1. I’m incredibly stressed and busy, or
2. I can’t possibly keep my mouth shut about a new potential opportunity.

This time it may be a bit of both.  I’m graduating in May, which brings with it a job hunt and certain anxieties about friends moving away, finding a place to live, and paying off bills.  Granted, I’ve been rather laid back about the whole thing, but that doesn’t make it go away and that doesn’t make people stop asking me about it.

On the bright side, I’ve been having beautiful, magical transportive dreams of crumbling colonial facades, cramped, sticky rooms bursting with tambores, and of course, that living creature that is the malecón.

See you in May, mi habana!

Scuba diving group in Halkidiki, Greece

When our Athens trip was cancelled (at the last minute, without warning or consultation), we were all disappointed.  Some students immediately booked flights to Rome for the weekend, while others had to stop drinking and start doing homework.

This could be me. Or not. It's surprisingly difficult to recognize my own face WITHOUT glasses and WITH many pounds of obscuring equipment.

On Saturday we went to a boutique downtown, but it wasn’t really our speed.  So after a massive, delicious lunch, Em, Rox and I shopped in the open-air markets.  I bought a few scarves, and got to wander through a meat and fish market.  While definitely smelly, it was cool to see such a pedestrian part of Greek life that is so different from my own back home.

On Sunday we went scuba diving. I’ve never been before and absolutely loved it.  I had a brief moment of thinking I really needed to breathe, but then I remembered I was wearing several pounds of oxygen on my back.  The next day my jaw was killing me from clenching the mouthpiece, but I can’t wait to go again someday.

Sunday evening I topped off my day with a soccer game between PAOK and Aris, the two teams of Thessaloniki.  I had been warned that games can get violent, and that this particular one would be intense because of their rivalry.  But it was also the last game in Thess while I’m here, so I’m glad I was pushed to go in spite of my fatigue.  I went with Vinny, one of our students, although there were others there as well.  Everyone was in Aris black and yellow, and we were careful not to wear any PAOK paranalia.

We scalped some tickets and found our way inside.  Luckily, we strolled right into section 3, the craziest, most intense part of the entire stadium.  No one was wearing anything other than Aris colors.  It became immediately clear that we would NOT be finding any other NUin folks in this crowd.  People climbed fences and parking structures, everyone was singing and I saw road flares sticking out of pockets everywhere.  This was also the first time I felt like we were in Eastern Europe.  Either that or the early British punk scene.  Mullets, shaved heads and mohawks were everywhere, as well as military boots, acid-washed jeans and 1990s style sweatpants with the cuffs around the ankles.

To see a video of the madness that was the game, click here–it’ll take you to my tumblr.  There was no real violence, just a lot of shoving when Aris scored a goal.  No one seemed overly concerned that the flags or smoke were blocking their view of the game. And I have never heard such sustained, constant support.  From the songs that went on repeat for twenty minutes at a time to the screams, chants and constant use of the curse word “malaka” the place only approached quiet during the one PAOK goal to tie the game.  The smoke from fireworks, road flares and marijuana did a number on my throat, but I don’t think I’ve had a better weekend yet in Thessaloniki.

Vous Sortez du Secteur Americaine

As soon as we neared the area of Checkpoint Charlie it was clear: every cafe, restaurant and shops

"Guards" at Checkpoint Charlie

claimed to be official or to have some connection to the checkpoint or the wall.  T-shirts, old Soviet hats and the ever-ubiquitous Che paraphernalia lines the sidewalks.

On one side of Checkpoint Charlie there are two soldiers holding American flags in front of sandbags piled high and topped with the hats of military uniforms.  I assumed it was a nice memorial to those who had died or served there.  However, on closer inspection, I noticed their decidedly German accents, the costume-like flair to their uniforms, and the sign asking for 2euro to take a photo with them.  Across the street was a man in an old MP uniform selling visa stamps to the old German Democratic Republic, among others.  At one point he crossed the street and put a bunch of the money in the pocket of one of the “soldiers.”  I’m not sure what the back-story was behind them, but it certainly seemed sketchy.

"Visas"

At other places throughout the city, including the East Side Gallery, there were ads for similar visas and for pictures of tourists wearing the hats of current and former militaries.

I did participate in some of the commercialization, by purchasing a few souvenirs for family and a Solidarnosc shirt for myself, but I would like to think that since I bought directly from the museum I was supporting their work. I did love the museum, and for my full post click here.

Inside the Checkpoint Charlie/Berlin Wall Museum there were chunks, allegedly of the infamous Wall, for sale.  Everywhere in the city a person can buy a small chunk for 5euro or more, depending on the size.  Possessing a piece that was genuinely carved out in the joy of popular uprising seems to me to be a legitimate keepsake.  Something done in a moment of passion, excitement and freedom, instead of later by a vulture looking to make a quick buck.

Shirts, mugs and pieces of the "wall" for sale

And besides, a person can’t own history, even if they own an important object from it.  The awe and adrenaline of the fall of the wall and the collapse of the Iron Curtain are mine to keep forever, even though I was just a baby a world away when it happened.  I’m lucky that I had a teacher like Dr. Ryan who made the hardships and oppression of the SED and other authoritarian regimes come alive, so that during the class when he told of it all ending we could be a part of that happiness.

So I turned up my music, pulled my scarf over my head and wandered back toward Alexanderplats Station.  Josh Ritter‘s latest album took me out of the cold, and kept me from hearing the solicitors on the street.  “Lantern” led me home and re-lit the streets so faces looked warm, the wind seemed gentle, and every minute in Berlin became precious again.

If there’s a Book of Jubilations we’ll have to write it for ourselves.”

It’s amazing the things that we see when we’re not staring at the ground, muttering angrily as we curl our bodies in against the cold.  I saw 15 year olds having a water fight, even though it was near freezing out.  I passed by the Dunkin Donuts that had given me so much joy earlier.

There are so many things to be happy about on a cold night alone in Berlin.  I was, after all, alone by choice.  That meant I was conquering all the million little fears that come along with traveling fully alone.  I may have picked up and gone to Cairo in a sudden, solitary fashion, but once I got their I was surrounded by love.  I had conquered the German metro, for the most part, even though I don’t speak a lick of German. My accommodations turned out well, even though I totally left that to the last minute.  I was able to catch up on sleep, and there was even good internet!  And every time I logged on, students were emailing or facebooking or chatting and saying they missed me.  Coworkers were leaving me messages, and the thought of returning to Salonica actually felt comforting and like home.  And in a few days, I would be greeted by hugs and the standard, “Hey, where the hell have you been?” from   floor boys I live with and watch over.

And then there’s the part where I was in Germany, a country most of the world, most of my world, will never see.  I got to see everything I wanted, without anyone giving me crap for taking a million pictures or wanting to spend three hours in a museum or not wanting to get hammered and make out with a stranger.  I even had my classes picked for next semester, and would graduate soon.  And at that moment in time, that was still a happy thought.  Which reminded me: I would be home in a week, with my own bed and a shower head that doesn’t require holding.

So I remembered my full meal, and the absurd “American” restaurant I had just left, and the great new tote bag I bought myself, and all the Christmas shopping I had got done, and wandered through yet another Christmas Village.  As “Long Shadows” picked up, I danced my way home, taking in my last moments of Germany with a soundtrack that is oh-so-preferable over whipping wind and stressed out shoppers.

Over our fall break, my friend Kathy selflessly took on my duty shifts so I could go away for a few days.  I spent a glorious time sneaking off to Cairo and getting reacquainted with one of my favorite cities in the world.  Of course, when I say I “snuck off” I mean all my coworkers and students knew where I was and friends at home and in Cairo knew of my whereabouts. What I was really sneaking away from was the stress of NUin and the worries of everyone related to me, all of whom were in the dark until I was safely in a cafe in Cairo.

Getting ready for the Embassy Halloween Party

As soon as I was in the cab I felt a relaxed sense of calm, even though the ride was long and jerky.  I knew he was scamming me and complementing my feeble Arabic for a tip, but it still felt nice to flex those muscles.  I had spoken in Arabic on the plane but the Greek flights attendants looked at me like I was crazy until I addressed them in their own language or mine.  The entire trip was marked by an unloosening of the spine, and unclenching of the fingers and toes, a relaxation of my mind.  I didn’t look over my shoulder for students or staff, I didn’t have to think before every word I spoke and every feeling I experienced.  I didn’t pause before hugging or dancing or kissing.  I slept when I wanted to, drank when I wanted to, and dressed how I wanted to.

I loved seeing the overwhelming pride in all things Egypt.  Trees that had once been naked or painted white were painted for the flag.  Most public surfaces were covered in graffiti calling for freedom, celebrating the people, and calling for religious tolerance with the symbol of the cross and crescent.

An abandoned palace in Cairo.

Something that was missing this time was the firearms.  In 2009, men in white uniforms (or black, depending on their purpose) were on every single street corner in Zamalek, in 2s or 3s.  There’s a slow, eroding unnerving that happens to a person when they see so many men with guns as part of their everyday landscape.  It was nice to see Cairo unmarred by so many guns.  But make no mistake, word on the street is that for the first time, regular Cairenes are starting to carry guns to protect themselves.  And the lack of law enforcement on the street corners doesn’t mean that there are no soldiers or that they aren’t dangerous—we saw them marching in formation toward the US Embassy, and their handiwork is all over Tahrir in the form of injured, abused and sexually assaulted citizens. The whole trip was beautiful and made me feel simultaneously light and so much more like myself.  Something about Sarah and Cairo makes me feel like my course has been righted, like I’m not wasting my time, like I’m home.  When it comes down to it, Sarah is one of the people who is home for me, and everyone in her life opened themselves up to make me feel home with them, too.  I can’t express how thankful I am that I was able to have conversations about politics and play with kittens and drink wine and eat reese’s pieces and snuggle in a giant bed with four other people.  Cairo was like one long exhalation, like one big hug you’ve been waiting so long to have.

Last night, I read the moving open letter from Nathan Brown, a member of the UC Davis faculty to  Chancellor Linda Katehi, calling for her resignation.  The chancellor called in cops to break up peaceful protesters, and the cops came wearing full riot gear and beat the defenseless protestors with batons.  A week later, students and faculty came together to protest this brutality, and again the chancellor called in those same cops.

A few images stick out in my mind from the videos I’ve been watching, and one of them even made me cry.  A professor holds out her wrists for a zip-tie arrest, and instead a cop grabs her by the hair and drags her to the ground.  After, a young woman hides in the bushes and every cop who passes her jabs her at least once with a baton, but several due it more than that.  When a young man tries to stop them, he is put in a headlock, and goes limp, but is then hit repeatedly with a baton.  While he is incapacitated.

One of the more disturbing clips is of a cop intentionally pepper spraying students who are sitting crouched on the ground, their arms linked and faces blocked.  He even does it with a flourish, presumably for the crowd of students watching.  They have no weapons, they aren’t even standing up or in any way in an offensive position.  They are just sitting there, and they take it.  The cops use this moment of physical pain to try to drag students apart by their clothing and limbs.  When they do separate them, the cops lean on them with what appears to be their full weight, knees in their back and yelling at them to get on their stomachs, even when they already are.  One cop even l;laughs and smiles as students are lead away. If a person has no weapons, is on their stomach and can’t use their arms or legs, what danger do they present?

Later in that same video, cops slowly back away from protestors.  They are in full-on riot gear, with their pellet guns drawn (which, as we all know, are horribly named and can in fact be deadly).  How can they possibly think that they are the ones in danger here?  They are wearing thousands of dollars in protective gear, armed with weapon, some of which they have already used (pepper spray and batons).  Their opponents are shouting, “You can go,” and, “We will give you your moment of peace, we will not follow you.”  Their opponents are armed only with their voices and their cell phones, cameras and ipads, trying to capture this for the world.

I dislike the way crowd control weapons have been named.  And yes, they are weapons.  The LRAD has been more aptly referred to as a sound cannon, for the way its frequencies are aimed at crowds they then debilitate.  A pellet gun sounds like a fun toy you could perhaps buy at a dollar store, not the object that killed a college student in Boston in 2004.  Pepper spray sounds innocuous and fun, and we see it as a joke so often in movies and television that it seems like a mild inconvenience and an entertaining story afterwards.

I don’t want to live in a country where we must fear the people who enforce our laws.  I want law enforcement professionals to live in fear of breaking the laws that define their roles and existence.  Aren’t we supposed to be better than countries like Egypt?  Isn’t that what we keep telling ourselves all through our economic crisis, and as we sing that we’re proud to be American, where at least we know we’re free?

In the final video, at least seven cops can be seen hitting students repeatedly with batons.  The students are unarmed and have their arms linked together.  The students are peacefully protesting on their own campus.  The Berkeley cops keep hitting them, and even after they stop, two in the corner of the video keep beating the same woman who was stuck in the bushes before.

I don’t care what the students were protesting.  I don’t care what they said to the cops.  I don’t even really care what their orders were, or what you think about politics in general or the Occupy movement.  Patriotism means being proud of your country, and making sure your country stays a place you can be proud of.  Our tax dollars pay for police brutality, while students, union members, academics and parents are subject to this kind of behavior we look down upon around the world.  I’m not proud right now, are you?

Ever wonder how everyone has face paint on for the news?

Sarah got the call to cover a march to the Maspero Building, where 27 people were killed and about 300 were injured just a week and a half ago, I was excited.  We started at Tahrir Square, somewhere I went a lot back in 2009, and a place that became the epicenter of the Egyptian Revolution.  I photographed some demonstrators and signs, and Sarah conducted a few brief interviews. She annotated the entire thing for me. translating a speech here, or pointing out the photo of a martyred blogger there.

We came upon a Salafist demonstration.  I was surprised by how many families I saw, and the carnival-esque atmosphere.  People were selling food and painting faces.  I was embarrassed to admit it, and maybe it was just all the years of training from Western media, but when I saw so many people jumping up and down chanting “Allah u Akhbar” it made me nervous.  And the more Sarah told me about the Salafists, the more comfortable I became with that reaction.

At Sarah’s direction, we (Sarah, myself and her brand new intern Hayden) walked toward the Maspero building.  What was happening at Tahrir was interesting for me to see, but was not newsworthy.  Sheff says there are protests and demonstrations every friday, and that they’re overusing Tahrir.  It took a lot of waiting for Maspero to heat up, but it did.  Music, chanting, and watchful law enforcement.  In Sarah’s attempts to get interviews, we suddenly found ourselves between the Egyptian version of swat (2-3 large vans) and the protestors.  It’s weird the way a crowd takes on a life of it’s own, and moves in fits and starts.  I was glad our position made Sarah nervous, because it made me nervous too.  She was very protective the entire day, holding my hand in crowds and shepherding me around.  I kept getting lost in my lens and not noticing the crowd movements around me.

Joey and Manarcalled and we decided to meet up for dinner, somewhere downtown.  Joey reported through

At the Maspero Building

the Lebanese civil war in 2006, and had war reporter training in DC.  He started Bikya Masr, which makes him Sarah’s boss.  Manar is an Egyptian and also writes for Bikya.  She reminds both Sarah and I of our beloved Alex Chapman, with their calming demeanor and purposeful nature.  We waited in Tahrir for them, and I snapped a few more pictures.  Suddenly Sarah yelled, “do you have your camera?” and we were all running, but only a short distance.  I didn’t even know what I was getting; I just kept clicking the shutter.  An ambulance went past, and apparently the coffin of Essam Atta, but I didn’t see it.  By the time we met up with Joey and Manar, Joey had texted again because he heard someone was shot.  Sarah and Hayden asked around but everyone just kept explaining how Atta died (he was tortured to death by the Egyptian military using water hoses.)

Back at Tahrir, Essam Atta's coffin passes by for the first time.

After that everything went quickly, but with big lulls in between.  At some point I came to know that someone had been killed, but not right in Tahrir.  He had argued with a cop, and the cop had just shot him. He was 19.  The coffin came back around and with it came crowds and chanting.  We were at high ground, on the edge of the grass in the middle of the square (which is really a circle), but we were still surrounded on all sides by over a thousand people.  After going around the square with the coffin again, the crowd headed off, but no one understood their aim.  We eventually set off on foot, and realized they were going toward the American Embassy.  Just the night before I had been to the Halloween party there, drinking Western alcohol and watching adults make fools of themselves.  As we followed behind, Joey kept checking to make sure we had escape routes, and were at a safe distance.

We were crossing another, smaller square when we heard gunfire.

I think it was just one shot, but I read after that there were multiple.  My heart went double-time and I moved away while looking in the direction of the noise, without thinking.  All five of us were, although Joey and Manar seemed entirely in control of the situation.  The weirdest thing is that we were the only ones doing this.  When we realized we were far from the gunfire, it had ceased, and no one was moving toward us, we stopped to watch Egyptians run toward the sound of a gun at top speed.  I think it takes a lot for a person to run toward the sound of a gun at top speed.  I have a feeling they know by now that if they don’t go investigate something for themselves, they will likely be lied to about what happened.

It turns out the Egyptian military shot into the air, probably blanks.  We got closer, and watched protestors try

Atta's coffin

to climb over the barricades to get onto the street where the US Embassy resides.  Did I mention we oddly ran into several members of the Egyptian army the evening before, marching in formation down the (closed-off, barricaded) street of the US Embassy?  Strange days.

I was thoroughly nervous and uncomfortable at this point, which is when Sarah started telling me Joey’s credentials and asking if I was alright.  Manar spoke a lot with an older woman, and filled us in on what was going on.  Apparently, this portion of the demonstration was in solidarity with Occupy Oakland, which is in solidarity with Occupy Wall Street.  For those who don’t know, the police in Oakland took violent action against protesters a few days before this, arresting some and using batons and tear gas to break up the peaceful camp.  Joey seemed to also be a bottomless pit of knowledge.  He shared such gems as, “don’t rub your eyes if there’s teargas; use coke,” and, “it was just like this with Maspero, but then out of nowhere the army killed a couple dozen people.”  Smart guy, but not the best for quieting nerves.

Onlookers from an office building as we followed the crowd toward the US Embassy

Eventually it became clear that nothing more would happen that night.  We went to an internet cafe so the reporters could upload and post.  I felt all jangled, and jumped about a mile when the men behind me cheered the soccer game on tv.  I couldn’t believe that just a few streets over, children were laughing and playing with toys.  Someone had been shot, a 19 year old was killed, and Cairo didn’t even blink an eye.

Manar went back to listen to Atta’s mother speak, but we couldn’t find her.  We went to find where the man (boy, really) had been shot, but we deemed it a long walk for no pay out.  Just before we turned around, though, we saw young men running as fast as they could back toward the square, dragging the metal barricades with them.  They opened up the square to cars, making the hundreds of people gathered there vulnerable.  We were all a bit stunned by that move, and kept looking back over our shoulders, waiting for screams or scattering.

In the end, we went home, feet aching.  I was keyed up, but for Sarah, Joey and Manar it was another day at the office.  For Hayden, it was the first of what will be many days at a rather unusual office.  The three journalists went to work spreading truth, and I drank tea and checked facebook.  Later, we put on Halloween costumes and drank beer and partied by the pyramids like nothing ever happened.  I updated my status, like that was the most important thing I could do with what I saw–turn it into and experience on a list, a fun fact, bragging rights.

It was strange being with journalists.  They were much more calm and controlled than I was.  They didn’t raise their voices or pick up signs, and they didn’t allow anyone to paint flags on them.  I was with Sarah, so out of respect for her I followed suit.  To some extent, I had this weird thought that my camera would protect me, that being a journalist would protect me.  I know that’s not true, but it felt like a pretty good get out of jail free card, the way my little blue book used to make me feel.  I also know that I’m not a journalist, not even close.  I put myself at the center of every story.  I apply motivation when I don’t necessarily know it to be true.  I am not in any truly dangerous situations.  I don’t write on any kind of deadline, and these days I don’t write at all.  I don’t even particularly write about anything that matters.  Watching Sarah work made me feel small and incompetent. She compartmentalizes her thoughts and opinions, she is thorough and efficient.  Her Arabic has improved greatly, and the articles she writes get the facts out to a population of Americans who would otherwise not read the truth.

Through it all, I saw so many little acts of civic duty.  People directed traffic, or helped us and others to cross the street.  They protected each other, like the man who stood in front of an open man-hole so no one would fall in.  That’s what he did, he just stood there while we all rushed past, nervous and following the growing, quickening crowd.  Any one of us could have easily fallen in and snapped an ankle at the very least.  People helped each other up onto structures and walls for better vantage points, and so many Egyptians beckoned for me to take their photos.

I’m glad I went to Tahrir.  I’m glad it all became real to me, instead of a liberal pet project, one that is so easy to support from a safe room thousands of miles away.  Feeling the terror of just the noise of one single gunshot, and then feeling the insignificance of that compared to those who have witnessed murder in the street, those who have heard hundreds of gunshots with live ammunition, those who were at the Maspero building and those who suffer in the prisons.  It’s so easy to say that there are things worth dying for, that we should stand up for democracy and freedom no matter what.  But to see a minuscule fraction of what “no matter what,” can really mean magnified for me the true courage of Egyptians and freedom fighters all over the world.

Jennifer and Octomom goofing around pre-climb

Before we ever put on hiking boots, we had heard the worst.  “If your students have asthma, or weight problems, or smoke, or aren’t fit, or complain, or have ever had injuries, they should just stay home.”  Uh, what?  If you even have a cold, stay home.  In the pre-trip meeting, students were asked to raise their hands in front of the group if they have any health problems, something that would never be asked of them in America.  Even after all this scaring, we were then told that children make the climb in flip-flops.

My dad started out pretty rough and rushed, since there was an incident the night before and I found out just before leaving that I needed to write up and turn in an incident report.  That meant no time to by tall socks, which meant I didn’t wear my hiking boots.  Despite that, my flat feet did alright, and didn’t ache until Day 2.  I didn’t even have sore joints on the hike down.  I didn’t eat breakfast that morning, either, and we couldn’t eat lunch until we arrived at the lodge, some time around 5pm.

Group shot at our starting point.

The “fast time” for Day 1 (the Easy, Everbody-Can-Do-This Day) was 4 hours.  We didn’t even climb the first third of Day 1 before I was wheezing and couldn’t catch my breath.  I felt like my throat was closing, but mostly I felt like an idiot.  I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to make ti to the first lodge, that I would slow the entire group down, and that I would have to somehow get home even though the bus was gone. Of course that only made me panic more.  Roxanne was awesome and kept offering to stay back with me, but I didn’t want to hold her back.  I could tell she was loving the rustic setting and the chance to expend some energy, and I had to pretty much beg her to go forward.  My fellow “slow” companion, however, had no such offers, and little to no concern from her groupmates.  Just some comments about how can she not be in shape when she’s so skinny (meaningful glance at me, disgusted look at her).

Despite that weirdness, we slowed to a livable pace with two guides who treated us great.  We listened to some Nordic death metal, took in the breathtaking scenery, and climbed steadily.  The last 20 minutes made me feel like I would die, but in spite of it all we made it to the lodge in 4 hours.  Hmm, wasn’t that the “fast” time?  Why yes, yes it was.  The main group had made it up in 3:20, with many a radio call back to us to see if we couldn’t hurry it up a bit.  I’m still unsure as to why time was so important that day, since daylight lasted for several more hours after we reached the lodge, and especially since we still made it in the previously-allotted time.

Once we got there, I was more than happy to snuggle into all my dry layers and eat some food by the fire.  We made forts out of the beds, wrapped ourselves in blankets, and got up to all the usual camping shenanigans.  Hot cocoa, hot lists and talking about our lives before NUin.  There were some ACT high schoolers who showed up, and I was so glad our kids didn’t behave like them.  Dancing on table, broken glasses, getting drunk and taking pictures with strangers when they weren’t paying attention.  We, on the other hand, listened to someone play guitar, enjoyed the view, and took nose-dives off of bunk beds.  There’s something relaxing (and freezing) about high altitudes, long days and early bedtimes.

Lodge Map of our trails

On the second day, despite my previous misgivings, I got ready to go.  I was then told that I would lead the group, so that everyone else could go, “as slow as [me].”  Great.  another, more forgiving staff member said “it was a nice sentiment, but it felt a little awkward in action.”  But it wasn’t even nice in theory.  The idea was that myself and another girl were the weak links, and if we insisted on joining them, we would be at the front and the course of the day would be our fault.  After ten minutes of climbing an unclear path (I was ahead of even the guides, and one seemed so annoyed at my confusion over the barely-marked trail), I had had enough.  I felt like an idiot for stopping, but I knew I couldn’t take it.  The sad part was, it wasn’t the climb that was getting to me.  It was the clicking noises, like one makes at a horse, that a guide made to encourage me to go faster.  It was when they tapped my heels with hiking poles if I paused to catch my breath.  It was the groans and eye-rolling from the impossibly skinny and impossibly skinny girl who kept calling me Sweety.  The idea of spending so many hours that day feeling like a fat, slow weight around their neck was more than I could take.  While the other “slow” girl and I conferred, the group started cheering and clapping for us, a misguided attempt to encourage us.  Instead it felt condescending and put me even more in the spotlight than I wanted.

On the one hand, i’m the kind of person who hates to admit defeat, who hates to be anything less than

Sunrise

hardcore.  But I also don’t think it was a failure.  I climbed Mt Olympus, or at least part of it.  I really dislike the attitude that if you’re going to be slow, you should just stay home.  Or that if you can’t do the entire hike, you shouldn’t bother to even do half.  That idea that failing, or not being outstanding, is worse than not trying at all is terrible. The discouragement of all people who are not thin from exercise, and the oft-expressed need to lose 5 kilos, even the disparaging, “well by your American standards I’m thin,” all sent my body-privilege sensors into overload, in a way I haven’t encountered face to face in a while.  I’m just glad that none of my students were treated the way I was.

I know some of my fellow climbers felt bad for me, but in the end I got what I wanted.  I spent one day hiking, and another in a warm lodge playing backgammon and reading a good book.  I listened to music, got closer with some students, and had a break from the city.  When it came time for work on Monday, I was able to walk up and down the stairs without a problem, and my cold, though worse than before, was not as bad as it would have been if I had stayed outside the second day.  I got some beautiful pictures and saw a great sunrise.  I completed a grueling climb, even if some people see it as incomplete, and I’d like to think I helped make the weekend bearable for my fellow climber.

Smiling pre-climb faces

On the way up

morning mist

morning mist

How can men and women ever be equal if men are not equal to each other?”

At the time, I didn’t respond because I was so dumbfounded by the sentiment, especially coming from him.  I know he loves Marx, but this quote so clearly places women in the backseat of societal development, waiting patiently for men to sort out all of this “equality” stuff.  In general, I found the entire statement to be absurd, false, and a pithy one-off as an excuse to dismiss women.  I’ve read the Communist manifesto, and I’ve been to countries with varying degrees of socialism.  I like Marx perhaps more than most Americans, but that doesn’t mean I can’t question him when he’s so obviously full of shit.  Moreover, I’ve learned from development that as the women go, so goes the country.

In matriarchal societies, people in general are fairly equal.  Meanwhile, in patriarchal societies, there are high levels of gender inequality.  That is to say, when women are in power, we are equals.  When women are more educated, that spreads to their children, limits fertility, and leads to better health.  When men are more educated…well, we have the world as it currently is, with overpopulation, girls not in school and a worldwide healthcare crisis.  So why would we wait for men to figure it out, idly twiddling our thumbs as they continue to increase the inequality gap across income and health?