The Great Wall

“Do you want to listen with me?” I asked Christina, handing her one of my earbuds.

“Thanks.” She said, sticking it into her ear.

On the train into the mountains, we stared silently out the window together. For me, traveling was like sliding into the murk of a dream. Every vehicle I rode brought me further away from any reality I ever knew. I loved listening to music when I could look out the window, headed somewhere fast. The melody flowed into the landscape passing by, the combination of music and scenery hit the electric synapses in my brain with startling clarity. I could be living in a movie; life seemed that perfect behind the glass, passing the world by at ninety miles per hour.  

The sky was unnaturally blue, even to my American standards. Beijing, only hours before, had been one of the most highly polluted cities in the world; the pollution index recorded levels going off the charts.

“Wind must’ve took it.” Dr. Jay had commented absently about the pollution when we walked out of our hotel that morning, gasping at the clear sky. Apparently, this was something like his thirtieth semester teaching American students in China. He was completely over touring the Great Wall.  

The rolling, mountainous greenery and the shrill, melancholic overtones of Bon Iver’s “Holocene” set me into a thoughtful trance. The train car was strangely spacious, two people could easily fit in my seat and I could barely touch the seat in front of me even with my legs fully extended. A tour guide had been erupting in long, harshly projected Chinese phrases for the past thirty minutes. I had tried to block her out with my music almost immediately. Mandarin was maddening; trying to learn it was like trying to fit my brain through a pin hole. I never thought I was ethnocentric until I left the country. Now, I suddenly loved everything Americans did, speaking in English especially. Through the window, the landscape seemed to eventually roll in on itself, repeating over and over again. My eyelids became heavy. I dozed off.

I could still remember the morning my plane was going to take off to Hong Kong, commencing my semester studying with the China Studies Program (CSP). I had laid in my bed, curled up in the fetal position, remaining motionless for a long time. My eyes were wide open, staring out the perfectly square window above me. I tried to hold onto the nostalgia of the familiar, weathered siding layering the back porch and the thin tree branches, waving in the breeze. I didn’t want to get up. Getting up commenced my journey to what was then only a concept--a design of my imagination. Everything felt so safe in that bed; it felt like my whole world.

Now, it seemed the past three months in China were leading up to this day. Finally we were going to see it. I liked the Terracotta Warriors in Xi’an, as well as the Summer Palace (it even snowed that day), and we all pretended to be interested in the Temple of Heaven and Forbidden Kingdom. In reality, however, they were the vegetables. The Great Wall was the dessert. I had laced up my Mizunos that morning. It wasn’t enough simply to walk along one of the greatest Medieval wonders of the world; I planned to run. I heard muffled excited noises behind me. We were getting closer. I opened my eyes in time to catch my first glimpse. The structure was falling apart in places, vines grew up between the cracks. The dull stone bricks were crumbly, like feta cheese. Christina had fallen asleep. I shook her and pointed out the window. We looked with our faces pressed against the glass like two little kids on Christmas day. When the train finally stopped, hundreds of people unloaded and started hiking up the road to buy tickets. The Wall continued snaking over the mountains into the horizon.     

We had finished the first third of our classes. Now, we were in the middle of the history of China, literally. The course itself was crashing us into over two thousand years of Chinese development. Leading up to our travels into the cities of Xi’an, Beijing, and Shanghai, we learned about the stages of culture shock. There are five:

1) elation

2) frustration

3) rationalization

4) alienation

5) accommodation

As I walked up to one of the tourists’ entrances to the Great Wall, shooting off my camera like a machine gun, I thought perhaps I was still in the elation stage. Or, perhaps my fellow American classmates cushioned the brunt of culture shock for me, defusing the stages’ intensity. More than likely, I was still going through the counter-cultural frustrations. Earlier that week, I had gone to the Silk Market in Beijing with a group of several students from CSP. Walking up and down the isles of merchandise felt overwhelming. The building was like a Western mall, except more stimulating. Clothes and bags of every shape and color imaginable were strung all the way to the ceiling. Shoes were everywhere, encompassing entire sections of the floor. One complete level of the building was dedicated to electronics, another to jewelry. I wasn’t planning on buying anything, yet it seemed impossible to ignore the venders. I found their vigor and determination for a sale a bit unsettling.

“Hello, lady, want to buy this? Come take a look, low price for you.”

A little white and Blue dress had caught my attention at one of the booths; it looked just my niece's size. I made eye contact with the woman selling the dress. She seemed young, maybe just a little older than me.

“Duo xiao qian?” I asked, self-conscious of my poorly spoken Mandarin.

She spoke to me in English, “This? Nine hundred and ninety.”

I shook my head. It was a ridiculous price.

“My company is very prestigious company in China. You come feel the quality of my clothes, come, come, feel the quality...”

I ended up walking away. The interaction with the lady was not unlike several others I had in Xi’an. She talked rhythmically, even in her broken English. Her words flowed smoothly, as if reciting a work of poetry. Yet behind her eyes I sensed subdued hostility. Even though I was dressed like a scrub (worn jeans and a baggy sweatshirt) I was foreign and to her I equalled potential profit, nothing more. I didn’t like the Silk Market. The majority of the consumers there were foreigners. Tall, Western middle-aged men dressed in perfectly pressed black suit coats and pants with shiny black shoes sauntered around in small groups. Western women of all shapes and sizes lined the tables, trying on the jewelry, bargaining for the best price, annoyed by the loud, dogged temperament of the vendors. The vendors themselves were relentless, leaning over their tables of merchandise, beckoning me over with the same forced, poetic diction, the same subtle aversion. I didn’t know who the consumers were. I felt like we were all trying to consume each other.

We were now touring a section of the Wall in Badaling, just outside of Beijing. Taking in the clean air and the dragon-like structure twisting and oscillating through the mountain peaks, I had fallen in love with China again. From our crash course in Chinese history, I learned that this section was built during the Ming Dynasty. According to the information plack nailed to the entrance, it was the first section of the wall to open to tourists in 1957. Exhilarated by the crisp air, I left my coat and camera with the group and started running. The wall was more like a twenty-five foot high, five thousand five hundred mile-long erratic staircase. Even with the twenty foot breadth from one side of the wall to the other, I found it hard to navigate around people. The uneven layers of stairs eventually began messing with my head, particularly going downhill, as it was difficult to judge depth. Some of the tourists laughed and pointed as I passed them, my face flushed and lungs heaving. As I looked around me at the never-ending trail of bricks and mortar disappearing into the distance, and the panorama of green mountains bubbling up along the horizon like a wrinkled bed sheet, I felt an overwhelming feeling larger than life. I was a stranger in a strange place. I looked into the faces of the people as I passed them. I understood I was the strange one, not them. In the States I was a stranger among familiar people. I knew the strangers there; I knew their language and their culture. On a very basic level, we understand each other. Here, on the Wall, not only were the faces unfamiliar, but the people themselves. I was gripped by their mystery. I thought the people were beautiful, even as they glanced over at me, showing a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and annoyance.  

I couldn’t know it then, but my feelings on the Wall of transcendence and benevolence toward humankind were underdeveloped. A couple weeks after touring Beijing, I did an internship with the local newspaper in Xiamen, the city where the university hosted the CSP students. Being forced to attend and write on campus and community events, I discovered more about life in Xiamen. The editor asked me to attended a Toastmasters meeting: a learning-by-doing workshop where participants make speeches to practice English. Later, while typing up the article, I learned the toastmasters enrollment was going 280,000 members strong and the individuals improve their English speaking and leadership skills by attending one of the 13,500 clubs in 116 countries that make up a global network of meeting locations. The goal of these meetings was primarily to becoming better English speakers. The weekly events encompassed impromptu talks and feedback afterwards on the quality of grammar use and pronunciation. I was welcomed into the group, and even asked to give a personal introduction. It was pointed out more than once how privileged I was to be a native English speaker. The Toastmaster or MC of the evening was Brian Huang: a dynamic, clean shaven, bald enthusiast in his mid-thirties. To begin the “warm up,” he bounced to the front of the room and wrote on the board: Heart Followers Create. He turned around dramatically and asked several participants in the group to stand and explain a positive experience when they created an opportunity by “following their heart,” including a twenty-something year-old girl, born outside the Fujian province, who confessed going against her parents’ will and moving to the city of Xiamen. Her confession was praised with nodding heads and vigorous clapping.

Eventually, Brian made eye-contact with me, “Please, you look like you have something to share with us, too.”

I stood up slowly. The eruption of clapping from the previous speech had died down so suddenly the room felt unnaturally quiet, especially considering the number of people present. “I followed my heart by…coming here…to China, to Xiamen.” I said, feeling childish. “I’ve been able to see and experience so many things, enjoying so many opportunities I never would’ve had in the States.” My statement was greeted with silence. I laughed nervously, pulling my thoughts together (I couldn’t imagine doing it in a second language), “I’ve met so many great people here, and although I was scared to leave at first, especially because I can’t speak Chinese, I’m glad I did. I’m just…really glad. Thanks.” I sat down quickly as the clapping began. I felt completely at a loss. I couldn’t express why I wanted to come to China.

A couple days before I left China for good, Brian invited me to dinner at a Western hotel. When I asked him what he meant by “Western,” He explained, “It’s a buffet style, with every kind of Western food.” I had been on a steady, four-month-long diet of fried broccoli and white rice with tofu. I couldn’t say no. Amanda, another newspaper intern, was invited too. Brian picked us up in one of the nicest, newest cars I had ever seen; it was a Rolls Royce I think. The inside was lined with black leather and smelled like wet chemicals straight from the assembly line. When we arrived at the hotel, I couldn’t find the door handle to let myself out.

“Where’s the...?” I trailed off, studying the car door and running my hands over its side in vain.

“It is underneath.” Brian indicated with his hand. I located the latch and laughed as I swung the door open, nearly ramming it into another 2013 Rolls Royce parked next to us.

I was tragically underdressed. Brian wore a cotton navy blue button-up with pressed black slacks and shiny black shoes. Amanda wore dress pants too, and an elegant off-white blouse. I hadn’t packed nice clothes and my budget didn’t permit much shopping. I wore my defaulted plain shirt and jeans. The lobby of the hotel looked like a royal ballroom, complete with a hanging crystal chandelier (at least twelve feet in diameter). We ascended the enormous spiral staircase to the food.  

As we entered the restaurant, my senses were vanquished by the smells and the futuristic design of the food displayed literally everywhere. Going from the adventurous, hole-in-the-wall food escapades I had made in the past, I felt like I had just skipped ahead a century. I passed the salad bar and went straight to the meat. I found whole, twelve ounce slabs of sirloin steak, cooked medium rare, simmering in little pools of blood and A1 sauce, and grilled boneless chicken breasts sauteed in oily garlic marinade, sprinkled with italian seasoning. It was real A1 sauce. There was pizza, bread, and seafood of every shape and color imaginable displayed on clear plastic shelving units like pieces in a modern art exhibit. Brian seemed nervous. He pulled out the chair for me, and bowed his head just slightly. His courtesy made me uncomfortable; the Japanese bow, not the Chinese. When we all had our plates of food and sat at the table, Brian leaned in eagerly and asked more questions about America than I had answers. Somehow the whole night felt off, starting with the drive in the Rolls Royce, to walking into the incredible hotel with the best food I could remember tasting. He was successfully impressing me, but throughout the night I couldn’t help feeling saddened and confused by it. In the same way I viewed the people on the Great Wall as a grand, mysterious, Chinese ideal, Brian saw me through a Hollywood lense, an Americanized paragon. It seemed to me the Open Door Policy had admitted more than international trade. China was searching for something. I could see the pursuit in the attitudes of its people, in Brian’s face as he sat across from me at the table, even in his preference of a knife and fork over chopsticks. He was so eager to hear my thoughts and gain insight about my country. Perhaps rapid development and success had become China’s religion, I thought. Brian wasn’t the only one who seemed to cling to the hope of prosperity seen in the West. The American Dream was quickly becoming China’s.

After forty-five minutes of running up and down the Great Wall’s never-ending staircase, I was ready to stop. I rejoined the group at a section of the Wall. We laugh, smiled, and took so many pictures. We asked to have our picture taken with random strangers and other strangers asked to have their picture taken with us. Then, after a few hours, we were ready to leave. Just that quickly, the day was over. Sitting in the train packed with people (somehow there was more people on the way back) felt terribly anticlimactic. This was the place that, during its construction, was called “the longest cemetery on earth” because so many people died building it. At one time, family members of those who died working on the Great Wall would carry a coffin on top of which was a caged white rooster. The rooster's crowing was supposed to keep the spirit of the dead person awake until they crossed the Wall; otherwise, the family feared the spirit would escape and wander forever along the Wall. Reportedly, it cost the lives of more than one million people. It was common to hear that the mortar used to bind the stones was made from human bones and that men are buried within the Great Wall to make it stronger. Even though it was later proven the mortar was actually made from rice flour—and no bones, human or otherwise, have ever been found in the Wall—the fact that the rumor continues to spread is a detail worth acknowledging. There was so much history, so much death and suffering poured into the construction of the lengthy historical monument, and, within a few hour’s time, we were completely over it. We had consumed it, like any other marketable product the country had to offer, and were ready to move on to the next thing.

As the train steadily gained speed, I stared out the window again, catching the last glimpses of the crumbling bricks and mortar. I put my earphones back in and allowed the rolling landscape to mesmerize my senses into the melodies of my playlist again. It already felt like I was worlds away from the Great Wall. The feeling after leaving the ancient ruins wasn’t what I was expecting. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly small. Back in the States, I used to think I was complicated; I was just riddled with layers of finely woven mystery. In China, I felt none of that. In the train, everyone was tired and solitary, plugged up with their own thoughts and music devices. The view of the Great Wall eventually disappeared behind us. I continued staring out the window, along with everyone else.

..

In honor of the Best Semester crew of the China Studies Program, Spring 2013

Miss you guys.

{dm}

The Descent

He was dreaming, but he didn’t know it. His dreams were becoming more and more vivid, to the point where he had difficulty knowing what was actually real. Over the past ten years, he had finally become an insomniac. He filled his sleepless nights with another job as a night auditor for a local mall. His multiple jobs kept him constantly working. He loved working, and although it left him little room to do much else, he didn’t seem to mind. In the dream, he found himself up on a Hill, appreciating the serene solitude it allowed him. There was no one else in sight or earshot. He realized he wanted more than anything to be alone, although he vaguely felt out of sorts without anything to do there, alone on the Hill.

He suddenly came across a stone well. He startled himself after realizing how thirsty he had become. He had been thirsty for an incredibly long time, but somehow was unaware of it until that moment. He began lowering the bucket down into the deep hole. Years went by, and he was still lowering the bucket. Eventually, he could not determine whether he was lowering the bucket down or drawing the water up. He lost himself in the motion, forever turning the rattling handle around in circles by himself. He became numb to everything, lulled by the subtle rattling in his ears as the little metal gears shifted, lowering the now invisible bucket into an infinite black hole. He did not mind the turning so much. The continuous, repetitive motion comforted him, despite the dry scratch in his throat. The vague expectation that there was drinkable water at the bottom of the well was enough to keep him going, it gave him an indefinite sense of purpose…until he eventually forgot about his thirst, or why he continued turning the handle, or even the purpose of the well.

The thought that the well was bottomless or dry occurred to him only fleetingly, he refused to dwell on the possibility. By the time he was actually willing to consider such possibilities seriously, he had already been turning the handle for so long, he did not know how to stop. Besides, what would he do if he did not continue turning the handle? It was such a delightfully simple task to forever repeat the same motion.

..

Quotes from The Catcher in the Rye

Currently, I'm reading The Catcher in the Rye. I haven't finished it yet, but I wanted to highlight some worthy quotes: 

"If you thought about him too much, you wondered what the heck he was still living for…But if you thought about him just enough and not too much, you could figure it out that he wasn't doing too bad for himself."

"I mean it. I'll be alright. Don't worry about me…I mean it. I'll be all right. I'm just going through a phase right now. Everybody goes through phases and all, don't they?" 

"If I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me. People always clap for the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddam closet." 

"Goddam money. It always ends up making you blue as hell." 

"He was singing that song, 'If a body catch a body coming through the rye.' He had a pretty little voice, too. He was just singing for the hell of it, you could tell. The cars zoomed by, brakes screeched all over the place, his parents paid no attention to him, and he kept on walking next to the curbing singing 'If a body catch a body coming through the rye." It made me feel better. It made me feel not so depressed any more."

"you kept wondering what the hell would happen to all of them. When they got out of school and college, I mean. You figured most of them would probably marry dopey guys. Guys that always talk about how many miles they get to a gallon in their goddam cars. Guys that get sore and childish as hell if you beat them at golf, or even just some stupid game of pingpong. Guys that are very mean. Guys that never read books. Guys that are very boring." 

"If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late? Nobody." 

"If you do something too good, then, after a while, if you don't watch it, you start showing off. And then you're not as good any more." 

"Did you ever get fed up?…I mean did you ever get scared that everything was going to go lousy unless you did something? I mean, do you like school, and all that stuff?" 

..

Salinger, J.D. The Catcher in the Rye. New York, NY: The New American Library of World Literature, Inc., 1953. Print.  

Don't Lead, Run

The snow was everywhere, mixing with the brown slush as we ran around in circles, knowing we'd get back eventually, just not knowing exactly how…or when. Outside on those crunchy white roads, a burning, stiff feeling spread through my feet and hands, and even the pale yellow lights felt cold, contained in little glass balls on tall hallow lamp posts, polluting the air with static brightness. It hadn't been so dark before we left. Eventually we stopped running and debating whether to cut through the massive white field on our right or wait and find a road further down instead.

..

It's okay to get lost. Getting lost doesn't make us incompetent, we make ourselves feel incompetent. 

I once got lost for three hours in a really big city. It was raining and I had a whole bunch of luggage with me. I am an expert in the directionally challenged department. When I was younger, I asked my mom to drop me off five minutes from my house, I wanted to run home. I got lost...five minutes from my house.

It's okay to get lost. It's okay to screw things up, to be terrible at something, to fail miserably, to look stupid, and to blush uncontrollably.

I put a lot of unnecessary pressure on myself to constantly perform exceptionally. Here's the conclusion I've come to: I shouldn't want to be exceptional, to stand out, or to lead. It's better to blend in, accept an anonymous existence, and embrace the fact that I'm such a small part of everything else. Strength comes from weakness (getting lost), or so I'm told.

Like most things, I relate leading to running. It is better to be lost than to lead. I don't want to lead. If I am considered a leader on the cross country team, it's only because I love to run. I don't want to lead, but I can't tell you how much I love running. I don't mean to make running more than it is, running isn't spiritual, but we are. There's more to life than running, but I think running brings more to our lives...

I don't want to lead, but I can't tell you how much I love running.

Leading our team was never about me or my ability to lead us, it was and always has been about running. It's much more than that, but running is fundamentally our action, not an ideology; it's something we put into practice everyday. Years from now, even after I have stopped, our team will continue running season after season and become a group of ladies I'll never meet, practicing the same thing I did everyday.

We could say it's the team that's most important, and it is, but the team would not come together without our ability to run; it will outlive all of us. I love running, but there were days (even seasons) when I really dreaded it. I have come to believe it's only when I actually love to run, when I understand the goodness of even the monotonous, frustrating, impossible days of daily practice, that I should lead. I should lead only because I have loved the daily action. I am not really a leader, I only love to run, and by loving, I invite others to join in and do the same.

Running will teach a lot about living, too. 

..

Good Things to Know About Loose Leaf Tea

Try it once and it's hard to go back to the bag. Since my first taste of the stuff in China, a whole world of exquisite natural flavor has been opened up to me, and the good news is I don't have to fly across the ocean to get ahold of this savory goodness, loose leaf tea is here in the States too.

I'll take the liberty to make a shameless plug for Teavana. There's other loose leaf teas out there, but Teavana's product is excellent (if not expensive). I'm not an expert, but I think their tea is worth the price tag.

Turns out there's perks to graduating from college. Along with a diploma, I received a graduation gift:

Teavana's Perfect Tea Maker

It's fascinating. Simply spoon in the tea, pour hot water into the top, let the tea steep 3-4 minutes, place it on the lip of a mug, and tea flows out the bottom. 

Along with the tea maker, I received the portable Teavana Contour Tumbler 

 Great for on-the-go. . .which I usually am.

After trying every tea brewed in the store, I decided on two flavors: Youthberry and Wild Orange Blossom. I loved the combination of the two, it is unlike any other tea I have ever tasted. 

 Teavana's German Rock Sugar enhances rather than overpowers the tea's flavor.
I think the added zing is especially great with ice. 

10 Teas to Try

These are the many perks of loose leaf tea. Teavana makes teas in most if not all of these categories. 

“When tea becomes ritual, it takes its place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things." ― Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the Hedgehog

“Some people will tell you there is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea.” 
― Ralph Waldo Emerson, Letters and Social Aims

“There are those who love to get dirty and fix things. They drink coffee at dawn, beer after work. And those who stay clean, just appreciate things. At breakfast they have milk and juice at night. There are those who do both, they drink tea.” 
― Gary Snyder

..

Adventures with Cooking

It's spring break! Instead of retreating into the sunshine and warm weather of the southern hemisphere, I'm in subfreezing-degree Michigan experimenting in my mother's kitchen. I pin so many recipes on Pinterest, now I'm finally getting around to trying a few:

Thursday: Black Bean Burger with Salsa Fresca 
& Avocado Crema

Get the RECIPE

I'll be honest, it took me an hour and a half to make. Still, I had fun! I made the burgers, the avocado spread, and the salsa. I absolutely loved the taste of everything, even if the rest of the family wasn't totally sold. ;)

Friday: Pizza

Get the RECIPE

This is the picture from the website. I bought all the ingredients for this recipe and then realized Walmart doesn't carry eggplant, which was supposed to substitute the bread crust. So...I just copped out and bought a pizza crust...pre-made. Where does one buy eggplant?

Saturday: Pad Thai

Get the RECIPE 

Since coming home from Thailand, I can't get enough Thai food. I am so pumped to make this, it's one of my absolute favorites. I found all the ingredients in the Asian section at Walmart.


Dessert: Chocolate Pudding 

Get the RECIPE

With the extra avocados from the black bean burger meal, I'm hoping to try this pudding recipe. It looks so good...and easy to make. :)



And that's it! Maybe I'll post pictures of the final products of these recipes, unless they're Pintrocities, then maybe not.

..
xoxo

Fife Lake: What I'm Secretly Glad I Still Remember

“This can’t be it. Is this it?” Dad was leaning over the steering wheel, straining for a better view through the windshield. My siblings were huddled in the back seats of the 1994 Dodge Ram pickup truck, respectfully silent, appalled. Mom, in the front passenger’s side with a stack of papers and books she had been reading, was checking the address. We were up north. We were near the coast of one of Michigan’s Great Lakes. We were near, but not on Lake Michigan. Fife Lake, to be accurate, wasn’t a lake at all. We had a pond in our backyard comparable to this.

“This is really the place?” Corrine asked after the long silence, sensing the devastating reality in the situation. Her crossed arms and cold, glossy-eyed expression were wordlessly judging the incompetence responsible for our circumstances.

“Let me see that address.” Dad said. He took the papers from Mom and got out of the truck. As soon as the door slammed shut we all talked at once.

“Is this the place, Mom?”

“Isn’t it next door?”

“Look at how nice and big those cabins are, all that space…” It was true, the cabins to the right of us were beautiful. Fat, perfectly round logs were notched and stacked, holding their natural coloring, with a luminous glaze-like finish. The doors were a warm, rustic green, with dainty grills on the windowpanes and curtains and even real shudders that opened and closed.

“I want to stay there, Mom.”

My mother, acknowledging our concerns, did her best to affirm that in fact we had booked the lovely cottages next door, that the “tiny,” “dumpy,” “ugly,” “poopy” shacks (that we so adamantly described) on this lot were not our home for the next week. Yet it was apparent she was as unsure as we were.  

Without a word, Dad came back. He turned the truck on and put it in reverse.

“This isn’t the place is it, Dad?” Corrine finally burst out.

My father, in an air of optimism and a hint indifference, cheerfully replied, “Yep. This is it.” He waited a moment to let the news sink in. “We’re over there on the left.”

We all immediately leaned over to the left side of the truck to see where Dad was pointing. Confirming our greatest fears, there sat the depleted remains of a cabin. It was hideous. Someone had painted it the color of vomit, an attempt to hide the decay of the logs underneath. Camping had never been a success for my family, and it wasn’t for lack of trying either. The first summer my dad brought home the pop-up camper straight off the lot commenced the beginning of some pretty terrible memories for all of us.

I can still remember the first morning I woke up in that trailer. We were at a state park in Michigan (we only went camping in Michigan). It had rained the night before, which wasn’t surprising. Dad used to joke that if there was ever severe drought in the area, we all needed to pile in the truck and go camping for the weekend. “One-hundred percent chance of rain!” He’d say, shaking his head. The night before, I had fallen asleep to the sound of rain pounding on our plastic roof. I felt afraid, and justifiably so. Either the plastic amplified the noise of the water to an incredible magnitude (which it did), or we were in the midst of a deluge (which we probably were). Either way, our poor shetland sheepdog had been left outside in its kennel. In the middle of the night I awoke to panic-stricken yelping. In a stroke of sleep-induced genius, my dad unfastened his side of the canvas-covered mattress to get outside and save the dog from the puddle of water filling up in its cage. Water that had piled on the top of the canvas flooded the camper. I still remember the image of my dad, soaked through, standing out in the mud with a flashlight in his whitey-tighties, fastening the side of the canvas back together. When I woke up, my pillow was wet and I could almost taste the stench of wet dog. Along with the pillow, my sleeping bag was damp, together with the pull-out mattress and the sides of the canvas. My clothes and hair clung to my body, sticking with this unfamiliar, all-intrusive wet adhesive. And it was still raining. In fact, it rained the entire weekend. I don’t remember how many games of Uno and Sorry we played, but it was enough to make us all a little more irritable.

Pop-up trailer camping and driving long distances were not the warmest of memories my family shared together, which was why we were all excited to try a rustic log cabin experience not too far from home. Mom was on the emailing list for the “Home School Connections,” a huge group of homeschoolers who collaborated together, buying and selling curriculum, organizing special events, and doing their best to provide social environments for their children. Mom came across a brochure advertising a log cabin in a quaint town in northern Michigan boasting “the best forth in the north.” The brochure had one photo of a bedroom and a brief description of the cabin and surrounding area. Mom showed Dad, contacted the lady, and the rest is history. Before the drive up, my parents did their best to pump us up for the occasion.

“We’re going on vacation!” Mom exclaimed to my two-year-old little sister, Brielle, lifting her up in the air.

“I want to go on vacation!” Brielle declared enthusiastically.

“Vacation!” We’d all echo together in the car. “Ye-e-eah! We’re going on vacation! We’re going on vacation!”

And here we were, appraising for the first time our one-stop vacation destination. Being eleven years old had taught me a lot about the world; pieces of adult reality were beginning to fit together like the underdeveloped neurons in my brain. I was starting to own my consciousness (for better or worse), and I was old enough to know we had just gotten incredibly ripped off.

After Dad put the truck in park, I got out with the rest of my family started unloading (we had packed an incredible amount of stuff). Dad unlocked the cabin’s front door and we followed him in. The first thing to hit me was the smell. Nathan dropped his duffle bag to cover his nose and I immediately followed suit. The stink was not of something dead or rotting, but of something living and growing: the unmistakable fetor of mildew. Even apart from the smell, the kitchen lacked any nostalgic, antiquated impression of bygone days. Not only was it old, it was old and cheap. The paint filming the walls looked like urine, the cupboards were made from tin pot thin plywood. Some of the hinges on the doors were loose, others were gone completely. There was an obvious bow in one corner of the ceiling with rodent feces on the floor directly beneath it. A collapsible design of dented metal served as the table, with only two chairs to match. 

In an attempt to ease the reality of the situation, Mom mechanically continued unloading our things, commenting about the details on the website, how the cabin wasn’t like anything she anticipated, and how, well, the quilt in the bedroom really was actually quite lovely. Unhindered by our half-joking (yet actually completely serious) complaints of the ridiculous condition of the cabin, Brielle wandered around the living room with her blanket over her nose stating repeatedly, “I want to go on vacation…” We all politely avoided her, making momentary eye contact with each other, sadly chuckling about the irony of her declaration. None of us had the heart to tell her that’s exactly where we were.

..

“That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour...That's why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember." - Ted Hughes 

{dm}