London Talks Back

During my time in London, I learned to admire British culture. I’ll admit when I first arrived I felt very out of my element. The variety of accents, the bluntness of the people and even their mannerisms were so different from what I’d known that even basic interactions were a bit of a struggle for me. No amount of Jane Austen novels or Sherlock episodes could have prepared me for real interactions with British people. Within the first week I quickly adapted, but I guess it was more so the fact that I wasn’t expecting to feel the cultural divide as much as I did. I’d grown up admiring and learning about British people my entire life so I thought I knew what to expect. I was wrong.

British people are the most polite group of people I’ve ever met. It’s funny though, because their bluntness I believe may be construed as rude in the U.S. or other parts, but I loved it. They were so much more efficient with conflicts, because they were much more open to voicing their opinions rather than beating around the bush. To give a quick and humorous example, I dated a British guy named “Michael” who really did in my opinion exemplify all of the major observations I’d made about British culture, and I got to experience them first hand during our relationship. One day towards the end of my stay in London, I had a childhood friend named “Ivonne” visit me for a few days so we took her out for a drink with us and a few of Michael’s co-workers. I was sharing a story about when my older brother visited me in Boston and complained about the amount of walking that I made him do. Living in the suburbs with his own car, my brother doesn’t walk much in general. After telling the humorous experience to point out how I didn’t even realize how much walking I do living in a city, Michael curiously asked, “Yea, but isn’t your brother really fat?” Those were literally his exact words. I know he didn’t say it maliciously or with the intent to insult, he was genuinely curious. At this point, I’d adapted to the bluntness so I simply replied that yea he is indeed a bit overweight. Ivonne died laughing. This was her first night in London, and she was certainly not used to this type of bluntness. She quipped, “Man, you guys really are blunt here!” Michael looked confused by her statement. I laughed at Ivonne’s comment, glad that I’m not the only one who noticed how odd it is for us for people to be that honest.

Ivonne’s two days in London were actually odd in my experience with London. It was during my last week so I took advantage of her stay to do all of he touristy things in London that I hadn’t already done. What made her final day memorable was how Londoners simply chimed into our conversations out of nowhere.

The first instance happened when I went to Sainsbury’s to buy credit for my phone. As we were exiting the grocery store, Ivonne asked me what this signal by the bars on her phone meant. I told her I didn’t know, but then out of nowhere a woman with three bags of grocery bags on each hand who was literally like 10 feet away from us, turns around and explained the signal as she continued walking away with her groceries.

The second instance was when Ivonne and I took the tube. When we arrived at Westminster station, I momentarily forgot where I needed to go and just follow the crowd. I found myself leading Ivonne to go downstairs when we were trying to get out of the station. I revealed to Ivonne, “I think we went the wrong way, but I can’t be sure, I’m just following the crowd, but I’m pretty sure that this is the wrong way to get out.” London is a very crowded city so we were surrounded by people and at this point, we would’ve been annoying if we tried to turn around and go upstairs when literally everyone was going downstairs. However, amidst the crowd a woman, who was a little further ahead of us down the stairs, turned around and responded, “Yes, you guys are going the wrong way.” With this confirmed, Ivonne and I decide to be those annoying Americans and turn around and fight our way back upstairs.

The last instance of the day was when Ivonne and I went to the bank. Since she was studying abroad in Spain, Ivonne only had Euros so she needed to go to Barclay’s to take out more pounds for the day. As we stood at the ATM machine behind this older man who was withdrawing money, Ivonne and I discussed what we planned to do that day to determine how much money she needed to take out. I said, “Well we are doing the London Eye, we’re going lunch, we’re going to Portobello Market to do some shopping and then we’re going to dinner, so you’ll probably need like 100 pounds.” Ivonne asked surprised, “Really? 100 pounds? That’s a lot!” Then I remembered, “Oh, we’re also going to get ice cream!” The man in front of us finished his transaction with the machine, and then turned around and said, “You’re definitely going to need more than 100 pounds,” and then walked away. Ivonne and I looked at each other baffled.

British people are nothing without their wit and humor. I love it. I appreciated them taking pity on two silly American girls, and helping us out when we were clearly struggling to understand certain things.

What’s My Name Again?

When I was 13 years old, I was an idiot. This was unfortunately the year where I, along with the rest of America’s youth went through our “emo phase.” My wardrobe consisted of band t-shirts that were three sizes too large for me, and jeans that were two sizes too large for me. My make-up consisted of black eyeliner and nothing else. My identity crisis was topped off with the love of emo rock music, listening to bands like Weezer, Fall Out Boy, Greenday, Linkin Park and my all-time favorite, My Chemical Romance. MCR was la crème for me. Their music was catchy and really resonated with my tortured preteen soul.

My mother being the young and hip mom that she was, got me tickets for my birthday to go to my first concert to see MCR at the Warped Tour. I was beyond excited. At the time, seeing the lead singer Gerard Way in person was something I only dared dream about.

It was a hot summer day in July when we went to the concert. This was in Atlanta, GA so a hot day is like 90 degrees Fahrenheit. It took over an hour for my mom and I to wriggle our way to the front row of the crowd. We got a perfect spot right up against the metal fence right as MCR walked on stage to start the performance. Then, I got to see what being at a rock concert looked like. The band played their first note and the crowd went wild. People started jumping up and down, mosh pitting and crowd surfing. My mom freaked out. It was her first rock concert as well. Within minutes, a guy fell on top of me since I was too short and weak to help him continue crowd surfing. My mother saw and immediately responded by grabbing the guy and throwing him off of me. She was a natural for this type of event. Everything was so chaotic! Despite the fact that we were in the front row, I could barely enjoy the performance; I was too preoccupied trying to protect myself from everyone who surrounded me.

By the third song, the heat, the violence and the screaming overwhelmed me. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to stay calm, because despite the fact that I felt like I was experiencing my first panic attack, I didn’t want my mom to see and force me to leave. I’d been dreaming about this concert for months! But, my mother doesn’t miss a beat, or a breath for that matter. She immediately noticed that I was unwell and screamed at the security guard on the other side of the metal fence to get me out. He saw me and with one arm, effortlessly picked me up by the waist and brought me to the other side. I was directed to a first-aid tent that was on the side of the stage. There were three other girls who had actually fainted from the heat and being in the crowd. This was only minutes into the performance of the main band! A nurse gave me water, but once I caught my breath I started panicking again because I was 13 and I had lost my mommy. I didn’t know how I was going to find her since she was still stuck in the crowd, and I was on the side of the stage. Yup, I was/am a really big baby. Once the tears started spilling over, I saw my mom walk up to the first-aid tent, and then ask me nonchalantly, “What’s wrong?” I explained I was worried I wasn’t going to be able to find her. She laughed at me.

She revealed that immediately after she screamed at the security guard to grab me out of the audience, she asked him to do the same for her by pretending that she also couldn’t breathe. Although, she embarrassingly admitted that she was not as east to pluck from the crowd as I was. The security guard couldn’t just pick her up with one hand like he did me. She laughed as she explained that two guys behind her had to help her by pushing her over the fence.

We enjoyed the rest of the concert from the side of the stage where we had as much space as we wanted. When the concert ended something miraculous happened. The band exited on the side of the stage where we were! Gerard Way was 10 feet away from me. The third panic attack started. It was a really stressful day for me! My mom saw my eyes bulge and suggested that I go over and ask for an autograph and a picture. There were only about 10 other fans who were in this backstage area, but they all had backstage passes; I feared we’d get kicked out. I said to my mom, “You don’t just go up to Gerard Way mom.” I was content just admiring him from afar and didn’t want the moment to end by asking for too much and then getting kicked out. Yea the fan-girl crush with Gerard Way was huge. My mom rolled her eyes at me, and walked up to him with no fear. She didn’t listen to MCR’s music so to her he was just another guy who happened to wear a lot of black eyeliner. I looked like a deer in headlights. I didn’t know if I should follow her or stay where I was. My fear told me to stay put.

After a couple of minutes of watching my mom casually converse with the man of my dreams, they both looked over at me, and my mom beckoned me to walk over. I made my way toward Gerard Way with my heart pounding a hundred beats a second. I couldn’t think of what to do or say. My mom carried the conversation by saying, “This is my daughter, I took her to your concert as her birthday present, because she loves you guys.” Gerard Way smiles at me. He SMILED at me and asked, “What’s your name?” You know, I think it was kind of unfair of him to ask such a difficult question. I was in a very fragile state and was not prepared to handle this type of interrogation. I blanked. Yea, I forgot my name.

Once too many seconds went by without me saying anything, my mom took the reins again and introduced me since I was clearly incapable of doing so myself. Gerard flashed another gorgeous smile my way and said that it was really nice to meet me. I was able to respond this time with a smile. No words, just a smile. My mom decided to win herself mother of the year award by asking him for an autograph and a picture. Being the sweetheart that he is, Gerard obliged and I was able to eternalize the greatest and stupidest moment of my life.

A Lack of Discretion

When you’re studying abroad, it’s impossible for you to keep any secrets. In Grenoble, I was put with a host family, which was more of just a host mother named “Madame Siron.” She was the strongest and wisest woman I’d ever met. A survivor of World War 1 and 2, Madame Siron was clearly a woman to be respected and who understood what the important things in life were. What made her so lovable was that she had maintained her kindness or positivity. She was a happy woman with her routine and her own life; despite the many obstacles life has thrown at her. I could not have asked for a better host mother. But she was tough and worried about me like every mother does.

In the very beginning of my enchanting semester abroad, I was lucky enough to make several French friends who took me under their wing and introduced me firsthand to French culture. One girl named “Sabine” invited me to her birthday party at her home. I had met Sabine and her group of friends at a bar and had only hung out with them once before she extended the invitation, so I was extremely flattered. Sabine and her friends were exceptionally kind, welcoming and patient with my level of French. They were all so accommodating that when they hung out with me, everyone in the group would speak entirely in English so that I could understand and contribute. I seriously have no idea why people think the French are so rude or pretentious, because to me they were the kindest people I’d ever met.

Anyway, Sabine’s home was outside the downtown area of Grenoble where I lived so a friend gave me a ride to the party. Upon arrival, I realized how intimate the party actually was. The guests included Sabine’s two sisters, two cousins, her boyfriend, her two best friends and me. I’m still bewildered by the fact that I was invited, but I was touched by the gesture. Sabine said to me, “You know when I studied abroad in Australia, a group of people really took care of me and made me feel welcome, and I’d like to do that for you. That’s why I invited you.” It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for me, and the party was so much fun! It was very French in the sense that there were like 10 bottles of wine for eight people with a variety of cheeses, breads and prosciutto offered as snacks. It was the classiest and most low-key party I’d ever been to.

It was 2 a.m. when I realized that everyone had planned to spend the night at Sabine’s house since we’d all been drinking. One of the rules of the program is that I had to inform my host mother if I was going to spend the night somewhere else. Unfortunately, I only had the house phone of my host mother so when I realized I was spending the night at Sabine’s I didn’t dare call my host mother and wake her up in the middle of the night just to inform her I was staying out. So I went to sleep and figured I’d just explain to her what happened in the morning when I returned.

I wake up the next morning with three missed calls from the Main Program Director, two texts messages from her daughter who is the other Program Director and two missed calls from one of my friends who was in my study abroad program. I opt to call my friend Brendon first to find out what was happening, but I already knew. He immediately asks me where I am and if I’m alive. Obviously, I was since I was talking to him so I start firing with questions to figure out what’s the emergency. He explained that my host mom noticed that I didn’t return home the night before so she called the police and the Program Director this morning extremely worried. Also, because Brendon is such a good friend, when asked by the Program Directors if he knew about my whereabouts, his reply was, “I don’t know the last time I saw Ariana, she was getting a ride with a random French dude.” Despite the fact that he didn’t know I was going to a birthday party of a French girl, he decides to insinuate something much more scandalous. While I spoke to Brendon, he mentions that he’s at the Study Abroad office at that moment, and then I hear him scream out, “I’m talking to Ariana now, she’s fine.” He returns his attention to me by notifying me that the Program Directors want me to come into the office immediately.

I asked a friend at the party for a ride back to the downtown area of Grenoble since the house was outside in a more suburban area and out of reach of the public transportation. On my way, I start to panic. They can’t actually kick me out of the program for staying out overnight, right? I’m 21 years old; I’m an adult! (At least I like to think so.) I enter the Study Abroad office shaking. It’s the beginning of the semester so I didn’t really know the Program Directors that well and they didn’t know me. (Although, as a side note, they’re both two of the loveliest people I’ve ever met.) Getting in trouble so early on was not the greatest first impression. “Margot” the Head Program Director who has run the study abroad program in Grenoble for the past like 20 years was angry and ready to show it. However, her daughter “Colette,” who seemed more like the protective, but approachable older sister, balanced her out. Margot immediately started lecturing me on how disrespectful it was to stay out overnight without telling my host mother in advance. I agreed, but then explained the situation on how I didn’t know until very late in the evening that I was staying out, and due to my host mother’s age she only has a landline phone, which I didn’t want to call due to the time. Apparently, I was wrong. My host mother had a cell phone. I wasn’t sure she even knew what a cell phone was! I just assumed she didn’t have one, because when she gave me her contact information, a cell phone number was not included, and I’d only ever seen her speak on a landline phone! I was blown away.

I quickly apologized, because from the beginning I knew I was in the wrong. However, Colette seemed to find the whole situation amusing. She sat there smiling the whole time Margot was lecturing me, before she quipped, “You know Ariana if you were trying to be discreet with your affairs, this was the worse possible way to do it.” I died from laughter. She was completely right! I didn’t even bother trying to correct what I knew they were assuming with “my affairs.” I accepted the warning with gratitude and humor, and then went on my way, happy that I was able to stay in France and continue with my scandalous ways.

“The More I Move, the Better I Feel”

As a graduating senior at Boston University, one of my major goals this year has been to get out of my comfort zone and see more of Boston before I move on to the next chapter of my life. One of my close friends at BU named “Tracy” is a very spiritual and open person; in short, she’s pretty much a hippie. I love her for it. She’s the friend I go to when I want a completely new experience that takes me out of my comfort zone in every way, and one Friday night she delivered. Tracy is a hardcore yogi, which is a term I learned from her meaning that she does an insane amount of yoga and is very involved in the yoga community. I was unaware a yoga community even existed before I met Tracy. She found out through her fellow yogi friends about a yogi dance night that featured a DJ and a space where people just danced barefoot any way they wanted to. She excitedly told me about the experience and invited me to go with her to another event that the same DJ would be hosting.

I’ve never done yoga in my life, nor have I danced barefoot anywhere else besides in my living room. The idea itself didn’t sound too fun, but Tracy insisted that she had such a great time and convinced me to give it a shot. So, on a Friday night Tracy and I made the “long trip” of crossing the Charles River into the Cambridge side, which during a Boston winter is a huge feat, I think. We found this small church that was the address. I didn’t know the event was being held at a church, and I’m far from religious so already I was uncomfortable. My discomfort intensified once I entered.

There were 20 people before me dancing barefoot who I swear must’ve been the original hippies from the ‘70s. They were older than my parents. Tracy and I were the youngest people there by like 30 years. I didn’t know what to say. Tracy and I had already made the effort to come all this way and we each paid $5 to get in so we’d already committed time and money. Although with one look Tracy knew I was extremely uncomfortable. She looked surprised as well, but was determined to make the best of the situation. Seeing my expression she immediately responded with, “C’mon we already paid and we’re here so let’s at least stay for an hour.” An hour never seemed so long to me.

Once we arrived, it seemed the rest of the group was ready to “get the party started” by sitting on the ground and forming a circle. The hostess started the night off by having each person introduce themselves with his or her name and hometown. Everyone else seemed to already know each other. Afterwards, she felt the need to include some rules. She warned, “If someone is dancing too closely to you and makes you feel uncomfortable, please just come and find me and I’ll handle it for you.” Tracy and I couldn’t hold in our laughter from that comment, which got us some dirty looks. Unfortunately, I laugh when I’m uncomfortable in order to try to make the situation less awkward, but it normally has the opposite effect.

With introductions and the rules of the dance church party out of the way, the first dance was done with the whole group staying in a circle formation and holding hands. It was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life; I had never been so out of my element. Luckily, the group dance only lasted for one song, and then everyone separated and started to boogey in his or her own way. The dance church party quickly went from being extremely uncomfortable to really fun! It was such a liberating experience to be able to dance in public the way I only let myself dance in my living room in private. No one cared what the person next to him or her was doing! The environment that they created was completely judgment-free. Tracy and I thought we were only going to stay for an hour and we ended up staying the full four hours just dancing the night away. There was one particular man who was a bit older than the average 50-year-old. He was also a bigger build and dressed a bit more old-fashioned wearing a white buttoned-down shirt, nice black trousers and suspenders. He sat on a small bench in the dancing area just watching as everyone moved, and he seemed to want to join in, but didn’t. When the DJ played a waltz, I walked over to the man and asked him if he would dance with me. He immediately got up, and I could just see the happiness in his eyes as we waltzed around the dance room. He was a natural. We chatted a bit about the event, and he revealed that it was his first time attending as well. Then he said the most adorable thing, “You know, the more I move, the better I feel.” It was true. After our waltz, he stayed dancing, and I realized the beauty of this event.

I entered full of judgments of the people there and the purpose of the event, but I was wrong to do so. These people created this space free of judgment where people could express themselves with their bodies and relax. It was so liberating! I left feeling happy, and I met so many genuinely kind people. A night that I thought was going to be terrible based on first impressions, ended up being one of the best nights I’d had in awhile. The dance party ended with one last dance that was again done in a circle with everyone holding hands, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. By the end I felt connected to everyone there, and the communal dance was full of love. Yea, I know I sound like a hippie, but that’s what dance church does to you I guess. It was a new and different experience that I’m glad I tried, because what’s life without some spontaneity?

Going Down the London Tube

I had the privilege of being able to study abroad in London. I studied abroad in London first, because to me London was the dream. Growing up reading Jane Austen and watching movies set in 18^th century England convinced me that I was born in the wrong place and time. The history, beauty and character that England offered enchanted my childhood. So arriving in London felt like a dream. I had a Swiss friend who was in graduate school in London at the time come pick me up at the airport and take me to her place before I moved into my flat the next day (yes, I did make the effort to incorporate their vocabulary while I was there, because it’s so much cooler and sounds more proper than American vocabulary. I also spelled colour with a u, deal with it.)

With my internship, and the fact that I thought that London was going to be in two different seasons from January to May I brought two large suitcases, a carry-on suitcase and my laptop bag. Of course, I quickly learned London has one season: rain. I also made the mistake of assuming that my friend Cara would be willing to help me with my luggage. Unfortunately, she had sprained her ankle while walking and that somehow hindered her ability to roll a suitcase so she only offered to take my carry-on, which left my 5’1 frame carrying a 50 lbs. suitcase in each hand. To get to Cara’s apartment we had to ride the London Tube, which already had me jumping in my seat with excitement and amazement. The London Tube was such an amazing experience that it made me feel like I was at a 5 star hotel. It made the Boston T look like a hostel that would most likely give you bed bugs in comparison. London even has a museum dedicated to the history of the London Tube! I can understand why; the efficiency and comfort of the Tube never ceased to impress me for the five months that I lived there.

Once we arrived at Cara’s stop, I had to go up the escalators with my two large suitcases that added up to be 100 lbs., which was only eight lbs. less than my entire body weight. I’m petite and I’m weak. These are two things about myself that I’ve learned to accept, and most of the time as long as I put on a pathetic look that screams “Help me please,” a nice gentleman offers his assistance and I’m off the hook. Not this time.

There was no one behind me to for the escalator going up to scream for help with my eyes and my friend Cara had gone ahead of me with my 10 lbs. carry-on suitcase. I was on my own. Looking back, I’ll admit my strategy sucked, but I was afraid to leave a suitcase by itself in a city I’d been in for about an hour and to me running on to the escalator with a suitcase in each hand seemed like my best bet. It was a terrible idea. I dropped both suitcases and the escalator would drag my suitcases up and then they’d fall down, while I was rising up. So for the first time in my life I got to fulfill a fantasy of running against an escalator, but under the worst circumstances.

Of course, I was wearing high-heeled black boots as well because, high heels are a requirement in my life if I want to be eye-level with most people and not hurt my neck from having to look up all the time. But, the high-heeled boots actually caused me to fall not once, not twice, but more than five times in my attempt to run again the escalator in order to pick up my suitcases so that they weren’t just rising and falling on the escalator. This scenario didn’t just go on for 3 seconds, it went on for like two minutes, because somehow in this timeframe there was no one who needed to use this escalator to go up so I was alone. Although, the opposite escalator going down was packed and many people got free entertainment and apparently felt the need to immortalize this moment by pulling out their phones to take pictures and record my struggle so that my patheticness could be documented and shared.

Eventually a woman came behind me to get on the escalator and she was able to pick up one suitcase and I the other. However, I could not move on from the fact that my grand entrance to this beautiful, prestigious city that I’d dreamt about going to my entire life was probably uploaded to YouTube as “Pathetic Girl on Tube.”

The Ex Co-worker

One of the fundamental rules when working is to never get involved with your co-workers. I broke this cardinal rule my sophomore year at college when I worked at Starbucks (which is still my miserable part-time job until May when I finally become a real person.) A graduate student named “Ken” started working with me after having just moved to Boston, and we got along great at work. He eventually asked me out and I excitedly accepted. He was the first guy in college who I was genuinely interested in dating. I’ll spare you the brief “relationship” that we had since it only lasted two months and ended awkwardly.

I was the one who eventually ended it for a variety of reasons, including the fact that he seemed unable to retain anything I said either due to stupidity or lack of attention. I made the mistake of saying, “I still want to be friends” when I ended it. I said it not be a liar, but to make working with him less awkward since we still had to work together roughly eight hours a week. However, I had no intention of actually hanging out with him outside of work. But c’mon everyone uses that line!

Luckily, we dated the spring semester of my sophomore year so I only had to endure roughly two months of awkwardness at work and avoiding his texts and calls before summer hit. When I returned as a junior we didn’t have any shifts together, and then I left campus for a semester to study abroad in London during his last semester as a graduate student. However, I stayed in Boston over the summer for an internship, and continued to work at Starbucks to pay my bills. So of course, I ran into him. Do you have those people in your life who when you see them, they never fail to remind you why they’re no longer in your life? Ken is one of those people for me. I feel bad saying that, because for all-important purposes he seems like a perfectly nice guy who means no harm, but it amazes me how little attention he puts in conversation. I think a wall pays more attention to me when I’m speaking than Ken ever did. The funny thing is that I’m not the only one who noticed this about him. After we broke up, everyone at Starbucks told me how annoying they found him, because he never paid attention so training him took double the time it should have!

Anyway, he came into Starbucks for his final paycheck since he’d already graduated and had a full-time job. I was working at the register at the time and my manager was a new worker named “Kendra” who I had just met a few weeks before this happened since I’d been gone for a semester. Coincidentally, just the week before she brought up Ken and how she knew he had dated a co-worker but didn’t know whom it was. I revealed that I was the co-worker since gossip spreads like wildfire in the food service industry. I figured I’d move the conversation along in order for it to be irrelevant quicker, and I was pretty sure she was the only person who didn’t already knew we’d dated.

When Ken entered, we locked eyes and I could immediately see his displeasure as I tried my hardest to hide mine by acting pleasant and friendly. We were catching up a bit since it had been almost a year that we hadn’t seen each other, until Kendra came over and greeted Ken. She instantly started gossiping about how she’d met the girl he’d dated. She goes on about how this girl had said all of these terrible things about him and started lecturing Ken about how he should never date co-workers. As she was saying this in front of both of us, I could feel my face light on fire. Kendra went on and on about how dating co-workers always ends so badly and that she didn’t understand why this girl didn’t like him, etc. I was stunned. It astounded me not only that this was happening, but also that someone could have such terrible memory. How could she have forgotten that the person she’s talking about is me when the conversation happened a week ago?!? Even Ken was extremely embarrassed and uncomfortable as he tried to hint to Kendra the awkwardness by mumbling, “Kendra, you don’t even know what you’re doing right now.”

To add the cherry on top of this epically awkward situation, once Kendra was done with her lecture on the problems with dating co-workers, she turned to me and asked with a genuinely confused expression, “Ariana, why are you blushing?” I was shaking with rage and as she so kindly stated, red in the face with embarrassment. Once she walked away, I had no idea what to say to move on from what just happened. My go-to strategy is to make a bad joke, and then just move on. So I sarcastically said, “Well, it’s nice to know that people still talk about how we used to date!” Ken had the decency to fake laugh, because it was a terrible joke, and then we went back to catching up on each other’s lives. But then it got much worse. Ken took this opportunity to remind me of one of the key reasons of why I broke up with him.

I think that when I had pointed out to Ken that he doesn’t pay attention to people when they speak, it struck a chord with him. Ever since, he’s tried to prove me wrong every time he sees me. It’s funny, because when he tries to prove me wrong, he ends up confirming my observation. In this situation, Ken proudly brought up how he remembers where I’m from, and states Guatemala. I’m not from Guatemala. I am from ECUADOR. They are two very different countries. There are people who have only met me once who have been able to remember that I am Ecuadorian. This is a fact that I would have expected a guy who I dated for two months to have remembered. But, it gets even better! When he got my nationality wrong, I just laughed. I wasn’t even angry! I just felt sorry for the guy, because it was pretty pathetic in my opinion that even in his attempt to prove my analysis of him wrong, he continued to reaffirm it. So I jokingly said to him, “Do you even know my last name?” giggling as I say it, because I thought I was just teasing him. Apparently, I had asked a difficult question. Ken did not remember my last name. A guy I dated for two months who seemed crushed when I ended things and spent months trying to win me back could not remember my last name. That’s when it stopped being funny and I was left speechless.

Ken tried to play it off like his ignorance wasn’t uncommon by asking me if I remembered his last name. I replied by telling him his last name, where he was from, and where he got his undergraduate degree without hesitation. You know how I did that? By paying attention to people when they speak to me. After I proved my point by stating these simple facts about him, I made it clear the conversation was over by saying that I hoped he had a nice day and then walking away. Please someone tell me that most men are not as oblivious as Ken and that there’s hope!

Avez-vous sida?

Being in a foreign country is like being a baby. People have to speak to you extremely slowly, everything around you is new, exciting and terrifying, and you’re always exhausted from trying to communicate. Studying abroad in Grenoble, France was the most exhilarating, eye-opening, beautiful and petrifying experience of my life. I went after only having studied five semesters worth of French and unable to form complex sentences, but left France conversationally fluent. However, there were many humiliating experiences that contributed to the development of my French skills.

The most embarrassing experience was during my first week in Grenoble when I went to a bar with friends. Fluent in Spanish, one of my main strategies in speaking French was to cover up when I didn’t know a word in French by saying the word in Spanish or pronouncing English word with a Spanish accent, and hope that somehow the French would understand me. I think this tactic worked like once. However, I used this strategy at the bar when the bartender asked me what I wanted to drink. Being obsessed with cider after living in London for a few months, I wanted to know if he sold any, but quickly realized mid-sentence that I had no idea how to say cider in French. I opted to say cider in English with a Spanish accent to see if he would somehow, miraculously understand me. Instead, he gave me a look like I was crazy, then looked at other patrons to make sure that he wasn’t the only one who had heard what I had said. Everyone around me burst out laughing.

The bartender was kind enough to explain to me in broken English that I had just asked him if he had AIDS, and then responded to my question by saying that he did not. Mortified, I could do nothing else but join in on the laughter at the awkwardness of the situation and profusely apologize for my lack of French skills. But you know, you learn something new every day and that day I learned how to say AIDS in French.

Helping out a Hypnotist

I’ve always been intrigued by people who claim to have supernatural-like abilities. Being hypnotized and having my palm read are things that always seemed so cool to me. I don’t necessarily believe that these people are magical, but I am open to the possibility that there is value in their abilities.

At 15 years old, my best friend Nina invited me to go on a cruise with her mother and her due to a last minute emergency where her brother couldn’t go. A cruise has always been another item on my bucket list of things I’d love to do, so I excitedly accepted. Once on the cruise ship, there were an unlimited number of ways to be amused. One night, the main entertainment was the guest appearance of a hypnotist. All of the guests of the cruise ship attended the show that was held immediately after dinner.

Sitting in the third row, I knew that this was my shot at finally getting hypnotized! When the hypnotist asked for volunteers, I stood up and raised my hand, since there were taller people sitting in front of me hiding my 5’1 frame. The hypnotist saw my enthusiasm and called me to the stage along with four other volunteers. I quickly marched on-stage and that’s when I noticed the hundreds of people that I was standing in front of.

The hypnotist told us to relax, close our eyes and listen to everything he says. I close my eyes and hear him speaking, but his mouth is so close to the microphone that I can’t understand anything he’s actually saying. I start to panic. The hypnotist is saying all of these super important things and I’m missing everything! The hypnosis won’t work on me, and I’m going to embarrass myself in front of hundreds of people! Once he’s “hypnotized” all of us, the hypnotist shows off his skills by commanding each of us to do something in order to prove that we are in fact under his control. This is when I really start to panic. I’m not an actress and at this point I can say for certain that I’m not hypnotized. I hear the other volunteers perform the acts that the hypnotist commands of them without resistance. Based on what I heard since my eyes were commanded to remain closed, I realize that I’m the only one who’s not hypnotized, which makes this situation a lot more awkward for me.

Finally the hypnotist signals that it’s my turn to get an order from him by tapping me on the shoulder. He tells me that I’m going to open my eyes believing that the guy next to me pinched my butt. I hyperventilate as I try to mentally prepare myself for my debut as an actress. When he tells me to open my eyes, I immediately turn to the guy next to me and yell, “I can’t believe you just pinched my ass, what the fuck is your problem?” The loud gasps from the audience quickly remind me that this is meant to be a family show and I’m cussing out a guy in front of five year olds. I try to omit cuss words for the rest of my rant and end my performance by shaking my head in anger to indicate I’m done speaking. I should be on Broadway.

The hypnotist continued with the rest of the show and ended by giving all of the volunteers one last order that he would signal us to follow once we had returned to our seats. I was ordered to scream out the phrase I LOVE ICE CREAM as loud as I possibly could when the hypnotist said a certain word. Running back to the comfort of my seat, I repeated the word over and over again in my head so as not to forget that it was my cue since I wasn’t actually hypnotized. He continued by giving thanks to us and started wrapping up the show, while I told my best friend his hypnosis didn’t work on me. He said the cue words for other volunteers that made them blurt out things from the audience and then he said my cue word. I forgot my cue. The audience was completely silent. I realized I missed my signal when literally hundreds of people turned to me expectantly, and I said nothing. The hypnotist looked at me as well and when I made eye contact with him, I could see he was mad that I missed his cue. He quickly continued speaking in order to move the attention away from my lack of response and ended the show. For the rest of my time on the cruise ship, people came up to me and asked what it felt like to be hypnotized. I was also given dirty looks by some parents with young children for cursing, but I didn’t care. I was proud of myself for fooling hundreds of people with my incredible acting skills. Jennifer Lawrence, watch out!

We’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain…or Maybe Not

I was never an outdoorsy or physically active kid. My childhood was spent as the chubby kid who was always buried in a book. This personality trait killed my mother who as a young and energetic person loved to constantly be doing something lively. Unfortunately, my older brother Hugo and I both came out as bookworms. Growing up, our punishment wasn’t to go sit in a room by ourselves and be quiet for a time-out. That was our personal heaven. My mother had to resort to punishing us by doing the opposite and sending us to play outside. Hugo and I never knew what to do in the outdoors. As a kid, I genuinely believed that I was just allergic to pretty much everything one finds outside. I even made the argument to my parents that I couldn’t contribute to helping out with yard work because my skin was too sensitive and I’d break out in rashes. Yea, I was extremely annoying, I know, but it surprisingly worked! All of the yard work was assigned to Hugo.

One day when I was around nine years old, my mother got an urge to do something different and adventurous with Hugo and I. I quickly learned to fear this urge because I knew it would result in me leaving the comfort of my room and my endless supply of books. My mother announced that she was taking us to Mount Helen, GA for a hike. I immediately threw a hissy fit. At that point in my life, hiking sounded like the worst possible way to spend a day. I hated the outdoors for a reason. Nature involves bugs, sunburn, sweat, physical exercise and overall discomfort. As a kid, none of those things sounded remotely appealing to me.

We took the hour and a half drive to Helen, GA and arrived around 6:30 pm at a parking lot that led to one of the hiking trails. Due to our late arrival, the guard who was standing at the entrance of the trail warned us that the park closed at 7:30 pm. Worried, my mom asked if we had enough time to complete the trail, and he assured her that we had plenty of time to walk. My mother excitedly marched on while Hugo and I lagged behind in misery.

7:30 pm came closer, and my mother continued to force Hugo and I down the dirt path that didn’t seem to have an end in the near future. My brother, who was 13 at the time, suggested that we turn around instead of going to the end of the trail. My mother disagreed; she was determined to do the entire trail. We ended up walking in those woods for six hours. Those were the most terrifying six hours of my childhood. Once darkness hit, we somehow veered off the path. We wandered around aimlessly until around 12:30 am when we found an “exit” out of the forest area and onto the side of an unknown road in the middle of nowhere.

We were forced to hitchhike for a ride back to our car. Luckily, the driver wasn’t a crazy person! He was actually a super nice guy who drove us to the parking lot where our car was, but it was already closed for the night. To add to our problems, my mother had left her purse in the car, which contained her cash, cards and id. The kind truck driver then drove us to a nearby hotel to figure out whom to contact to unlock the parking lot so we could get our car. I feel the need to say at this point that the thing that makes my mother such a fun and carefree parent is her youth. She was 29 years old at the time, but looked like she was 20 years old. I’m not just saying this to be nice to my mom, I’ve heard the line “You guys look like sisters instead of mother and daughter” my whole life. In my teens, it was super annoying because my mother got hit on so much more than me. Anyway, due to her young face the hotel employee apparently thought that my mother was lying about being our parent, so he called the police.

This night is still probably one of the most bizarre nights of my life. Two police officers took Hugo and I to a separate room and questioned us about our mother. They asked us things like, “What’s the name of that woman in the other room?” and “Is she really your mother?” for about an hour. It was extremely traumatizing. After bawling for hours on the hiking trail due to exhaustion and terror, I somehow found the liquid and energy to start wailing all over again in this situation. Hugo kept his cool and seemed confused more than anything as to why the officers refused to believe us when we confirmed that our mother is in fact our mother. Meanwhile, my mother was questioned as well and then taken to the parking lot in order to get her information. Once she proved her age and who she was, the cops finally let us go around 2:30 am. We didn’t get home until roughly 4 am, and we never went to Helen, GA again.