Namaste

Tonight, I looked out the window of my Yoga studio while in downward dog pose and saw that it was snowing outside. I couldn't help but laugh as all the blood rushed to my head and I almost (read: actually) fell down. Everything about it just seemed bizarre (both the yoga thing and the snow thing).

I don't think that I'll get used to seeing snow anymore than I'll get used to seeing the Capitol every time I leave my house. Prior to this stint in DC, the furthest up north I have ever lived is Oxford, Mississippi. That's not a joke.

In fact, I got so excited about the first day of snow flurries that I stopped in the middle of Dupont Circle and did a full twirl, face tilted upwards, like in a really cheesy movie. I then ran to the office and announced that IT WAS SNOWING!!! I get a few shoulder shrugs, but it didn't deter my excitement.

Or my fear. As a full bred Louisiana girl, I have no idea what to do in snowy situations. I'm fairly certain that my functionality will be zero when faced with more than a couple of flurries. My wardrobe is woefully ill prepared for really cold weather, and I can only be thankful for the fact that I will not have to drive in this stuff. That and the fact that I'm headed home in a little over a week and will thankfully miss the real DC winter...All irrational fears aside, it's still pretty exciting. I've just spent the last hour sitting in the window of my room just staring as it falls. It's actually coating the ground tonight. I've never been so enthralled.

And no, this is not the first time I've seen snow. I'm not really sure why I'm so amazed, but I'm not going to question it. All I know is that this week I have been singing a little bit louder than usual (at work--this has proven to be a small problem, even though all my co-workers swear they don't mind. Which is a good thing, cause rhythm is a dancer and it can't be stopped) and I've been caught skipping down the hall by the very distinguished director of the think tank I'm working with. I kind of wish that was a joke.

Anyway, for some inexplicable reason, despite the fact that I have no idea where I'll be living after the new year (both zip code and street address), and despite the fact that I have three lit reviews hanging over my head, and despite the fact that I had to get my bridesmaid dress let out for the wedding I'm standing in on New Year's Eve, I am still skipping and singing and hootin and hollerin. So, I will thank the snow for that.

All Aboard

A random Saints fan flashing me his grill on Superbowl Sunday, 2010

Working "full time" is exhausting....the quotations are merited by my reference to a 3 day work week as a full time job, which is essentially what I do here in DC...

But it's not the hours I mind or even what tires me out, it's the monotony of sitting in a windowless office for 8 hours at a time and forcing yourself to concentrate. I work for a think tank, so I basically get (not)paid for thinking all day. I just sit and think. And I'm not going to lie, I'm not the most disciplined thinker. Sometimes my thinking goes on a tangent and it's really hard to bring it back. Especially when Beyonce pops up on my iPod shuffle. My girl B is not conducive to serious thinking. I'm pretty sure I've been busted for my Freakum Dress moves, which probably explains why they are moving me to an open cubicle next week and out of my private office. Either they want to discourage Soul Train 2010 or they want to make me more accessible to my fans. I'm thinking it's the latter.

So, I decided to rest my weary mind and treated myself to a trip home. Because when you're tired, the best thing to do is go on a 5 day drinking/eating/football/live music binge in New Orleans. The best kind of R&R.

I kicked it off with a Lady Tigers basketball game where roughly 15 family members joined me to cheer on my cousin who just signed with them this year. The very tenacity with which my family embarrasses every single one of us at any kind of graduation ceremony (yes-they are those people that scream, whistle, clap, and even perform a mini-wave in the stands. I always feel bad for the kid behind me who can't hear his name being called, but that's what happens when you have a very large, very Yatty family) is the same reason why they make the best sports fans and are the biggest supporters in every aspect in life. At any given LSU game this is what you will find: my older sister wearing her tiger ears dancing to the mysterious soundtrack in her head while simultaneously screaming at the ref to watch the lane, my dad pointing out "the talent" and lamenting the fact that the 3 point line wasn't invented until after his glory days were over, my aunt being put on an expletive-watch by my Maw Maw who herself keeps failing to keep it clean, my other aunt jacking every single sign that has a picture of my cousin on it so she can give them out as Christmas presents, me doing anything and everything to get on the jumbotron, and my Paw Paw sitting in the aisle seat taking his own stats which he will share with us for the entire hour long ride back to New Orleans. Yeah you right.

The next night I treated myself to a completely decadent dinner at Dick and Jenny's, followed by an equally debaucherous night which included a drive through daiquiri run, Kermit Ruffins at Vaughan's, the Moonshiners at the Spotted Cat on Frenchman, and Grape Voodoos at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop on Bourbon. Absolute perfection.

Friday began with a Ladies Luncheon on Magazine and ended back in Baton Rouge for an engagement party. And not just any engagement party. This party had street performers, a petting zoo, cochon de lait barbeque, and the Soul Rebels brass band playing all night long. Truth be told, I spent the majority of the night down by the petting zoo where a friend and I tried to figure out how to steal a bunny. Sadly, it wouldn't fit in our purses. I was also amazed by a little girl who was absolutely fearless and perfectly content sitting on a turtle while holding a baby alligator. She may or may not have gone overboard when she threw a chicken from one end of the pen to the other where it landed on a goat. I loved this party and relished introducing myself as the Maid of Honor, especially when I saw the bride hosting in a leopard print dress while holding a snake.

Saturday I stuck around in Baton Rouge to go to the LSU/OleMiss football game. SEC football is one of my favorite things on earth. I grew up going to LSU games and then went to OleMiss for undergrad where I never missed a home game. Those were the days of Eli and Deuce, which

made it even better...even though we ended up losing more often than not. An LSU tailgate and OleMiss tailgate are polar opposites. An LSU tailgate consists of throwing on whatever purple or gold t-shirt you have that you don't mind ruining, booty dancing to rap music, and playing some kind of beer-based drinking game. An OleMiss tailgate looks a lot different. Everyone wears their finest blue or red outfit, sets up tents in the Grove (usually complete with a chandelier), and jams out to country music. I generally prefer the LSU way of doing things, mainly because I never mastered walking around the Grove in heels. Add that with a bunch of whiskey and it wasn't a pretty picture. Obviously, my allegiances are conflicted, so I ended up in a blue dress while dancing to the LSU fight song in Death Valley....which, if you've read previous World Cup posts, makes perfect sense to you. And although my personal identity crisis continues, the random OleMiss guy who happened to be sitting next to me had no problem ID-ing me as "that New Orleans girls who dated all the Kappa Sigs."

I wrapped it all up with a Sunday afternoon in the Dome to watch the Saints play, which was the highlight of my weekend. We won, of course, which made me happy purely because it gave me even more opportunities to get down to Crunk. The delicious turtle soup I had with dinner later that night at Dicky Brennan's Steakhouse was just icing on the cake.

Monday afternoon I climbed on the plane, completely drained and fully satisfied with my trip home. The man next to me breathed a sigh of relief when I sat down in the middle seat and thanked me for being thin and sitting next to him. I'm pretty sure he wasn't quite as thrilled when I pulled out Jay-Z's autobiography, Decoded, and he was subjected to a full page image of Biggie Smalls showing his grill ( I obviously have a thing for grills). I make no apologies. But it did get me thinking about what I'm thankful for in this holiday season.

I have a whole lot to be thankful for, my health, my friends, my family, my dog. But I'm most thankful that I'm from New Orleans, even in light of the recent boil water alert. Not only does it mean that my team is the number 1 team in the nation, but it also means that when I plan a trip home, I get to go home to New Orleans. I can promise you that people from the cornfields in the midwest don't get nearly as excited about going home as I do.

** I am aware of how many Louisiana stereotypes I have perpetuated in this post and I'm okay with it.

Where The Wild Things Are

I never thought that I would see Cat Stevens and Ozzy Osbourne sharing the same stage, but I did, and I have Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert to thank for that. Halloween weekend I attended the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. This was my first rally here in DC and it certainly did not disappoint. I must say, it was wonderful to be surrounded by a whole lot of people engaging in civil discourse. It was refreshing and hopeful.

I'm about to get serious here.

My political awakening occurred when I was living in Argentina 7 years ago as a college junior. Up until that point, I didn't have much of a political perspective other than what I had learned from my family and the environment in which I was raised, which tended to be more conservative. I moved to Argentina in March of 2003, mere months before the United States declared war. This was/is not a popular war abroad, and Argentines are quite an opinioned bunch. This means that I received a whole lot of grief due to my nationality. It was tough and lonely. I even told one particularly riled up cab driver that I was Canadian. Oh the shame.

It took me a while to realize why they cared so much, why it was so damn personal to these Argentines. Not that long ago, in the late 70s and early 80s, Argentina suffered through the Dirty War at the hands of the Argentine government. In an effort to root out and exterminate political opposition and subversive groups, the military dictatorship went on a massive killing spree. Thousands of people were "disappeared," never to be heard from again. Their fate was unknown, although it undoubtedly held a gruesome tale of torture and pain. This is a legacy that has lived on in the collective memory of Argentina, along with so many unanswered questions about a disappeared brother, or father, or daughter. For this reason, they are now fiercely protective of their rights and civil liberties. And understandably so. You would be hard pressed to find an Argentine that doesn't have a well formed opinion about their political leaders. These political freedoms are not to be taken for granted.

So, after a while, whenever I heard the inevitable, Are you for or against Bush? at the beginning of every introduction and conversation, I made sure that my first reaction wasn't anger. I thought about it. I thought about what it means to me to be an American. I thought about the enormous responsibility it is to be an active citizen and participant in our democracy. I thought about how I felt on September 11th. I thought about what demands I should place on my elected representatives. I thought about what I wanted for myself and what I wanted my society to look like. Over time, I came to my own conclusions. And I'm sure you have come to yours.

That's the beauty of being American. You and I can't be persecuted for our political opinions and we can make ourselves heard through the channels of democracy. This is no small thing.

We are living in the midst of a political crisis (and I don't mean the Republican turnover in the House). Partisan politics rule Washington and it seems that people have forgotten how to engage each other respectfully. We need to recognize how lucky we are and start protecting the integrity of our democracy. This will not be done by shutting out the left or right or through personalized attacks. This will only come with consensus and compromise.

So, in the words of Jon Stewart: Don't be douchey.

Surrealism

Have you ever stopped, looked around, and asked yourself, What the hell am I doing here? I feel like I do this a lot. And sometimes the situation is so absurd that I ask it out loud. Maybe I'm hoping some random stranger on the street will offer some valuable insight into the craziness that is my life. But then again, maybe I don't really want to know. Which is probably why I try to hide from fortune tellers. Jackson Square is a scary place for me.

I asked myself this when I moved into my new group house in DC. For those of you unfamiliar with sub-standard housing lingo, group house is basically just a fancy word for adult dormitory. I live in this house and share a bathroom with roughly 8 other people, 4 of which I've never even seen before, and at least 1 of which has a serious hair in the sink problem. But I do hear them through the walls and I go through their mail. Don't worry, I don't open it....although the Zappos box that has been sitting in the foyer for 3 weeks is just begging for it...but that's besides the point.

It struck me again at this past weekend's excursion to a pumpkin festival. On the heels of a drunken late night dance party, the good, old fashioned, family fun was a welcome change of pace. As was the hot dog and side of barbecue beef I downed for lunch, although I guess you can't really call it a side item if it's actually slathered on top. But that's just semantics. It was delicious. However, that wasn't the What the hell moment (although it probably should have been). That moment came when I found myself yelling FIRE IN THE HOLE!!! as I forcefully pulled the lever of a large cannon named "Chunkin Up," sending a pumpkin flying through the air at an impressive and exhilarating speed before it met it's demise against an unfortunate tree. Not to brag, but my pumpkin did easily go the furthest (which was celebrated on my part by a very enthusiastic fist pump) and my battle cry was definitely the most believable. Innate ability and skill aside, this is when I took a step back to do some much needed reevaluating. How is it that I ended up in Maryland shooting pumpkins into the woods? And is this a bad thing?

I remember over 5 years ago standing in front of a mailbox on Metairie Road, contemplating the letter in my hand. It was addressed to Georgetown and said that I was turning down their offer to attend grad school there. I had decided to go somewhere else, and although I knew it was the right decision, I stood in front of that mailbox for a long time. A really long time. I finally closed my eyes and mailed it off. It was hard to do, I had always dreamed of going to school there. I was transported back to that moment a few weeks ago as I stood in the middle of Georgetown's campus on a beautiful fall afternoon. I was there to use the library for a project I'm working on with the think tank. Although it was in a different capacity, and one that I couldn't have imagined all those years ago, I still made it to Georgetown and am the proud owner of my very own library card. This was meant to be.

Life is like one of those books where at the end of each chapter you have to pick either option A or B. Do you want to go through the sunflower field or down the waterfall? And depending on that choice, your path is forever altered. To borrow from and misinterpret Robert Frost, I believe they are all the road less travelled. The world is full of a lot of really brave and adventurous people who are just trying to navigate life, whether in the grocery store or in a pumpkin patch.

As for me, what keeps me going is blind faith in the idea that I'll end up where I'm supposed to be. One day, one of these paths is going to lead me to whatever it is that I'm looking for. And if the only way I can get there is by 'Chunkin Up,' then so be it. Who am I to question that?

If at first you don't succeed...

Those of you who know me are well versed in my lack of athletic abilities. I tried out for the volleyball team five consecutive years in elementary school and never once made the first cut, much less the final roster. Heartbreaking, really. Then when I moved on to high school it became a cruel twist of fate that my best friends were captains of our state champion volleyball team and all I could do was sit in the stands and feebly cheer them on. #1 Cheerleader--that was me! (I should mention that that's a self-proclaimed title, I wasn't technically on the squad)

In my adult(ish) years, I've learned to work with my limitations and stay away from v-ball pipe dreams. Although, there was one moment of glory a couple of months ago when I was asked to fill in and play with a beach volleyball team that was short one girl. My redemption lasted for one full rotation and I was totally vindicated. My first serve went sailing over the net....we don't need to talk about the second serve.....Anyway, I've since taken up activities that don't require much hand-eye coordination, such as biking and running. This has been a semi-successful strategy. In regards to my head on collision with the parked car, I believe that the blame lies entirely with the Land Rover and its ridiculously large rear end. A car that big is nothing more than a safety hazard for bikers like me. Running has been equally rewarding despite the constant tripping and weak ankles that cave in completely with each step.

I am now training for a half marathon, so I've been trying to get in some serious mileage while here in DC. My new favorite run begins at the Capitol (which is right behind my house), continues down the National Mall, passes the Washington Monument, goes down to the Lincoln Memorial (I give ole' Abe a shout out) and then all the way back to the Capitol. It is a beautiful route which can only be rivaled by a run down Esplanade and along the Mississippi River. However, I am now restricted to running only during daylight hours. This is a self-imposed punishment for sheer stupidity. Last week I went for a night time run and somehow got lost in between the Washington Monument and the Capitol. For those of you unfamiliar with the Mall, the space between the Washington Monument and the Capitol is about a two mile stretch and is completely bare, no trees, buildings, or even large shrubs. It's absolutely empty. Furthermore, the monuments light up at night and can be seen for miles and miles. In addition, the Capitol is on a hill (hence Capitol Hill), making it even more visible. So, to get lost somewhere in between point A and B is virtually impossible, yet I managed to do it like a pro. Not only did I have to run much longer than I intended, but I also somehow ended up on the set of Transformers 3. So, I will be starring as that really sweaty, confused looking girl in the background who is on the verge of passing out. I think they can probably work it into the story line, I can't imagine there's much of a plot to begin with.

Obviously needing to diversify my workout, I opted for a hike this weekend in Great Falls, Maryland. Not surprisingly, my past experiences with hiking haven't been the best. My first hike was 7 years ago in the Patagonia region of Argentina, and even with the several falls and near-death accidents, the most tragic aspect of that hike was my head-to-toe denim outfit. I wish I didn't have the pictures to prove that. My second big hike was 5 years ago in Interlaken, Switzerland with 3 other friends. Two of them decided to take the "extreme path" (this isn't actually a path, they just went running into the woods like a couple of crazies) and were subsequently lost on the mountain for the remainder of the day...along with our ID's and beer money, which are survival tools out there in the wild. And finally, my last hike 2 years ago in Antigua, Guatemala ended with me straddling a crevice on a volcano while my boyfriend chatted up the tour guide in the distance. My scars from digging into the volcanic rock lasted longer than our relationship, he became an ex quickly thereafter. So, it was quite brave of me to give it another go. Not only did I (not so gracefully) survive this one, but I also scaled a legitimate rock formation without breaking any bones or ending a long-term relationship. Success.

I think yoga is going to be next.

Sweet Red Plums and Grilled Cheese Sandwiches

The travels continue.

Shortly after returning from Mexico I decided to come to DC to try my hand at non-profit work. It's a short term gig and something that has been in the pipeline for a while. I am working for an independent, nonpartisan think tank that deals primarily with immigration policy, both domestic and international. I'm approaching the 3 week mark and, apart from the Krispy Kreme located cruelly and (in)conveniently at the exit of the metro station I frequent daily, I am really enjoying it.

I've learned many valuable lessons so far in my short time here. I've learned that Columbus Day is a holiday in which you don't have to report to work. This was only discovered after I spent 3 hours alone in the office trying to figure out where everyone was. I even searched through my email looking for the mysterious memo that everyone seemed to get but me. I had pretty much convinced myself of the existence of a vast conspiracy against me when my mother finally cracked the code: national holiday. go home. That was a big ah-ha! moment for me.

I also learned that my feet have a severe reaction to "work shoes." I'm now on my second round of blisters due to the daily commute and unforgiving footwear. Every morning I look at the women next to me on the metro and admire their reckless abandon as they unapologetically prance around in their stockinged feet and bright white tennis shoes. However, I've decided to take the tough love approach. I'm staying strong in pumps and heeding the brilliant advice of a dear friend: This isn't Nine to Five and you certainly aren't Dolly Parton. Suck it up. Words to live by.

Another priceless lesson: avoid large scale Target purchases at locations without a cab stand. I would have lived without the new garbage can and memory foam mattress pad if I would have known that it meant bypassing the 30 minute wait for a cab while enduring an incredibly awkward interaction with the very chatty, possibly homeless man who decided I needed company. Listen, when a woman look fine, Ima tell her. It's not a crime. I'm just trying to spread the love. I think he had his eye on the mattress pad.

I've learned that my inner GPS performs just as poorly in the States as it does abroad.

I've learned that mannequin heads can sting when hummed right at you. Apparently a presenter at a certain conference thought that his talk on violence and drug cartels would only be compelling if accompanied with such props. He got a little carried away and ended up throwing the "bloody" heads one by one into the audience. Strangely enough, in a relatively large auditorium, all four heads came straight at me. I wonder if this happens to all liberals who venture into the Heritage Foundation. Another possible conspiracy theory. All in all, I was impressed by my reflexes. I was like an amateur Jeter, skillfully batting them away.

And finally, I've learned the painful lesson that a crosswalk does not necessarily ensure pedestrian safety. This I learned when I was hit by a car on my walk home. I managed to dodge it for the most part and ended up only slightly plastered across the hood of the car. As I brushed myself off, I was consoled with the possibility of an impending meet-cute. Something along the lines of J. Lo and Matthew McConaughey in the Wedding Planner. I figured we could work through the whole "you hit me with your car" thing and I felt confident in my wardrobe choice that day. Thank God I stuck to the pumps. I anxiously waited as my McConaughey rolled down the window....with his wedding ring-clad hand. That's when I got pissed. Lesson learned.

Home

After my border escapades, I decided to take a break on the Oaxacan Coast. Oaxaca (pronounced Wa-haka) is a state in the south of Mexico, bordering the Pacific Coast. The beaches of Oaxaca are internationally known for their beauty and simplicity. They are barely developed, offering a few palapas and AC-less hotels. It is a wonderful place to unwind and reflect.

So, after an ill-fated 12 hour bus ride (I bought my ticket last minute and ended up by the bathrooms. Use your imagination...) from Tapachula, I finally arrived in Puerto Escondido. Puerto is a chameleon. Part of its charm is the international vibe. There aren't many Americans (they're all in Cancun), but there are tons of Europeans, mainly French and Italian. On one end is Playa Zicatela, a surfer's paradise, with insane waves and a definite hippie/bohemiam vibe. On the other end is a little fishing village where fishermen leave at sunrise and come back at sunset with their daily catch. About five minutes down the coast is Playa Carrizalillo. Nestled in a little alcove with pristine water, it is easily my favorite beach of all time.

I quickly dropped off some laundry (an absolute necessity, my jeans were getting pretty ripe) and went to the pharmacy to pick up some sunblock. This is when the pharmacist went off on a rant about how all these foreigners love to pet stray animals and then don't understand why they end up covered in flea bites. Damn French people. She then grabbed me and told me intently that dogs in Puerto were highly promiscuous and have begun passing STDs to humans through physical contact, so stay away. Doubtful, yet point duly taken.

My daily routine for the next few days was solitary and wonderful. It consisted of me waking up early, eating breakfast and then heading straight to Carrizalillo. Read a chapter, go for a swim. That's how a graduate student does the beach. Every day, the surfing instructor, Carlos, would try and entice me to take a surfing lesson, or go see the sea turtles, or go watch the sunset, or go get a drink (with him, of course). I would point to my book and he would just shake his head. I even turned down the fedora-clad French guy, Julian, even though I love how Frenchmen say my name. I ended every day watching the sunset alone. It was hard to drag myself away, but I know I'll be back at some point.

I went straight to Oaxaca City, via yet another overnight bus, to go see some friends of mine. These are friends that used to work with me in a New Orleans restaurant. The husband worked there for 7 years, with only one brief break and chance to his kids due to a deportation. He quickly made his way back to make money and care for his family. His wife joined him for 4 years as their kids were watched over by aunts and uncles back in Mexico. They worked daily and diligently, clocking in 80-100 hours a week each. Finally, after years of hard work and living in the shadows, they decided it was time to go back to Mexico. They've been home for about 5 months now.

I had been to their Oaxacan house once before, about 4 years ago. While travelling through, they asked me to go check in on their kids and send back some pictures. At that point, the house was a simple cement block, with one bedroom and a living room. The extension, funded by remittances sent back by the parents, was in its incipient stages. Their children proudly showed me pictures of their parents at various landmarks in New Orleans and asked me anxiously how they were doing. They wanted to know all about the restaurant and the city their parents lived in.

4 years later, they are a happily reunited family with a beautiful home complete with 4 bedrooms, a big screen TV (for Saints games) and a video game room where local kids can come and play video games at the rate of 10 pesos an hour. The husband works down the road in construction and the wife stays at home, enjoying time with her children. Their son is entering his senior year of high school and their daughter is in beauty school, all thanks to the sacrifices made by their parents. We went for ice cream and they showed me pictures of their family vacation to Puerto Escondido they had taken right when they got home.

Studying immigration, it is easy to get overwhelmed by the impossibility of it all. The policies, the violence, the poverty, the discrimination. It's sometimes hard to find hope in such a dire situation. Seeing this happy ending made me remember why I do it.

I am now back in Mexico City, preparing for my flight home tomorrow. I have the same mixture of feelings that I always do. Ready to go home, yet sad to leave the home I've made for myself while here. My Condesa will be dearly missed. Mexico City has been a steady figure in my life over the last decade, constantly gracious and forgiving of my impatience and communication limitations. It has seen me as a flighty sorority girl, as a college graduate just starting the adventure of grad school, and as an inquisitive and slightly unstable PhD student. It has seen me with boyfriends, friends, family, and now, alone. I can only imagine how it will see me next.

In the meantime, I will continue to be grateful for the freedom of movement that I have been blessed with, as I have been so poignantly reminded that this is not a luxury experienced by all.