nora and the electrician, which was confirmed via a phone call later that day. I move in on Tuesday, and will put my address up once I move in.

In other news, I'm really loving Galway. There's a little town called Salthill that's a 10 minute walk from the city, and the beach there is my favorite spot here. It's constantly raining, so I have to lug a backpack with raingear around all the time, but it's not all bad. The city itself is fantastic, and very lively. I've hit up a few pubs (the Guinness is creamy and delicious) and have made a couple friends, but now that I have a place I'll be able to get more serious about the music scene here. I'll post pictures soon.

Much love to everyone,

Auyon

The First Single (Post)

2008-04-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

Dearest everyone,

Today is Sunday, July 29th, two days before I depart for my Watson around the world. It's just starting to hit me that I'm leaving the country for a year, and my baby brother put it beautifully when he informed me “ I just looked at the date and realized that you’re leaving soon. My tummy started feeling funny."

My first stop will be Galway, Ireland. I was originally going to be in Dublin, but then realized that Galway is not only a more traditional Irish town than the cosmopolitan capital, but it is also cheaper. I was planning on living on bread crumbs and pigeons that I club with my mandolin, but now perhaps I can buy sparkling water as well.

When I reach Galway, I'll spend my first few days staying with a friend from Williams, Lissy Robie, who has been studying fiddling in Galway for the past summer. I will then find a room. I haven't thought too much further into the future, but I'm sure inspiration will strike as soon as it is necessary.

I'm now going to go pack the rest of my goodness and will update you all when I touch down in Galway.

Mad love,

Auyon