I am the light of the world.

Once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you can’t help but yearn to share it - to shed some light on the community that has graciously let you in with open eyes and open hearts.

Sidneia, my fearless fisherwoman of a subject, had me follow in her footsteps for a week. Her deepest fears, weakness and secrets revealed themselves explicitly and implicitly. Her biggest accomplishments and feats did too.

Her heritage dictates children by age 20 and a sedentary life of daily sweeping and cooking. Kicking soccer balls, climbing coconut trees like a Spiderwoman and heaving and hoeing on fishing boats are simply out of the question. But Sidneia doesn’t care. She does it all, and most of the time, she does it better than any boy and man out there.

I wonder if she knows her American counterparts – those in the concrete jungles of New York and Miami, and in the high-heeled Capitol of Washington, D.C. – have already bent cultural barriers and stereotypes. I deliberately say bent instead of broken. It’s no surprise that firefighting women, lady plummers and female construction workers live in the shadow of laughter. Nonetheless, they still pay their bills and provide food on their tables.

While many of us in the United States take affirmative action for granted, Sidneia still remains the lone fisherwoman in her town though men and women claim they accept her. Tolerance is slow to take hold.

But the world is rapidly changing, even in communities that have trouble finding a spot on the map, such as Icapuí. Stability’s definition is unknown, or at least invisible to lady warriors, who live to bend societal norms and challenge daily standards. Sometimes acceptance on a larger scale just requires attention – perhaps in the form of a documentary; maybe as a magazine feature.

To communicate the challenges of her cultural heritage and to show that Sidneia is not just another female success story will require page-turning empathy for manual labor (or better yet, WOmanual labor), for antiquated traditions in small towns and for Sidneia as woman.

Her message, one of power and hope, is inspiring. Her “can-do” attitude had ability to light my spark, and it will keep me burning to share her story.

The all-powerful journalist

What is it about journalists? Everywhere I go, people are talking about what they read in the newspaper, what they saw on television and what they read online. Most people know that it’s the journalist’s job to get that information and disperse it.

No matter what country I am in, when people hear I am a journalist, they equate me to an all-powerful being – someone who can put their picture in print and tell their story. Sometimes, they think I will make them famous. Even when they don’t know the correct term to call me, they are quick to discover that a camera will capture their image and a recorder will save their voice and thoughts. Things are no different in Icapuí.

In Icapuí, an impoverished fishing town with no more than a few thousand people, outside influence is minimal. Everyone seems to know everyone. Outsiders, even those from other parts of Brazil, are rare.

With my arrival, the Icapuians feel important. To them, only important people have their picture taken; only important people get interviewed. This is, of course, what they see on TV and hear from their friends.

I found that if I shows an ounce of interest in them, they beam from the inside out, trying to remain humble and not let their smiles grow to broad. Even though they know I am American and they won’t see my article, they let me ask my questions and take their pictures. They especially love when I flip my digital camera around to let them see themselves. Children burst into uncontrollable giggles; grandparents flash toothless smiles. Is this is first time they have seen a camera?

I remain professional so that they will respect me and others like me, though I have no idea if another journalist will visit. They thank me in Portuguese and give me a "thumbs up" - the universal sign for acceptance.

From the taxi drivers who don’t ask for a penny until they have not only dropped you off but have returned you home safely to the waiters at restaurants who suggest the tastiest dishes instead of the most expensive, the people of Icapui are honest and hard-working. Without outside influence, they might not even know that there are places where taxis run their clocks double time to get more money or people who stand customers up.

Here in Icapui, I feel like a parent whose children don’t yet know there is no Santa Claus. I could never bring myself to spoil their views of the friendly American journalist who loves to ask them questions. It is for the Icapuians that I feel a strong commitment to accurate and ethical reporting. I know that these people are expecting me to return to the United States conveying nothing but their sense of utmost pride for their community. Plus, I know that the majority of readers in the US will never venture to Icapui; thus, I must do more than tell stories from my perspective. I need to remain unbiased and completely balanced as I report on everything I see, here and experience.

As a journalist, I can’t help but feel a yearning drive to advocate for these people: for the children who run in the scorching sand without shoes because their parents have no money, for the 16-year-old who is pregnant with her third child and for the fisherwoman, the only one of her kind, who has overcome monstrous obstacles to become accepted as a lady of the sea.

Though I understand that this advocacy may, in turn, be construed as unbalanced, I am certain I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who would visit Icapui, even as a fly on the wall, without a sense of compassion and a desire to advocate. This advocacy must remain subdued, but nonetheless it will underscore any article.

I never thought of myself as powerful, but I know that I have the power to choose words and pictures; I have the ability to share with others what they can't share about themselves. Only now am I truly able to understand the concept of a journalist as a gatekeeper. My great responsibility is not just to the journalistic profession, but to humanity as a whole.

Note to self

Dear KP –

Let me begin by metaphorically smacking you on the head. How could you have been so blind? I guess I shouldn’t be so harsh, but come on, how many people can say I told you so? You know they can…

You see, my dear KP, life works in mysterious ways. No, really, it does. You travel half way across the world, all the way to Barcelona, only to realize that the guy you are crazy about was right by you all along. Your best friend for years. The one who would go to the moon and back in a heartbeat and not even think twice about it. The one who compliments you whether you are in pajamas or dressed to impress. Yeah, that one. Remember him?

Foolish girl. You always thought he was “just Andrew.”

“Who are you going to the movie with?” Just Andrew. “Who are you having dinner with?” Just Andrew. “Who are you texting?” Just Andrew. “Who are you Skyping?” Oh just Andrew. “Who’s driving you to that party?” Still just Andrew. “Who do you call first when you have good news?” Ugh just Andrew. “Whom can you cry to?” Stop it all ready, it’s Just Andrew. He’s just Andrew, damn it!!!!!

Well well well, you silly girl you. You tried your hardest to ignore it. Even though it was so obvious he was nuts about you, you pushed him to the back of your mind. Instead, you meany, you asked him for boy advice and threw him through the ringer.

But, KP, do I need to remind you? Just Andrew isn’t just anyone. Do I need to tell you he’s wonderful and funny and athletic and smart and way taller than you are? More importantly, KP, he’s got a heart of gold. Did you hear that? Did you process it? A. Heart. Of. Gold. It’s not everyone who will help you study LSATs day in and day out without complaining he’s bored, and it’s certainly not everyone who will tuck you in every single night just ‘cause he wants to spend every waking moment with you. He lives to take you out and show you off. What they heck were you looking for in Europe? This one’s a keeper, I tell ya.

Just to jog your terrible memory, if I may, KP, I’d like to bring some events to your attention. I know you can still taste the delicious Matzo ball soup he made for you at 3 a.m. when you were sick. I know you still laugh about getting dressing up and going to see The Rocky Horror Picture show at midnight with him. I can tell you still hate him for almost allowing his car to run out of gas halfway between Gainesville and South Florida. I bet you still miss those 8 a.m., Saturday morning, 12-grade-physics tutoring sessions. Bowling with him is sure to annoy you, but you know you love it. And you know that no one else in the entire world will give you a three-hour massage without tacking on a hefty price tag. Heck, he loved you in 6^th grade!!

KP, earth to KP, read this message loud and clear: HE IS YOUR FAIRY TALE.

So go on girl, scream it to the world. You’re one pretty lucky chick, KP. And if I may say so, Andrew’s pretty darn lucky too. Enjoy it (and don’t mess it up!). Life should be this fun and easy.

XOXO,

Meeeee

Growing up doesn't mean growing old

I am in my early 20s. My skin is flawless and soft. I have the energy to stay up until the wee hours of the morning, cat nap from 4 a.m. to 8 a.m. and then be up the next day. As far as I’m concerned, I’m in the prime of my life.

I’m old enough to know right from wrong, yet I am still young enough not to care. My parents still have a vital say in all of my decisions. My bed is still a twin. I’m still a student, so my true responsibilities are minimal. I spend money recklessly on manicures and pedicures because they are important to me. I still think it’s cool to call my grandparents Grammy and Papa. And everyone, no matter where I go, asks to see my ID because maybe I am still 16.

So if someone could someone tell me when I got old, I’d appreciate it greatly. Since when does being in your early 20s mean you must revert to fond memories of the “good-ol’-days” or look at pictures of how you “used to look back then”?   

Today, I was skimming my online NY Times, as per usual - a few food reviews, some travel articles, some Obama health care plans, a little fashion and style, and some horoscopes. Then, I came across an article entitled “Harry Potter Is Their Peter Pan.” Being a huge fan of both, I eagerly began reading.

It reported:

“Let the boomers have their 40th anniversary of Woodstock. Let Generation X commemorate the 15 years since Kurt Cobain shot himself. For Generation Y — those born roughly between 1980 and 2003 — it’s the pop culture of the late ’90s and early 2000s that makes them wistful.

“Other older members of Gen Y expressed…longing for late ’90s popular culture like AOL buddy lists and compact discs — the once-dominant music medium now in its declining years.

While boomers or Gen Xers might have no idea what the phrase ‘classic Nickelodeon’ implies, to anyone in his or her 20s, it means fondly remembered cable tween shows like “All That” and “Clarissa Explains It All” (whose star, Melissa Joan Hart, recently showed off her weight loss on the cover of People magazine).”

Sheesh! The nerve of this article.

Of course, I love AOL Buddy Lists (Heck, I still use mine!). And I did love “All That” and “Clarissa Explains It All” (sometimes I even catch reruns on Noggin!). But that doesn’t mean I’m old.

I still have my photograph of me with N’SYNC. I loved my Tamagotchi, my Baby G, my Limited Too clothing, my Lite Brite and my Easy-Bake Oven. That doesn’t mean I’m old.

I played with Pogs and Pokemon cards. I watched Captain Planet and Rugrats and other Saturday morning cartoons. Still, I’m not old.

I thought Topanga and Cory’s only competition for a better couple was Zac and Kelly. I still say “You got it, dude.” And I was around for the premier of Lion King and Aladdin and Pocahontas, you know, the  “Disney classics.”    

Oh. My. Goodness. This can only mean one thing…..I AM OLD. My best days are behind me with Full House, rainbow-swirl bread and smelly markers.   

When I was watching Armageddon with Andrew a few nights ago, I commented on how awful the graphics were. With movies like Transformers, how can Armageddon even compare? But what difference does it make? Its days of glory have long vanished. It now sits on the middle shelf at Blockbuster instead of along the back walls.

To make matters worse, my mom asked me the other day if I had seen some videos on YouTube. Something about horrible sing-alongs…who knows. Anyway, when I said I didn’t have the slightest clue about what she was referring to, she said that all “millennials” know about it. I should have recognized my age-factor then.

But what about Facebook and Twitter? What about blogging? What about iTouches? I use all of them. I can still text message and BBM and fix my wireless connection when I really need to. I’m still hip and young and cool and “with it.” 

You know what World, here’s a news flash: I’m from Generation Y, or what I prefer to refer to as “Generation Why?” Why not invent new technology? Why not explore Mars and Jupiter? Why not create iPhones and the internet and DVDs and flat screens? My generation is the forefront. There’s practically nothing unimaginable, nothing we as humanity can’t do.

No, I don’t watch Wizards of Waverly Place, and I don’t really know who Miley Cirus is. But I can still plan a goofy girls night of vegging out, lip-syncing and dressing up. I can still squeeze into a tight outfit and go out for a night on the town after watching my favorite episode of Gossip Girl and borrowing money from my parents to buy dinner. I can still blow bubbles in my chocolate milk on an airplane and then sip on an ice cold flute of Riesling. 

So excuse me if I seem to be a bit defensive. I may be growing up, but I am not growing old. I’ll laugh at all those ‘tweens still awkwardly trying to figure it all out, while I raise my glass and drink to being young and beautiful because as my favorite Pop icon Britney Spears once said, “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.”  

Rocky Road can be an obstacle or an ice-cream flavor…

Rocky road baffles me. It’s an interesting concept to be able to quell your personal rocky road with some rocky road in a pint or a gallon.

Perhaps one of the few things they have in common is that we hover over both.

We, as humans, tend to be hoverers. We harp on everything and can’t let go. Not because we don’t want to. Not because we are rebelling against what we know we should do. But because society just won’t let us.

No one wants to let anyone forget Michael Jackson. Television stations changed scheduled programming to incorporate specials on the Pop legend. Family and friends are blowing up our e-mail inboxes and cell phones with up-to-date news. I have even read that Twitter crashed because of so many people microblogging. In every conceivable medium, people are talking about the king of the 20^th Century. Even if you could care less about the simultaneously famous/infamous star, you can’t help but think about him.      

This morning, on my hour-plus commute to work, every single one of the six preprogrammed radio stations in my dashboard was talking about MJ’s death. The hosts who weren’t talking about it were having listeners call in about it. Every time I clicked from station 1 to 5 to 3 to 4 back to 5, I couldn’t tell if I had even changed the channel. The only thing that changed was voice of the person speaking. I chuckle to myself because at work, the two Cuban seamstresses, who listen to a mini radio straight from the early ‘90s, keep trying to change the channel to listen to their typical Spanish music, and even they can’t find a station (in English or in Spanish) not talking about or playing Michael Jackson.   

Memories. That’s what we have. And “the way he made us feel. “

I heard over and over again (in my car and at work) about his contributions to society. His Thriller album going platinum 28 times. His Neverland Ranch and the joy it brought sick children. His ability to go from rags to riches. His influence on the music industry and the dance world. His role as an idol. No one dare mention his allegations or issues regarding child molestation, hanging babies over balconies or financial troubles. They only talk about the good, the great, the fabulous, the superstar. They harp.  

As much as I tried to escape the chitchat for sheer and utter sickness of hearing about it, it kept on. What’s worse are the songs. The power hours of continuous Jackson hits that only linger with you long after you leave your car. Last night, on my late drive home, MJ wanted to “rock with me all night.” Then again this morning, he wanted me to “beat it,” but even as I tried my hardest, there was no escape.

Elvis Duran on the Y-100 Morning Show tried to make light of the situation and remind listeners that it’s Friday, and normally on Fridays we can all be happy because it’s the start of the weekend. But just because it’s the weekend doesn’t mean the hurt or the sorrow, no matter how great or small, goes away. In the real world, there is no such thing as “your week self” and “your weekend self”. And everyday problems or upsets will still affect you at night, in the morning, at coffee get-togethers, during dinner and when you try to sleep. You’ll push out all the bad and invigorate yourself with the good memories, while still really getting nowhere, but spinning your head in circles by thinking about the past.    

Funny how life works. The underlying symbolism is undeniably uncanny. A brief look at this week’s weather forecast in South Florida promises scattered thunderstorms for at least the next ten days. And it’s as much the end of an era for Michael Jackson as it is for me right now.

Sometimes we just have to leave the pieces, walk away and bank on our instinct that the heart of life is good, even after devastation, shock and hurt.

Yes, rocky road can be an obstacle….but I’ll take it as an ice-cream flavor. With a crew of friends and a smile, I can make it disappear. 

"Summer, Ft. Lauderdale" – a twist on Billy Joel

They say that these are not the best of times, but they’re the only times I’ve ever known.

With the economy getting worse, more and more houses foreclosing, gas prices increasing daily and people getting laid off, life’s tough. Let’s face it. From the millionaire on Wall Street down to the hourly worker at the local fast food joint, no one can seem to catch a break. People are looking for second and third and fourth jobs to afford hovering bills and responsibilities. Meanwhile, they are spreading themselves so thinly that they can’t seem to balance anything. Friends that once meant the world now mean dittily squat. Jobs are wearing us ugly.

And I believe there is a time for meditation in cathedrals of our own.

To cope with it all lately, I’ve been running. I joined a gym to lose some lingering, yet very much unwanted European weight, but mostly, to keep my sanity. Day in and day out, I observe heartbreaking court hearings – of parents rightly separated from their children, of children who are criminals, of people who can’t get their acts together to be responsible. On top of it all, I am attempting to balance a paying job, an internship, LSAT review, family time, friend time and general life (whatever that means).

By the time I pull into the gym parking lot, I am already thinking about my playlist for the day. Will it be hardcore rock for the treadmill, Top 40 for the elliptical or house for the StairMaster? No matter what it is, I can assure you it will be ear-shatteringly loud and it’s gonna push me to push myself until my bones are rattling under my skin, my face is as red as a cherry and my sweat is drenching my clothing. With the assistance of my iPod playlist, my thoughts from the day give me an extra “umph” to literally go that extra mile.

I run for every child whose parents can’t complete simple case plans. I run for those who are stuck in shelter because child advocates don’t follow through with court orders. I run for the kids whose parents are just unwilling to take care of them. I run for the frustration of mixed messages. I run for the traffic that holds me up on Broward. I run for myself. To ease the pain of those who have hurt me, who have forget to call or text when they say they will, who keep things secretive, who have forgotten about me, who have returned to ex-girlfriends, who have used me, even though they say they feel awful about it.

And now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover’s eyes, I can only stand apart and sympathize.

While I run and blow off steam, bouncing in my Nike Shocks to the beat of whatever’s beating in my ears, I come to terms with the fact that the world is simply too big for me to conquer completely. People will let you down, parents won’t complete their case plans, friends will be the ones to hurt you most and excuses saturate courtroom hearings, e-mail inboxes and text messages. Though I can’t justify it, I can recognize it.

Often, though unknowingly, we set ourselves up for failure. Our high expectations are not even on other’s to-do lists, and actions that seem too good to be true, typically are. We are told to expect the unexpected, but more common than not, it’s the usual expected that we get.

As I run, I can remove myself from me and fairly empathize with myself, accepting that occasionally people will shock you, but until then we have our iPods blasting music and our own two feet. It’s almost symbolic. On the elliptical, I run nowhere fast. The wheels are spinning – on the machine and in my head - many miles in 45 minutes. By the end, I have accepted that you can’t change anyone but yourself, yet I feel accomplished, even proud, of the strides I have made myself and in trying to.

For we are always what our situations hand us. It’s either sadness or euphoria.

The rainbow's end

You'll find unicorns, pastel castles, princesses with flowy hair and bejeweled crowns, fairies, mermaids and other whimsical beauties in a pack of glittery stickers if you look hard enough. They are happy and bright creatures and objects, earning them a permanent place in 5-year-old, girly girl hearts - where good in life means strawberry shortcake and puppies, and all bad can be solved by a kiss on a boo-boo and some chocolate pudding. Rainbows, by their very nature - delicate and colorful - are inevitably deemed imaginary and given an honorary placement in the land of la-la. 

Somewhere between the "Mat-Bat-Sat" book reports and the Big Books that we as kindergardeners were to take home and have our parents sign , I can still remember the day I learned about rainbows. Over and over, my class recited the rainbow colors in order - Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Violet. We then used cotton balls dipped in paint and construction paper to create our own rainbows. On the small paper, using my small hands, I formed horseshoes, childishly (though age-appropriately) failing to recognize the profoundness of the colors and how in real life, they seamlessly flow into one another.        

  

Surely throughout my years I have seen rainbows after storms or after midday rain showers. But it wasn't until yesterday that I finally got it.  

I visited a rainbow's end. Actually, it visited me. Now I am not one to believe in signs and I am a firm believer that we make our own destinies, but when I was leaving my house , I walked out my front door and had a majestic view of a rainbow. Normally, I'm lucky to spot a faint line, or perhaps a fragment of one before a cloud intercepts it. But on this particular occasion, I saw an entire one - end to end, unobstructed by any cloud, tree or house.  

The great thing about rainbows is that unlike imaginary friends, everyone can actually see them. Adults don't need to rely on children to verbalize what they are seeing and then piece together the outline. Everyone can appreciate rainbows and know they are staring at the exact same manifestation of light. Even though they can't touch it, they can capture it on film to reconfirm the reality of it all, like I did yesterday with my camera phone. 

After appreciating its beauty, I got in my car to head over to Rachel's house, keeping my eyes on the breathtaking prism of color (and the road, of course).  And then, as if I were day-dreaming, an airplane came flying through the band of color of one of the rainbow's legs and climb higher into the sky (I promise, I could not even make this up!). Dumbfounded, I stopped my car, poked my head out the window like a floppy dog and rubbed my eyes to make sure it wasn't an illusion. I sat there bamboozled until some angry man driving in the lane going opposite my direction honked at me. 

Like I said, I am not one to believe in harbingers. But whether it was science or some higher power, I could swear that rainbow I saw in its entirety and the airplane were signs. It was as though someone had set up a larger-than-life projection screen in the sky, saying "Hey KP! Here's evidence that fairy tales really do exist." I like to believe it was showing me a missing link, the secret to how reality and truth can be mixed with make-believe on special, rare occasions. 

When push comes to shove, fables, myths and tales (supped up with love-at-first-sight, knights in shining armor and happily ever after) are just that - sparkly comfort food for the brain; a snapshot of a perfect reality we as adults are all too often sure cannot actually exist. But where the line gets hazy is when something you'd swear is a fairy tale meets real life. When I can see a complete rainbow. That's enough proof for me. I'll remain a believer and a dreamer so long as I can skip at the rainbow's end. 

Adult Xs and Os (hey, at least you’ve been warned)

Is it that X marks the spot, or is it that your eX knows your spot? And no, that’s not what she said.

My eX and I went for our semi-annual coffee catch-up because we always promised we’d remain friends. Admittedly, I was initially hesitant with the whole “friends” thing, coming up with this or that as an excuse to bail. After four years of a whole lot of feelings, it’s almost impossible not to come up with a whole lot of reasons why it’d probably be bad idea to meet up. But since we are both only home in South Florida a few times a year, we decided that we shouldn’t lose what’s left of our friendship.     

Last night, we met up at Starbucks, because, well, that’s just what we do. It’s one of our spots. He didn’t need to ask, and I didn’t need to beg; we both just instinctually knew – when we meet up, we meet up at Starbucks. Like an algorithm.   

Ironically, on my drive over, Y-100 was asking listeners if it’s possible to hook up with ex’s and not feel anything, not have any strings attached (funny how life works, eh?). Some people called in and said “yes, but only if you were both never in love.” A few just said “yes.” But most agreed that “no, someone is bound to get hurt.” If I were to ask some of my best friends, I am positive they would tell you it’s 110 percent impossible.    

With my coffee in hand, I sat with my eX and laughed and reminisced and talked about who’s pregnant, who’s engaged and who’s up to what. This chitter-chatter mixed with the radio’s topic of conversation, of course, got me thinking about the strange relationships we all have with have with our eXs.

Do we go back because our hearts can’t let go? Do we go back because we don’t want to raise our numbers? Or do we go back because our eX’s know our spots?

Two years since our break-up, I can still tell you my eX’s cologne with my eyes closed (Armani Black Code) and his favorite old movie (Top Gun). I can still tell you he loves a slab of prime rib and he’s always down to share spinach dip. He still loves pens (Mont Blanc) and if I suggested going to Marian’s Bagel Host, Chima’s or The Mariott Harbor Beach Club – I could bet you he’d say “When?”  

It’s scarily simple to fall back into the comfort zone. To play the same roles you played during your relationship, even during the short amount of time it takes to drink a tall latte. To wonder where the time went. How quickly the mind forgets the hurt and the pain and the illogical fights, and the whole reason you broke up in the first place. It’s all so shockingly easy.

People have this emotional need to desperately cling on to the past and to wish they could relive and retry everything, which is why we can’t help but remember our spots. We associate every great meal, fun day-trip and crazy night with people. We don’t remember exactly what we wore or who drove or what we ordered, but we remember being euphorically happy at drive-ins and at sushi restaurants.   

But while memories are crucial, they are simply that: memories. Fixations that keep us content. And though I can’t say it’s easy, maybe it’s best to forget old spots so we can find new ones and make more memories.

Our eX’s may know our spots. They may promise to trigger great responses, but only by keeping us tied down. However, when the S&M (sameness and melancholy) becomes daily routine, we find ourselves desensitized and bored.

Thus, as in Tic-Tac-Toe, our eX’s can only block our Oh’s, and who wants to live an unsatisfied life? Now that’s what she said. 

Legally a guardian angel

I used to have a joke with a friend that I was a guardian angel - as in someone who seemingly magically appears at the opportune time to serve as a reminder that the core of life is good. I always shrugged his compliment off because to me, guardian angels were figments found only in the la-la land of childhood movies, like Whitney Houston and some guy named Duddly in "The Preacher's Wife."

Now, a little bit older and a lot bit wiser, it is my genuine belief that everyone has a guardian angel and everyone is one to someone else, even if they never realize it. Whether we help each other with personal problems, relationship issues or simply provide a friendship, it’s the human interaction that keeps us afloat through our toughest times and provides the advice we so desperately need to help us carry on.

I never took my friend to be a soothsayer, so I don’t really know when our joke became a prophecy, but somehow I have become an actual, legal guardian angel. Well, sort of. I’ve become a guardian ad litem thanks to my summer internship with the Guardian ad Litem Program in South Florida. With hopes of attending law school and needing to do research for my senior thesis, I wanted to combine my love for the community and children with my political science background.

The Guardian ad Litem program, funded by the state, provides children, from infants to 18-years-of-age, with assistance in the dependency court system. Thus, it is my job as a law intern to represent children alleged to be abused, abandoned or neglected and work in their best interest regarding legal aspects of their lives. Essentially, I play a big role in a little person’s life.

While jeans and winter boots and weekend getaways to the French Riviera or Amsterdam seem like dinosaurs in my not-that-distant past, it’s back to the real world, business attire and all. It’s time for me to give back to those who will most likely never get to experience even half of the wonderful things I’ve done. By meeting with and representing these children, I am not only helping them, but I am also paying a huge thanks to all those who have been my angels-in-disguise at one point.

'Tis better to give than to receive. Now if only I could sing like Whitney Houston.

A eulogy for T-Jov

Today was a very sad day. My T-Joven stopped working. Translation: my oh-so-precious Metro card expired.

While this might sound trivial or insignificant, this T-Joven – a credit-card-sized piece of paper – I have guarded and carried like a child for the past three months. 90 days and nights. Of bliss. Of bad decisions. Of the times of my life.

Though some lost, ripped, frayed, dropped, misplaced or, heaven-forbid, had theirs stolen, mine remained with me during every purse change, coat switch and baggage check. Yes, it’s worn. And yes, its plastic sleeve is scratched and cut. But this paper card was still my faithful ticket onto every Metro, bus and nit bus I took.  

Today, the card-swipey-machine at the Metro station slurped it in and spit it right back out as if it were just one of those T-Mes (month) passes, or worse, one of those single-ride passes, without a history or a story. I wasn’t expecting this and I couldn’t help but get just a tad bit defensive.

My card, in its small entirety, I have come to understand, represents the culmination of my trip. And though a swipe machine wouldn’t know it, the very card it so simply just spewed back out stands for every good, bad and indifferent moment that I encountered while here in Barcelona. It followed me to and from class during my 45-minute journey. It got me home at 4 a.m. after dancing in clubs. It got me lost when I thought I knew where I was going. And it stayed with me while I traveled, improved my Spanish, gained friends, lost friends, tried new things and explored. Now, its days are up.

It’s not even that I care so much that it expired. It’s more that today, for the first time, I finally realize my time here in Barcelona is up. Having my card thrust back into my hand hit me like a bullet: my Metro days are numbered; my late-night bus rides will soon be a whisper in the wind.

I suppose I better soak it all in fast, but the T-10 (10-ride pass) that I had to purchase today to get me through the next two weeks just won’t be the same. I may as well be a tourist in my own city, counting down and perfectly calculating every trip so I don’t waste a ride. Que pena! Though my 3-month pass was just another expired card for the swipe machine at the Universitat Metro stop, it was so much more than that to me. I knew this day would come. I just didn’t expect it to be today.  

So today was a very sad day.

May you rest in peace, T-Jov. Thanks for the rides.

Four men and a little lady

I have.

I have four amigos. I have a VTech (Erik), a Red (Chris), a Brown (another Chris) and an Ian. Even better, I have traveled to Italy – specifically Venice, Florence, Pisa and Rome - for Spring Break with them for the past 10 days.

I have seen the intricate paintings on St. Mark’s Basilica in St. Mark's Square. I have visited the secret torture chambers and prisons inside the Dutch’s Palace. I have bought the most scrumptious chocolate-chip biscotti from the Rialto market. I have floated on the pitch-black canals of Venice while drinking Prosecco and listening to the gondolier sing “Oh Solo Mio” upon my request. I have experienced public transportation in the form of water-taxi. I have been rocked to sleep on the TrenItalia while the country flies by. I have somehow met up with friends even when none of our cell phones work. I have learned that old friends are gracious hosts and fun to catch up with.

I have taken goofy pictures of myself trying to push over the leaning tower of Pisa. I have savored the ooey-gooey cheese of vegetable pizza by the slice – or rather, by the weight. I have peddled myself uphill during at 15-mile bike through Tuscany even when I thought I had no more to give. I have gazed into the abyss of green endlessness divided by wineries and stone cottages. I have tasted smoky Chianti Classico and extra virgin olive oil at a private wine vineyard where Wolfgang Puck himself buys his ingredients. I have devoured fresh tortellini with tomato sauce and crumbly Parmesan cheese and I have enjoyed chilled, alcohol-soaked tiramisu at a restaurant run by four generations. I have been overwhelmed by the hundreds of stands that make up the Florence leather market. I have watched the sun change from yellow to pink on the Vecchio bridge. I have watched couples kiss under umbrellas in the perfectly kempt Boboli gardens. I have dunk stark-white bread into thick, aged balsamic vinegar. I have shared red wine with 15 friends on the rooftop terrace of my bed and breakfast overlooking the Duomo. I have splurged on Nutella-, Rocher- and Bocio-flavored gelato. I have begged people to do photoshoots of me in the countryside of Florence. I have wasted 8 Euros on an Italian club filled with Americans. I have survived a mini flood in my hotel room. I have taken bites of everyone’s food so that I can have a bitty taste of all the food Italy has to offer. I have played charades to help to overcome language barriers.

I have learned that the world can amaze me in hundreds of ways every single day and I have learned just how beautiful life is. I have learned that whoever said there are only seven wonders in the world is completely mistaken. But above all, I have learned that nothing beats four of the greatest guys and a little lady on Spring Break in Italy. 

How much money do you require?

My poor debit card has seen better days. The strip on the back looks like the bottom of my high-heels, which are so worn down the metal clanks when I walk, the numbers that should be raised like brail on the front are flattened and there is a shadow of black where my signature should be imprinted. Nonetheless, it works.

When I put my debit card into the “cajero,” or ATM, I am prompted to select a language. Because I am dealing with money and cannot afford – literally - to make any mistakes, I select English.  And though the English is clearly a poor translation of either the Catalan or Spanish directions, I am able to follow them.

I enter my pin. I select my account. And then, como siempre (“as always”), it flashes me a message.

“How much money do you require?”

[Aside] How much money do I require? Well, geeze, that’s a deep question, Mr. Cajero. All I wanted to do was take out some money and now the quiet inside my mind has been rippled. An entire string of other questions that I always try to avoid becomes inevitable.

How much money do I require? I mean, I know how much money I want, but require? Heck, how much money do I require for what? For today? For tonight? For dinner? For a shopping spree? Or, heaven forbid, for my life? I am still enjoying my early-20s. How can I even begin to answer this? Today I may require 100 Euros, tomorrow I might need 5, and the next I might need 1,000. But needing and wanting are so different from “requiring.” Requiring sounds regal and proper and official. Worse, requiring sounds so grown-up.

Am I just a silly girl parading around Barcelona, spending frivolously on “discotecas” and “vino” and “cervesa”? Am I requiring it or childishly wanting it? Am I spending too much or too little? Will I be broke by the time I go home? Why haven’t I been saving up for years?

My internal monologue then tries to make a deal with me. It begs me to put aside a dollar a day so that some day, any day, in the future I’ll have a few extra pennies. But then again, when’s the “future”? When will I know to use my savings? And in that case, if I don’t spend it, why am I saving it?

Snap out of it. Get a grip. You’re at an ATM; just take out some money so you don’t hold up your friends.

So how much money do I require? Well, when I look at it like that, I guess I can’t feel bad about taking out a lot. I mean, I need it right. I want to have a fun night. In order to do that, I require my glass of Sangria and I require a wristband to get into the club. Easy enough. Thank you very much, Mr. Cajero, you are absolutely right: I require 100 Euros tonight….just don’t tell my mom. 

You can’t know where you are going, unless you know where you’ve been

Indulge.

My word of the summer.

And I owned it like I’ve never owned anything before. Indulge in food. Indulge in work. Indulge in alone time. Indulge in sight-seeing. Indulge in night life. Indulge in friends – lost and found.

I didn’t just eat Ethiopian food. I let my nostrils fill with the spicy smells and let the residue from the spongy bread soak into my fingers. I made it a feast. My friends joined me and we laughed as heartily as the food we devoured. At my internships, I listened. Even when I wasn’t being spoken to, I let my ears ring with the sound of the executives’ voices as they speculated about the direction the company going in. At the Broadway shows, I clapped hard to show my appreciation. I didn’t stop until my hands were throbbing and red with excitement. On the Brooklyn Bridge, I observed the city for what it is. I took note of every minute detail, every building, every speck of light. At dance class, I really felt the hardwood floor smacking under me. I danced with vigor and didn’t care that I could barely keep up with steps.

Throughout every one of my indulgences (some call it narcissistic, I call it a savory use of time), I was tirelessly passionate about nothing in particular but finding myself and what I want out of life.

Where does all this come from, you ask? Well, I was riding the subway and saw this staring directly at me, like an omen from God, helping me realize where I have been and what my role was:

"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter - the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in search of something . . . Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion." -E. B. White, Here is New York

I, of course, am number 3.

I am relishing in every last second, hopelessly clinging on to the pulsating vibe exuding from the city like it’s life support, in hopes that I won’t wake up tomorrow and have to catch a plane back to reality. Maybe I don’t know where I am going and maybe that’s because I don’t know exactly where I’ve been. But I do know that I’ve done everything whole-heartedly and with passion. So if that’s any indication of anything, well then, I can’t wait to enjoy the ride.