139 in New Orleans

Sigh. Last night at like 2 in the morning, I woke up to a lady screaming outside my window. I was totally disoriented and couldn’t figure out if I was night hallucinating or if I’d just had a bad dream, until I heard the lady scream again, then yell—I mean, like, yell, like scared and desperate lose-your-voice kind of yell, HELP! She yelled help again, long and whimpery and hoarse, and I sat up in this weird paralyzed terror. I listened to her scream, and I heard a car drive away. I thought I was going to throw up. I didn’t know what to do. I just sat in my bed in the dark. Yes, I realize normal people would have run to the window, grabbed the cell and filled the dispatcher in on everything they saw. But I was too afraid to look out my window.

When I finally snapped to it and peeked out the window, the street was empty, and leaves were swirling around in the middle of the street where the car must have pulled away, presumably with the lady in it. I could hear the lady screaming in the distance farther and farther away.

I never called 911. I don’t know why—maybe, I think, because I could imagine them saying: where? What did she look like? What did the car look like? Why didn’t you call right away? And I just didn’t know any of those answers. The longer I waited, the more stupid and irresponsible and guilty I felt for not looking and then for not calling right away. I just stared out onto dark, creepy Jackson Avenue, and the saddest, angriest feeling of hatred for this city came over me. I just wanted to pack up all my stuff and go back to Indiana. Like they don’t have abductions, rapes, murders, etc. there…

I love this city, and I have this beautiful view of the skyline, and the front of my building sits right on Saint Charles with the streetcar line and parades and everything. But outside my window, six floors down is Jackson Ave. I started to wonder about Jackson when I first moved here and people kept asking me where I lived, and I’d tell them, and they’d say, ‘Oh, Crack Corner? Just don’t park on the lakeside of St. Charles and you’ll be fine…’ and just the other day Will said, "Isn't that inside the triangle of death?" Yes. Yes it is. Also called mid-city.

I’ve seen a thousand million drug busts and arrests and roll calls out that window, most of them at like 6pm, with a beautiful sunset and skyline view behind the cop car lights, and safety is a daily discussion in class, but I just felt unaffected. Until this lady’s screams came in my window.

So I turned on all my lights, the TV, my music, watched videos of my baby niece, Lily, for 2 hours and took an Ambien. I had to wake up 3 hours later to work this family therapy conference in the quarter—and my body was still on Ambien, I think, until noon. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that lady, and I couldn’t stop wondering if she was safe, and I couldn’t stop asking: what if that had been me and people heard me screaming for help but didn’t do anything?

Anyway. I’ve been telling myself that if I heard her, other people heard her too, and one of those people probably called, right? We looked up the crime stats for last night—3 murders in 3 hours, no women.

At noon today I got caught in a downpour and went home to sleep. I woke up 3 hours later in a gloomy haze. It was a beautiful night with a beautiful sunset and I couldn’t even bring myself to look outside or acknowledge Jackson Ave out my window, which is so obviously unhealthy—as if me and that street and this stupid city were in some kind of irreparable fight. It was so strong a feeling of withdrawal and isolation that I forced myself to get up and seek out all the places in this city where I knew beauty existed. I went to Audubon Park, I went to the fly, and I went to the lake. I ran and jogged and walked until I couldn’t take another step, and then I cried for a long time. I felt like God didn’t exist here last night, and that ugliness had taken over.

But it’s not true. Ugliness is everywhere. But so is truth and beauty. Are New Orleanians eating and laughing and enjoying things and generally being held together? Because if they are, then God is here. These things—truth and beauty—can’t exist here without Him.

I read this book—it was given to me by my Grandma, who’s friend’s granddaughter had self-published it—called Charismatic City: My New York. She did a funny thing with Psalm 139, and I liked it. I claimed it as a way of humanizing this amazing, ugly, beautiful, complex city:


139 in New Orleans

Lord, you have searched Crawfish Guy, and you know him.

You know when that avocado vendor sits and when that preacher on channel 79 who hangs out at the Daiquiri shop rises.

You perceive that pickle-tub drummer’s thoughts from afar.

You discern the deaf guy outside my apartment’s going out and his lying down.

You are familiar with all the meter maid’s ways.

Before a word is on the hotdog man’s tongue you know it completely, O Lord.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for this streetcar driver—too lofty for him to attain.

For you created those scary guys on the corner of Jackson and Carondolet’s inmost beings, you knit them together in their mother’s wombs.

I praise you because that little girl with the booty shorts is fearfully and wonderfully made. The man following her on his bike was not hidden from you when he was made in the secret place.

How precious are your thoughts about that homeless man under I-10, O God.

How vast is the sum of them! Were he to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.

When the super skinny lady on Louisiana Avenue awakes, you are still with her.

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. Amen.
Oh, and please let that lady be safe tonight.

On religion

Every day I pass this on the way to school and laugh to myself.

Belizean Cuisizean Saturday

Hey you guys. Thanks for all the kind words in response to my SOS.
It turns out, people love.

(And while I’m at it, thanks for the gentle nudging to put down the Oreos. Thanks to Kenzie for wrestling me to the floor over a second slice of chocolate cream pie. And thanks to Sprinky for holding her back while I ate it off the floor.)

I have a few things to report, including reflections on my new hair color, the status of Samantha and Jon (my parasites) and pictures of our spectacular Belizean Cuisizean Saturday. But first I want to share a couple of insights from encouraging e-mails I received this week. Consider it eavesdropping. It’s much more fun that way.

God is good! He doesn't leave us where we are to wallow in our pity. He shows us how to find love, joy and peace. He is where you are.

Did you guys know about this? God is right here in my extra twin bed at my dad’s in Indianapolis AND he is next to Inez and Bryon and Antonia and David in their beds in Belize whispering us all to sleep. I just love that about God. It’s enough to make me want to stand on my dad’s balcony and sing “Somewhere Out There” to the moon. But he doesn’t have a balcony, and his porch faces the pool. So that option is out.

Next.

You're right. We've got lots of things really screwy. We'll probably never get them unscrewed. Our "progress" has come at a cost.

Interesting insight. I’d like to counter it with the John Legend song that always makes me cry in the hopes that it’s actually true:

I still believe that-
We’ll get it right again
We’ll come back to life again
We won’t say another goodbye again
You’ll live forever with me
Someday, we’ll be together…

Unfortunately, I don’t think this will be fulfilled until we are all sitting on heaven’s curbs eating calorie-free ice cream and cheesy potatoes together. Steven (my step-boo) wrote something last fall. I hope I am not taking this out of context, but it struck me when I read it and has stayed with me ever since— especially in light of my visit with Hannah yesterday and the time we spent remembering Katie, and in the wake of the Cerak/Van Ryn family tragedy:

This is what heaven will be for us. It is a journey we should look forward to with great anticipation knowing that we will not be disappointed as we round that last bend and see it all unfold in front of us. There will be the laughter of those we love most, the old friends we’ve not seen in years, even those we have known in our hearts but have never seen with our eyes, they will all be there. There will be peace and comfort and every earthly pain we have felt, every bit of sadness and heartache, they will all be gone forever. It will be family and friends and life and love and it will be unlike anything we could ever have imagined but it will be just as we had always hoped. It will be perfect.

And the coffee…


I love the part about the coffee. Thanks for letting me share, Boo.

The thing is, I had ice-cream with my old best friends last night.



These three saved my life once, literally. Tonight, they just reminded me that we really can reconnect even after 10 years. It gave me a sliver of what heaven might be like, because I couldn’t have pieced together better company, better conversation or better dessert. Unless, maybe, it had been Chocolate Odessey 2001.

Which leads me to my next comment:

No matter how much we want it and how much we miss it and how much we beg, Baskin Robbins is never bringing back Chocolate Odyssey 2001.

Well. I am starting a prayer chain calendar for a 2010 comeback. Who wants April?

Great. Moving on.

This is important, as Bryan would not let me touch the baby unless I had a note from my doctor:

I am parasite free!

I spent an exhaustive 3 days at the Doctor getting tested for things like TB, and making sure all my little parasites and E. Coli were gone, which involved a very intricate stool sampling kit. In Belize, they just handed me a container and told me to eat some burritos, walk around and come back with a full jar at 2. Here, I was totally confused by the take-home kit they gave me, and I’m sure Sprinky was thrilled to find the little container labeled “refrigerate” in the back corner when she reached for her Las Lomas leftovers.

Hil-air.

Anyway, the TB test came back negative and the chest x-rays are clear. Whew!

Tomorrow is the welcome home celebration with CFI & my Belize team from last fall. Lisa, Mackenzie and I spent the day experimenting with all our favorite delicious dishes from Belize. I like to call it Belizean Cuisizean Saturday.

The results were fantastic! (Except for the tortillas, which looked like tiny little weird ovals. Antonia warned me this would happen if I didn’t practice. She also frequently sent me out back to pick cilantro from the grass and said I always came back with the leaves that would kill us.)

So, who wants to try my special cilantro salad?

Here are some pictures of the day. I WILL be recreating this event in Fort Wayne, so friends beware. You’ll be receiving an invite shortly.

The international isle at Wal-mart. Actually, we just think this picture is funny because it looks like I am caught red-handed trying to hide, like, a pack of Oreos under the rice and beans, drunk.



Tortilla mixing







Result



Quote of the day: “Yeah, but I think she would say my balls are just too small.”



Empanadas (I realize taking pictures of food puts me on the same page as my Great Aunt Gwen, but I am just proud, okay? Cut me some slack.)





Garnaches





One out of one Randys found our food deliciously satisfying.





This was a trial run. Stay tuned for the real thing tomorrow at 2:30/1:30 central.

Thanks again for the support this week. I mean it.

Oh!
I almost forgot the funniest thing. Hannah colored my hair yesterday. We got rid of the highlights and took it back to my natural color, black. You’d think it was a simple procedure, but, actually, there are a million shades of black. This one is dark. I loved it at first. But now (maybe it’s just because I’ve had sun-streaked hair for over a year) I sort of feel like the Wicked Witch. Especially when toddlers look at me and then start crying. I’m just sayin.

Katie B.

This is strange, I know. But I have been thinking about Katie lately, and can’t NOT mention it… Also, I think things are cyclical, and most of the time we realize things internally before we process them mentally. Almost one year ago exactly, after bawling my eyes out over not getting accepted to UNLV, after plans for moving to California fell through, Lisa and I had our first conversation about me and Belize.

What a year.

There are moments here, in Santa Familia, when I am the happiest I have ever been in my whole life, almost like I was born half Belizean and raised with an invisible compass pointing me here. In those moments, I look around and think: how did I get here? How did I cross the bridge from—well, maybe I should go to Belize—to actually quitting my job and moving here?

It had always only been a threat. Like, when I got so fed up with life or work in Fort Wayne, I’d say, I should just move to another country. My mom has friends in Belize, you know. I could work in the schools, paint, teach—whatever they need.

But then I would get wrapped up in things like Taco Bell and Grey’s Anatomy and the GAP and would totally discard the stirring until the next time I felt bored or useless or unmotivated or overspent.

I only knew one girl personally, my age, who had actually picked up and moved to a developing country. Katie in Haiti. The tagline on her Myspace was: My heart belongs in Haiti. I always wished my heart belonged anywhere besides the Target dollar spot.

I have done lots of short-term missions trips—built churches, visited orphans, constructed wheelchair ramps for disabled seniors; I did a three-week stint with the Red Cross after Hurricane Katrina and loved it—but I could never figure out how to cross the bridge from vacation pay to unpaid leave to actually quitting my job and starting a new life. I didn’t even know how to take the first step. And the not knowing scared me into complacency.

Whenever Katie came in town, I would sigh and say, I wish I could do that in Belize. And she would say, “You could.” Then I’d shrug and keep eating my Molten Chocolate or Cookie Monster thinking I could never make it in Belize without hot flowing chocolate at my fingertips.

A week later, she’d go back to Haiti, and I’d go back to entry-level social work (which I loved, by the way) but I paid attention to her updates and support letters, and I began emailing little questions like: But what did you do with your car? What kind of phone plan do you have? Do you live with a family or on your own? How do I defer my school loans?

Those easy little questions and answers nudged me to a logistically comfortable place. It was always important to me to have a plan.

The great news is, a couple years earlier I had been run over by a semi.

In the hospital, the nurse looked at me and said, “God must have something really important planned for your life.” And though I was humbled and inclined to roll my eyes and insist it was just coincidence (I do believe my greatest fear sometimes is that God actually does believe I am valuable and capable of something very important), I nodded and whole-heartedly believed her.

Then I thought I should probably get on with things—figure out how to do something important and extraordinary with the life I’d been lent. So I explored a bunch of crazy interests I’d always wanted to pursue. (You can never know where God might use you, okay? It could have been in the theater classes at IPFW or at The Paul Mitchell School in San Diego, or in an MFA program in creative writing. Who’s to say? The important thing is I looked.)

And, actually, that 14^th rejection letter from UNLV last February led to my first consideration for Belize Team 14—almost one year ago, exactly. The rest is history. I said goodbye to the MFA and Paul Mitchell school, put myself on spending freeze, and used the summer to prepare.

I remember how amazing my last day of work felt in September. Remember the crispy white Anne Taylor pants story? I could feel it in my bones—something great was ahead. Something important. And it HAS been, both great and important.

In October, right after my first trip to Belize, Katie died in her sleep. In Haiti.

It was a terrible shock, and heartbreaking for all of us. I felt like I had just burst into the room excited with my brand new Belize, thinking it could be friends with her Haiti, and she was gone.
Not to mention the fact that she was gone.
It was just hard to understand.

So hard, in fact, I flew home in the middle of a six-week trip to Germany, ready and prepared to never leave Fort Wayne again—to skip Belize, defer grad school, hang on the couch with Sprinky for life.

But sometime later, I wrote this:

The miracle, I have realized—the exception, not the rule—is that we are alive. That our skin comes together and holds everything in. That our blood flows and our hearts beat. That we breathe in and out and are given a certain number of days to complete a certain task in the world, and that we think somehow all of this is our doing. That our lives belong to us. We are created, and we exist so long as our creator continues to breath life into our frail, fragile, pile of bones and skin and muscle. Each time we breathe in and out, we are experiencing a tremendous, fantastic, unbelievable miracle.

When I am here, I feel like God’s finger is on my pulse. I feel him breathing life and purpose into me. My heart belongs here, in Belize. And I can’t tell that to Katie, but God knows, and all he has to do while I am riding in the back of a pick-up truck with a bunch of Belizean kids sucking limes, is nudge her and say, “Look, Kate. You helped plant this seed. Well done.”

Week Three, plus a cat

“I have taken you from the ends of the earth and called you from its most distant places. I said to you, ‘You are my servant. I’ve chosen you; I haven’t rejected you. Don’t be afraid, because I am with you. Don’t be intimidated; I am your God. I will strengthen you. I will help you. I will support you with my victorious right hand.’”
Isaiah 41:9-10, 13

This is what I told myself when I woke up and a stray cat was sleeping on my suitcase. I don’t know how it got into my room or why. But it had fleas. And it hissed at me when I tried to shoo it.



It's a funny story, yes. But if I had a picture for how this week has panned out, sure enough, it would be a stray cat sleeping on my suitcase.

I’ve struggled with what to write—how to balance optimism with realism, how to express the needs of the village without compromising the privacy of families, how to express concern and let it not be confused with discouragement, although, at times, the burden of daily life for many of the school kids and families is hard to watch—so I’ve just decided to compile a list for those supporting and praying.

(emailed)

At times I was encouraged this week, because I could tell the kids were really absorbing things, or, at the very least, having fun. Other times, it just seemed like I was dropping spoonfuls of water into an enormous canyon. Not even INTO it—a few inches to the left, maybe.

The schools can’t do PE or Art or Music because they don’t have supplies—no scissors, paper, crayons, glue, soccer balls, jumpropes, wiffle balls—nothing. And it’s not like they don’t know the difference. Everyday someone says to me: life in Belize is hard, Brooke. The San Marcos school didn’t even have bathrooms, a water tank or ceilings—ceilings—before CFI began working in the community.

Next week we’ll begin doing the AIDS/STD prevention curriculum in the Standard 6 class, which I think is good, and in March I’ll get to do an Art lesson in each class for two weeks, since I packed more art supplies than I realized—apparently, a perfectly artsy plan existed before I ever even stepped foot here.

The good news: He’s got the whole world in his hands.
To quote my new friend Rachel, "We are his workmanship and that is often a very messy thing."

On the upswing, everyday someone tells me how blessed they are by CFI, how they are sure God is working, providing for them, and loving them through everything CFI does, and how usually, the exact thing they need shows up right when they need it—even if it's just a phone call.

Also, one of the teachers invited me to go to Xunantunich (a Mayan ruin) this weekend with her family, so I am looking forward to that!

Finally, here are some pics of classes this week. It was my first week with Standard 5 & 6:

May I be frank?

In an email, someone asked if I have low moments here and what they look like.
Trust, I have them. And, yes, I’ll share.

Everyday when I come home from school, there are these little tiny fire ants on my bed. I’ve searched the premises. I can’t figure out where they’re coming from or how they get there. But those stupid ants are consistent. They show up daily at 3:30 like a blood-sucking welcome committee. I think it might be the window.

Sometimes my clothes don't get dry all the way and end up smelling like mildew. Usually I have to rewash the damp ones in a Ziplock bag with a few drops of ALL in my room, and last night the Ziplock leaked and spilled all over my floor.

I am tired of “letting it mellow”. Sometimes I just want to flush, okay? It’s how I was raised.

Electricity was out in the village from Saturday afternoon to Sunday night. I don't know why—they say it happens all the time. While I was showering, the water also went out—mid shampoo. I had to go around back to the rainwater faucet and rinse, and then back to the pitch-black bathroom. When I switched on the flashlight, a little roach scurried out of the sink. (They are my newest freak-out, recently surpassing spiders.) I ran back to the outside faucet and brushed my teeth there, where I could keep an eye on every living, breathing, moving thing.

Today, I am tired of hearing loud Spanish rap outside my window. I am trying to sleep.

On that note, I am really tired. Like, exhausted. This morning I did not want to get out of bed, because it was pouring down rain and cold out—the type of day I might have taken advantage of in the States to call in sick and lay on the couch watching Oprah. But I remembered my purpose here (and my lack of access to Oprah) and forced myself to not play sick. I walked the mile to school in the pouring rain only to find that classes had been canceled—due to rain. (Funny, yes. But I am beginning to realize that rain can be a real a problem if your kids live 1-2 miles from school and walk everyday, or if the downpours are so hard you can’t hear the teacher teaching, or if your school has open windows.)

I taught my lesson to those faithful 6 kids who showed up in boots and raincoats, and then I walked home. I thought I deserved a choco-banana for my efforts, but the lady across the street was out.

Those are what ordinary low moments look like for me.

That said, I had a monumental moment Sunday night praying for the girls on The Youth Discipleship Walk. It made me cry just thinking about them and remembering what it was like the first time I really understood agape love.

It brought to mind this favorite Mother Teresa quote:

“I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.”

And it inspired me to always LOVE loving people, even when— especially when our cups feel empty, because in the loving, God, who IS love, will fill us up. It’s true.

Example: Just five minutes ago Stephanie and Norelli knocked on my door (in the middle of this crap list) and begged me to pick limes with them, because I am tall and can reach the best ones. Picking limes was the absolute LAST thing I wanted to do today— I really wanted to just lay in bed dreaming about pizza and Oprah, but I went. It was the best 20 minutes of my day. The walk was refreshing, I enjoyed the coolness, the conversation, the breaking clouds, the opportunity to be available for two eleven-year-olds who just wanted to hang out, and I enjoyed a tall, dreamy glass of lime-aid when we returned ☺

Here is my new campaign:

“Love me”

Knock, knock.

Mom: Is God there?
Brooke: What?
Mom: Have you seen Him?
Brooke: Who, God? He's right here. Why?
Mom: Just wondered if you had any spiritual awakenings or confirmations.

(Moms.)

Dear Mom,


God is in the Village Catholic Church, even if you’re tempted to think he’s only in the Evangelical Church down the road.

God is in Inez, Antonia’s mother, who tells me stories of His faithfulness every day at 8:15 and 1:30, when I am sitting with her before and after my classes, and when she shares each morning’s Daily Bread reading with me. She used to believe in the stars, because she is Mayan, and that’s what Mayan’s believe in. But God spoke to her. In a dream. And she followed! I love that she found Truth in a dream and pursued it. And I love that God still speaks through dreams.

God is in Antonia’s father, who pulled me aside after church on Sunday to tell me he has received word that some young girls in the village are “selling their bodies” for money, and that he has discerned the need to call a Village Council meeting to address the issue. He has asked me to be present at the meeting, as a voice for social issues, and to think of solutions—of jobs the girls could do legitimately, a way to convince them of their value and worth internally, to teach a better way. I am certain God will be attending the meeting.

God is in all eleven beautiful sunsets I have witnessed thus far, and He is in my neighbor, Sabrina, who takes me up the hill to watch the sunset from above the Coconut farm whenever I feel like witnessing something extraordinary, as if He is personally taking my hand to show me more of His own creation.







I love that God is creative, and that I am free to be creative, and that He values that quality in me.

God is in the old man who pulls out his lawn chair and guitar every day at 3:30 and plays for all the kids walking home from school. What a simple expression of appreciation for life and act of kindness each day.

God is in the funny conversation with each village family who asks, daily, what I am doing here, who I am here with, and why I am not like all the other crazy sexpot Americans who stay with Ms. Ida, but stay at the Karaoke Bar and beyond.

God is in my Crystal drinking water, bbq chicken and cortisone cream, sustaining me at every moment, and in every email and comment encouraging me to press on.


Love,
Brooke

Projects Anonymous: meeting one

So, here’s the situation. I’ve been in Europe for about 6 weeks (minus a week and a half in the middle) and imagined that I would have already updated everyone on the ghost tour in Prague, or the train strike in Paris, or the much anticipated reunion with my great-uncle-in-law, who I haven’t seen in 8 years and only speaks as much English as I speak French, which is to say we were able to count to each other, greet each other, and name various kitchen appliances.

But it turns out, I am a terrible vacationer. And because I can’t vacation, I can’t write enthusiastically about vacationing.
My name is Brooke, and I am addicted to projects.

Apparently I only love traveling when I am completing a task, when I have something to build or teach or clean-up or fix. If I am not working or working on something, I am a total wreck.

It finally dawned on me in Rome (Rome!) five weeks into the trip, four days before I was supposed to come home, that there is a time to be still. A time to relax, to wait, to be satisfied in the moment, to trust that the world is spinning flawlessly outside my hotel room and that some other perfectly capable person is helping cyclone victims in Bangladesh or teaching Health & Life skills to kids at the B&G Club or driving my old clients to food banks. This verse runs through my mind all the time: Be still and know that I am God, which I usually take to mean: hurry up and figure everything out and when all else fails, start another project.

This entire trip has been a struggle to be still. To me, it sounded like this:

Be broke, and know that I am God
Be unemployed, and know that I am God
Be 6000 miles away, and know that I am God
Be out of touch, and know that I am God
Be at a crossroads, and know that I am God

And I was like: but God, seriously. I need to go home right now and work. I need to save up some more money, figure out what to do about grad school. I’ve got this major project in Belize to plan for, and I have to fundraise $3000. Three thousand dollars, God, do you even know how much money that is? And, also, I miss my friends and I miss my coworkers and I need to figure out how to get to Bangladesh this week. I could do it, because I am not working. I’m just hanging out here in Europe and there are CRISES going on…

And God was like: B, I’ve got the whole world in my hands. Sit tight, I’ve got something really amazing to show you, something I created. Oh, and Mr. Gay needs some salt and light in his life, and he could use some hugs and company and you’ll remind him of Candy, and he’ll remind you of her, and you’ll both be blessed.

Of course, when I stopped flipping out long enough to experience where I was and what I was doing, I found myself staring at the most spectacular views of the world I’d ever seen.









I learned how to tell Mr. Gay in French that my family loves him very much. I read though entire stacks of letters my Aunt Candy had written while she lived there and touched the map of Florida in Mr. Gay’s hallway where she had circled K & JL to show him where Destin was. We walked through olive groves the family had been keeping and pressing for over 300 years and sampled the olives.







We brought happiness to a man who had lost his entire family—I mean, everyone. He does not have one single living relative. We looked at his pictures and filled his home with smiles, warmth, blow-dryers, ipods, and chocolate cereal. He kissed my head about 50 times each night and each morning (before he banged on our doors, rang a bell and threw open our windows at 8am) and he paused sometimes when he looked at me because he said my expressions reminded him so much of Candy, which made me cry. He took us to the cemetery, and we watered the flowers. His joy and kindness in the midst of so much tragedy broke my heart, and I am convinced God has protected his life for a reason.













In Rome, we stood in the epicenter of historic Christianity—stared at the actual Coliseum, Peter’s tomb, the wall where Peter and Paul were chained, the oblique marking the center of Nero’s circus, the Sistine chapel which sequenced the history of the world (according to Michelangelo) before the birth of Jesus: God dividing light from darkness, creating the sun, moon and vegetation, separating land and water, the creation of Adam, the creation of Eve, the fall of man, Noah’s sacrifice, the flood, and (funny) Noah’s drunkenness. It was unreal. Plus the hotel had MTV, so I caught up on all my music news and watched Scrubs and Roswell in Italian. Below is a picture of the Coliseum and my own personal interpretations of the Vatican.













Tomorrow morning I fly home. For the record, Elaine has been the most flexible, gracious host a girl could ask for. I came here mostly despondent: sad about leaving my job, totally culture-shocked from Belize and re-entry to America, homesick and Europe-wary, depressed over the loss of a good friend, and (annoyingly, I’m sure) unable to identify or verbalize any of those things. She got it anyway and accommodated perfectly. Thanks Elaine…

I’d like to end with a monologue. Just kidding. But, really, with Highs & Lows. (My friends and I used to do this at dinner when we all lived in the same city…)

Prague
Highs: St. Vitus Cathedral, Prague Castle, Wenceslas Square, The walking ghost tour, Astronomical clock, St. Charles bridge, Golden Lane, Basilica of St. George, Jewish quarter, huge fire burned Pizza which I did not have to share, and a heavenly slice of chocolate mousse cake.



















Lows: Giant, life-sized human spiders crawling on me at the Black Light Theater

Marseille
Highs: WINE & CHEESE, COFFEE and SORBET every day with every meal! The view of Marseille—the mountains and the sea—outside my bedroom window every morning, communicating despite being unable to talk with our teeny little translation book, Claire and Fernande’s tea party in Forcalquie, Notre Dame de la Guard and seeing the real prison from The Count of Monte Cristo, a delicious pizza at Chez Jean-Louis, the first snow of the season in Cassis, dinner with The Berger Family, lunch on the terrace with crepes and pear sorbet, driving to the top of the cliffs and looking down on Marseille, Cassis and Ciotot, and over at the Alps and the Italian border.







Lows: Mr. Gay finding out my nickname was Brookie and calling me Bwooo-kie the entire trip so as not to confuse me with my dad, Brooks. He thought they sounded the same and said that Bwooo-kie was more feminine, anyway. The weird food, the pate and the “meat” balls Mr. Gay ordered us in Pierrerue, which my grandma said she hid in her lap, dropped on the floor on and kicked across the room. (I’m not supposed to tell.) The train strike and trying to get back to Paris was the ultimate low and very stressful.

Paris
Highs: The Eiffel tower, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, Moulin Rouge, Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elysees, Montmatre, Crepe stands, The Louvre, watching a statue take a smoke break, chocolate croissants, and the perfume museum!









Lows: The train strike. It was crazy, and by the end, even the air traffic controllers at the airport were striking. We were lucky to make it home…

Germany
Highs: Elaine! We had a fantastic time with lazy days, the Lancôme counter, Thanksgiving on post, shopping, The Me lounge, Elaine’s friends, beer, beer, liquor, wine, beer, barbeque chicken pizza, and curry farfel chicken.

Lows: Seriously can’t think of one. Maybe the weather?

Rome
Highs: everything. Rome was the center of the WORLD! The Coliseum, Spanish steps, Forum, Pantheon, Vatican City, St. Peter’s Basilica, Sistine Chapel, the capitol building, the Vestal virgins, Nero’s oblique, Caesar’s Palace, Circus Maximus. All the little piazzas and the cute nuns and monks walking around, the Roman soldier who took pics with us outside the Coliseum. And the food! Pizza, ravioli, penne, pizza, spaghetti, pizza, cappuccino, pizza, cappuccino, wine. Delish.

Lows: a weird eye infection