about the queen and other things

 Question: Who in the world would stand outside in the drizzling rain and freezing cold for hours on end to see the Queen of England float by on a big boat? First of all, me, that's who, along with thousands and THOUSANDS of British people braving the weather to celebrate their Queen. The Queen's Diamond Jubilee was quite the affair, so naturally a 1,000-boat flotilla was necessary. My friends and I arrived hours early, and still were barely able to see for the crowds of delighted drunk people waving the Union Jack as they awaited Her Majesty. Smiles and drinks were passed around freely as the crowd cheered, and momentarily everyone forgot how cold and rainy it was when the royal family passed by (emphasis on momentarily, though).

This is one of the only clear shots I got during the flotilla. I had to elbow a few nice old ladies out of the way and step on some toes, but all in the name of a good photo, right? (I think I must have gotten a drop of water or something on my camera lens, as you can tell from the dot in the middle of the picture. Or maybe it was just an overenthusiastic grey cloud.) Anyway, I have to say that I'm glad I went to the flotilla because I can check that off my list of "things to do once and never again." It was neat to see all the boats and neat to see how much the British really love Queen Elizabeth.

 This was the grand boat of the royal family, and if you squint really hard you can see the Queen (she's the cream-colored dot on top). (Oh, and don't mind the grey-haired ponytail man. He's in several of my pictures.) At this point in the flotilla, I had been standing for several hours in the cold, and I thought, "this is really what I came here to see? A cream-colored dot on top a red boat?" It was a bit of a disillusioning moment, but I'm sure it was due to the weather more than it was to the view.

But on to my favorite part of the Diamond Jubilee celebration: a tea party hosted by my ward's Relief Society. We drank cinnamon apple tea and ate delicious treats like scones, tarts, little cakes and sandwiches. We sang all five verses of God Save the Queen (I didn't know there were five. It's a long one!) The British sisters sang the national anthem, and two older ladies who remembered the coronation told us about the grand event. Actually, one old lady stood up and recited the history of the kings and queens of England (an abridged version––took about 15 minutes), ending with the coronation of Elizabeth II, where she went into great detail about the ceremony. It was quite impressive (her memory, that is).

To top it all off, we took a quiz about Her Royal Majesty, which I promptly failed. But I wrote down the answers, so for your pleasure, here's a list of facts you will never need to know about Queen Elizabeth:

1. She acceded to the throne in February of 1952
2. She was in Kenya when she heard about her father's death (the King)
3. She was thirteen when she first met the Duke of Edinburgh (Phillip), who was later to be her husband
4. She and Phillip have been married 64 years
5. His nickname for her is "cabbage"
6. The Queen's official birthday is in June, but her real birthday is in April
7. Her first corgi's name was Susan
8. Willow, Holly, and Monty are the names of the Queen's current corgis
9. Winston Churchill was the Prime Minister when she was coronated
10. She wore Victoria's diamond necklace for her coronation
11. She has nine thrones
12. She's the fortieth monarch since William the Conquerer
13. She wears black while visiting the Vatican
14. She wears the Diamond Diadem to and from the State Opening of Parliament
15. She has her ears pierced
16. She wears blue more than any other color
17. She has eight grandchildren
18. She's 5'4"
19. She has never worn jeans (crazy, right??)
20. She doesn't carry any form of personal identification

week three: memorializing and remembering

One of the purposes of my field study has been to not only study the words of London essayists but to see how they interacted with the city, and to see how the city remembers and memorializes them. I've more than enjoyed reading their essays (I've finished with two of Lamb's essay collections and am in the middle of Hazlitt's), and have tried to explore the city through an essayist's eye. I want to spend time looking for memorials to these authors, because I think it's interesting to see how London remembers these writers. I had read of a few sites in London associated with Lamb and Hazlitt, and I've gone to see a couple of them (there are some outside of London a bit, so I'll need to travel probably an hour or so one day to see them). Anyway, the picture below is a fountain dedicated to Charles Lamb, and is situated in the Inner Temple Gardens right off of Crown Row Lane, which is where Lamb was born. The fountain, flanked by the statue of a small boy, is––as you can see––very understated less than grandiose. There is no plaque dedicating the fountain to Lamb, but the boy is carrying a book with the quote, "Lawyers I suppose were children once," inscribed on it (one of Lamb's more well-known quotes). In the park there were a lot of people in business suits eating lunch and chatting, but they trickled out as the lunch hour came to a close. There were people sitting on benches around the fountain, but no one paid heed to the fountain or statue itself; I wondered, how many of these people know that this fountain is actually dedicated to Lamb? how many of these people know who Charles Lamb is? There are many more popular writers, like Charles Dickens, whose names are widely recognized and remembered with larger statues and museums and graves in Westminster. Lamb might not have achieved the fame and success during his lifetime as many of these great writers, but still it seemed sad to me that he is less remembered and memorialized. 

But fame doesn't always mean genius, and while we celebrate writers like Wordsworth and Shelley–and rightly so–we miss out on so many writers that might not have been as published or recognized in their time, thus not standing the test of time. Still, we judge great literary works by how they stand the test of time, but how much we might miss! How many beautiful sentences sat on a desk, unpublished, in their time and were thrown away after the unknown writer died? We put so much trust in publishers to filter and sift through literature, but how much certainly must slip through the cracks, to stay sitting in the slush pile while other essays or poems or novels are published. 

It's kind of a dizzying thought. 

Maybe my point is that it doesn't really matter that Charles Lamb or William Hazlitt don't have grand statues or graves in Westminister because it doesn't really change how much I enjoye and learn from their writing. One thing my project is teaching me is that public memorials matter less than the writing itself, that the words of the essayists I'm studying are more important than how they are remembered (or forgotten) by others.  

This is Lamb's memorial in the Inner Temple Gardens

And this is the church, St. Andrews, where Hazlitt was married with Lamb acting as best man. St Andrews was a Christopher Wren church, but was unfortunately bombed and gutted in WWII, and all that remained were the outer walls and tower. The public, however, decided to restore it to its original state. It's in the middle of busy London, sandwiched in between new buildings and thousands of businessmen and women rushing to and from work. The inside was, despite its central location, quiet and nearly empty. 

best reading spots in london (so far)

*These posts, along with many others, can also be found on my personal blog: onawhimandafancy.blogspot.com

When I read for long periods of time, I tend to get tired of reading in the same spot, so I bounce around every hour or so (or if I'm really fidgety, every 30 minutes or so) and find new spots to settle down in. Now when I'm in Provo, this usually means I go from the couch to the floor to my bed and maybe to campus (where I'll go from the carrels to right outside the carrels to the JFSB etc etc). In London, I've decided to create a master list of the best places to read, so I can bounce around the city and see all there is to see with a book in my hand.

With the blustery, cold, rainy, and altogether uncooperative weather in London thus far, I've had to find indoor locations and save the parks and gardens for later on in the summer (when it will hopefully warm up a bit). [aside: the side of me that loves sunshine and weather above 90 degrees is wilting away.] Anyway, here's a start to my list:

1. Notes Music Coffee is a small coffee shop just off Trafalgar Square. I'd read online that it was a good spot to go, and because of the cold weather I'm determined to find the best cup of hot chocolate in London. So coffee shops it is. Notes Music Coffee makes a mean cup of hot chocolate: it's frothy, not too sweet, and comes out with a lovely design drizzled into the foam. I don't know how they do it; all I know is that it looked as good as it tasted. They also have a fantastic fruit scone. But the food, though important, was not the primary reason I was there. I was there for about 45 minutes, leisurely sipping hot chocolate eating my fruit scone with blueberry jam, and reading Charles Lamb. NMC isn't the quietest place to read, but sometimes I like to read in a semi-noisy place to read because it forces me to concentrate on what I'm reading. There were a couple of people who were, like me, reading, but many of the people there were chatting with friends. They were playing Ella Fitzgerald in the background, and had a fantastic light fixture hanging above the long wooden slab tables. I can only handle reading in a noisy crowd for so long, so I skipped off to find another spot.

Assessment: great place to read if you don't mind the crowd. I was there during lunch hour, though, so I might try again at a not-so-busy time of day. Good hot chocolate, good scones, good music.

2. I didn't have to go very far to find a quiet spot. St Martin's in the Fields church is almost next door to Notes Music Coffee, and as I passed by, I realized that a church would probably be a perfect place to settle down for a bit. I was right. Architecturally speaking, St Martin's is an impressive structure, especially from the outside. The inside is more understated, though, and except for the carved, vaulted ceilings, it's quite simple and plain. Also, the windows are very interesting: there's no stained glass, only paneled glass. The east window, behind the altar, is the same simple paneled glass, but it's designed to look like the image of a cross reflected on the water, so the steel framework is warped and bent around in the shape of a cross, but more of an understated cross. It's very unusual, and I really loved it. I didn't want to be disrespectfully snapping pictures, but you should look it up online.

That's all aside from the point. I was there to read, so I sat down and pulled out my book. There was a string quartet in the church rehearsing for an upcoming Vivaldi concert (it was actually that evening), so I read whilst basking in the glorious silence of the crowd and the glorious music of the instruments. It was perfect, and I took a moment to thank heaven for beautiful music, beautiful churches, and beautiful reverence. I read there for almost two hours, and when I left I was reluctant to get up.

So far, those have been my two favorite spots. Maybe another day I'll tell you about my worst spot. But today, only the best.

culture shock on the london underground

I have to say, the public transportation system is one of my favorite things about London. Is that strange? I love that each tube stop is different, from the colorful mosaic tiles in the Tottenham Court Road station to the thousands of tiny Sherlocks in the Baker Street station to the sleek grey simplicity of the Westminster station. I love that you can find the stylish business types sitting next to the goths, or the hipsters, or the ever-present tourists. I don't always love them individually, but collectively they really are fascinating; they remind me that no matter who you are–rich, poor, whatever–you still need to get around somehow. And the overwhelming number of people who choose the tube to get from point A to point B makes the ride interesting.

Of course, when you have that many people coming together, there are bound to be tiffs. Take today, for example, when Ari and I were coming home from Southampton, and at the very last leg of our hourandahalf journey back to London, a disturbance threw a wrench in the typically eventless tube ride. We were technically in the London overground, not the underground, but it's pretty much the same thing.  Anyway, allow me to relate the experience:

Our train was at a routine stop, and a large crowd was still trying to get in when the doors started closing. Enter The Jerk. The Jerk was a tall man in a business suit, with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He was probably around 6'3", with pale skin, almost-black hair, high cheekbones, and a sardonic smile. He entered the train, narrowly missing the closing doors, and yelled at the Tired Train Operator to not close the doors so quickly, as there was still a number of people coming on board. Tired Train Operator was a black man, medium build, probably 5'10", his hair braided into cornrows. He looked worn out. After The Jerk yelled at him, the two men had some sort of heated verbal exchange that I only heard bits of. It ended with The Jerk accusing TTO of abusive behavior and TTO demanding that TJ leave the train so they could sort the problem out so the train could proceed on its journey. They were at a standstill: TJ refusing to get off the train, and TTO refusing to start the train until he did. Enter Level-Headed Man. I didn't get a good look at LHM, but I remember that he was also in a business suit and had a neatly-trimmed beard. He started talking to TJ, calmly saying that everyone was tired and anxious after a long day's work, and that everyone should let the matter drop so the train could move on its way. The standstill continued for a while, as TJ continued to argue with TTO, and TTO stubbornly but calmly waiting for the man to get off the train. LHM finally got out of the train and spoke to TTO, and I heard nothing of their exchange. By this time, the other passengers onboard started to murmur and a few called out to TJ to get off the train already. Enter Autistic Child, who was in the train and starting to get angry with his mother, nervously and anxiously proclaiming that they should NOT have taken the tube. AC's mother called out to the men, saying that she had an autistic child who didn't handle waiting very well. He was getting really upset, and everyone around TJ started to urge him off the train, and he finally stepped off, spoke with TTO for a brief moment, got back on the train, and in less than a minute, the doors closed and the train squealed as it picked up speed, and we moved away from the platform. No one in our car said a word, and silence hung awkwardly, heavily, and oppressively in the air, until the next stop, when Ari and I exited the train, wide-eyed and relieved.

As I reflected back on the incident, I realized that I found it both funny and disturbing at the same time. I mentioned above that the Tube is one of my favorite things about London, but at the same time, the mix of people on the Tube can obviously be problematic–volatile, even. And getting on the Tube during afternoon rush hour can be frustrating because people are never as understanding or happy after a hard day's work. Even morning rush hour can be awkward, especially when you're getting on the Tube with a hundred well-dressed businessmen who all seem to be subject to morning grouchiness, and at times I feel like I need a business suit to fit in on the Tube in the early morning. So I can say that the Tube has been the cause of culture shock, and sometimes it helps to slip in my earbuds, listen to music, read Charles Lamb, and ignore the grouchy businessmen or creepy guys staring unabashedly or hundreds of French school children who don't understand the meaning of the phrase "silence is golden." So yes, I have experienced a little bit of hostility towards the gente in the Tube, but overall it has been a positive experience, especially when I pass talented buskers or the occasional handsome stranger. Love when that happens.

learning journal 04.09: last one!

I feel that somehow this post needs to be a culmination of my entire learning journal experience; however, I'm not very good at culminations, so this might be a bit anticlimactic. I wanted to continue some of the thoughts I developed in my last post, because I am {still} thinking about place. I wanted to do another creative post incorporating the theme of place in my writing. As far as my project goes, when I'm in London I want to gain experiences in the city that I can write about. I want to allow myself to have as much experience in the city as I can, which will inspire writing, likely writing that is centered on place. Writing with place in mind for personal essays means exploring the self in the context of place, so there will be explorations of the city itself as well as my experiences in the city. Theoretically :)

So here goes:

Burnt Orange and Blue

At the start of the Civil War, leaders of the yet-to-be-annexed state of Utah sent settlers down to Southern Utah on a cotton mission, hoping the growth of cotton would help to achieve their goal of self sufficiency. The endeavor, although eventually abandoned, earned Southern Utah the nickname “Utah’s Dixie.”

I can image the first settlers’ reaction when they came to Southern Utah. Many of them, coming from the lush green countryside of the eastern United States, must have cringed at the sagebrush laden landscape. The rust colored dust, kicked up in the suffocatingly hot breeze, forms dust devils that look like a weak, red-tinted version of a tornado. Unlike a tornado, you probably couldn’t be killed by a dust devil; it doesn’t do much more than blow around more dirt and roll around the dried up tumbleweeds. I hope the settlers didn’t show up in mid-July, when the heat seems to sink down from the sun and rise up from the ground simultaneously, creating the uncomfortable feeling of being inside a waffle iron. Granted, I’ve never been inside a waffle iron, but I can imagine how it would feel.

Despite the unrelenting heat, the settlers would have been impressed by the sweeping vistas of brightly colored rock against skies of unbelievable blue. The rocks are called red by residents and visitors alike; really, their hue is correctly categorized as burnt orange, a fusion of bright orange and brown. I suppose it’s easier to say “red rocks” than “burnt orange rocks” Kind of like it’s easier to say “redhead” instead of “burnt-orange head” (which would also be a more accurate description). The land, previously occupied only by Native Americans, has earned every inch of its ecosystemic category: desert.

When my family first moved to the desert, we house hopped around Southern Utah until we settled in Ivins. Ivins is right outside of St. George and, being much less populated, is more in touch with the desert and lies in the shadow of the big Red Mountain (burnt orange mountain). When my parents purchased our home in Ivins, I was four(ish). Before the initial purchase, my sisters and I were allowed to accompany our parents to “check it out.” I remember peeking my head into the windows, on my tiptoes, seeing not much more than dingy emptiness inside; I explored the overgrown backyard, a veritable wilderness decorated with spiked stickers and worn weeds.

The lonely house, previously vacant, came with unabashed 1970s style, complete with left-over linoleum, assorted colors of carpet (boring brown, sage green, neon orange, and dusted pink), a large backyard that looked like a true desert field, and a gnarled, half dead rosebush planted smack dab in the middle of the front yard. In no time, the six of us (soon to be seven, later to be eight) plus two cats, Calvin and Hobbs, permeated the bare house with activity and Barbie dolls.

Over the years, little by little, the house has been painted, tiled, refurbished, updated, added onto, and landscaped. When I look at the little picture of our house in its original state of desolation and compare it to the home it has become, I can barely see the resemblance. Several times my parents have looked into buying a newer house, but somehow (happily) it has never worked out. Our home has been lived in. Six girls, two dogs, a few birds, a gerbil (who chewed through his cage and got stuck in the corner kitchen cupboard) and who-knows-how-many cats later, it is ours in every sense of the word. And situated conveniently in the middle of the desert, it provided ample entertainment for my girlhood days.

As a girl growing up in the desert, I fondly recall my sisters and I (my mom, even) screaming and standing on chairs as intruding lizards raced through the house. Our cats, well adapted to the environment, didn’t bring us gifts of dead mice on the doorstep like usual tamed felines; instead, to show affection, our domesticated desert housecats brought us lizards. I remember Yoda, our grey tabby, strutting around with a deceased lizard tail hanging limply out of her mouth (so appetizing).

My sisters and I would race through the fields, risking ticks and scratches, and catching horny toads. Horny toads (as we called them) are actually called Horned Lizards; they were slippery fellows, and quite tricky to catch. Once caught, the reptiles would sit annoyed, waiting for us to tire of petting and investigating their scaled and bumpy skin. Their exterior appeared hardened, spiked, tough as a helmet, and able to inflict harm on anyone who touches it. One touch, however, reveals that the lizard’s skin is like a dog whose bark is worse than its bite; the roughened texture is satisfyingly fun to touch.  After letting the lizards scurry off to their sheltered retreats, we would continue to race and frolic under the brilliant sun. The tumbleweeds provided more opportunity for sport, though not much more than desiccated sagebrush shriveled and dehydrated to the point of being a ball of prickled twigs. Ranging in size from a few inches to four feet in circumference, they could serve as soccer balls or high-profile hiding spots; we played carefully with tumbleweeds, because one slip and the offended tumbleweed would bite back with its prickles. After returning home, panting and beat, we would pick the stickers out of our red-dirt stained socks and brush the orangey earth from our play-worn clothes. The oxidation of iron in the dirt makes it burnt orange, but I didn’t know that. All I knew was that it’s nearly impossible to keep white socks white in the desert.

A culmination of childhood memories collected under the Southern Utah sun branded me with an endearing, yet not often expressed attachment to the desert. Last summer, standing on top of a mountain in Zion National Park, I realized what I had always known: there is a part of my soul, epidermis-like in size, that can only be touched by the desert. Located in Southern Utah, Zion contains some of the most stunning, almost unreal, sandstone canyons and cliffs I have ever seen. Castled, imposing cliffs jut out of the ground, towering over and intimidating the surrounding landscape with their majestic display of warm-toned rock. Angels’ Landing, one of the tallest peaks in Zion, affords a sweeping view of the park, as well as the miles of sagebrushed desert beyond. The climb to the top of Angels’ Landing is no easy feat; the two and a half miles to the top appears menacing at best. Determined to tackle the beast, I put my right foot forward on the trail and started up. After I trudged up the seemingly endless switchbacks that make up the first part of the hike, I held fast to the chains anchored in the rock that provide a safe passage up the cliff. Finally, I stood windswept, enchanted, and three feet away from 1500 feet of down, down, down; and I understood. I understood how the sum of prickled sagebrush and dried earth and red rock can be a soul’s perch; I understood how settlers braved the imposing southern heat to settle the wild land; and I understood how this geographical location can be a home for me as it was for them. 

learning journal 04.06: planning my london excursions

I found this book. Okay, I don't know what the title is, because I have a packet of copied pages my faculty mentor gave to me. It's some sort of literary guide to London, and goes through the long history of London authors by district, giving the locations where London writers intersected with the city {birth sites, death sites, home addresses, churches frequented, etc. etc}. It is AWESOME, because it completely justifies my entire field study. For example, there's an entry for St Andrew's church, where William Hazlitt was married, with Charles Lamb acting as best man. It gives A.A. Milnes' address where he wrote the Winnie the Pooh books {he was an essayist, too, so I'm not just interested in his children's lit. but Winnie the Pooh is pretty great}. This book will be key in my literary adventures, because it will cut out much of the work I'll have to do in searching through the city for anything that has to do with the authors I'll be studying. I'll be able to compile a list of sites to visit from this book, then I can supplement with any additional sites I find in the essayists' writing, and I'll be off to have an adventure interacting with the beloved dead. It's going to be freakishly awesome. As you can tell, I'm super excited about it.

But this post is more than just a place to express my excitement. I wanted to take one of the last learning journals in this prep course to explore and justify the purpose of my project. I've obviously taken time in my project proposal and other assignments in the class to do just that, but I wanted to take a step back and look at the larger picture of how important I feel it is to explore not only literature but the places where that lit. was conceived. One of the ideas that always comes up in my writing is how much of who I am I can attribute to where I come from, both physically and, eh, genetically {if that makes sense}. I'm from Southern Utah, and I find that the desert of Southern Utah has helped to define who I am. We have more of a connection to the place(s) we grew up than we tend to give credit for, and I think at some point we have to come to terms with our place of origin. When I say come to terms, it has an almost negative connotation; nevertheless, coming to terms, for me, means that we should think about it enough that we realize how much of an impact it has had on our lives. But maybe I just think about it too much.

No, I don't. I don't think you can think about it too much. Well, let me amend that as well. Of course you can think too much about something, and I think that thinking about place is an important thing to think about more than once or twice or five times. So that is why a project like mine is so attractive to me, because it gives me a chance to ponder about place outside of my own experience. It's my hypothesis that being more familiar with place will help me to better understand and experience the authors I'm studying. That's the hypothesis, and the hope that I have.

Before I end, I wanted to look at a couple example of authors' using place as a vital part of their writing. First, let's start with a classical essayist: Virginia Woolf. I often use her as an example, because she not only lived in London but wrote a LOT about London. She would take walks through London and tell the reader, in her very frank yet approachable way, what she saw on her walk. She was keenly aware of her relationship with London, and it's very evident in her writing that she identified with the city. Take London away from her writing, and you would be not only cutting out a sizable chunk of text, but alos cutting out a sizable piece of Woolf's character and relatability. Now another example: Terry Tempest Williams. She's a contemporary writer, and one that's closer to home. Terry Tempest Williams writes a lot about different landscapes in Utah, and I can tell by reading her essays that place is a huge part about her identity as a writer, and as a person in general. For example, in her book Refuge, she writes about her mother's death from cancer in context of the 1983 flooding in Salt Lake City, and the effect it had on the landscape, especially the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge. She writes a lot about the birds in the refuge, and makes amazing connections between her family life and the refuge (and its inhabitants) and the landscape. It's a fantastic book.

I'm excited to start my project in London! Can't wait.

learning journal 04.04: i'm allergic to everything

On Sunday, I was telling {not bragging, okay? just telling} a couple of friends that I haven't gotten allergies at all the past couple of years, even though I used to be allergic to every single season change in Provo. Aaaand then Monday came, along with the sneezy hazy eye watery bleary allergies I love so much. I was sneezing alldaylong, and it hasn't exactly gone away, so I ended up on the coach for 85% of today, mindlessly staring off into space and watching hours of the Forsythe Saga, which is still full of drama and scandal but is significantly more worthwhile than America's Next Top Model. Just sayin'. And also, it's British. But no, this post isn't about another tv show, as much as you'd like it to be. I just got to thinking that I'm probably going to have to suck it up tomorrow and be an adult and go to class and teach even though I'm currently a sniveling fool....

...that was last night, and this is today. And yes, I came to campus today to be a productive student and instructor. But all this is beside the point. Well, somewhat. I will tie it in to today's post, you'll see!


Okay, so as I was reading the culture shock article, I realized that the wide variety of culture shock symptoms makes it really hard to recognize if you're not aware of the potential problems. I had quite the revelatory moment as I was reading the article:  I know exactly why the first few months of my mission were so difficult. I've always thought that my first few months were so hard because I didn't get along well with my trainer! Well, I realized how much culture shock spoiled our relationship. In fact, I might go as far as to say that almost every single problem I experience as a new missionary was tied back to culture shock. And because of culture shock, it magnified so many of the problems that might not have been a big issue without the addition of learning the Uruguayan culture. Most of the magnified problems, sadly, tied back to my companion. So many things she did drove me BONKERS, and I can see now how much of the tension in our relationship could have been avoided had I known to deal with culture shock (or had I even known that it was a problem. Giving a name to my troubles would have helped in and of itself.)

It's been a few years now, but I can still remember how frustrating it was for me to adjust to the language; my speaking skills were probably better than average, due to a little more experience with the Spanish language than other new gringo missionaries, but I had the HARDEST time understanding the people. I would get so tired in lessons because I couldn't understand half of what our investigators were saying, so I felt like I lived in a bubble, and that contributed to the already huge adjustment of missionary work and missionary life--I would definitely have a hard time staying awake. I would get so MAD at my companion for the smallest things: she was very chatty with investigators, and after having lessons (in which I could understand more), she would sit and chat with them for the looooongest time. When I would talk to her about it, I attributed it to the fact that our district and zone leaders had been emphasizing the importance of using time wisely as a missionary, and sitting there for 45 minutes talking after a lesson seemed like such a waste of time. And maybe it was, to a degree. The biggest frustration, though, was that I couldn't understand most of what was going on in our after-lesson discussions. Because of that, I was more disconnected with the people and thus had little to no desire to sit and chat. I was really frustrated that I didn't know Spanish as well as I thought I did, so I really wanted to teach more in lessons and get as much experience as I could. Problem is, my companion wouldn't really give me much time in lessons to teach. She would teach the whole thing and turn to me at the end for me to add a few lines of testimony. I know that she was probably thinking of me, and thinking that because I was insecure I wouldn't want to talk in lessons. This would have been an easy barrier to overcome, but my frustrations tied back to the language and culture made me more irritable than usual. When I got to Uruguay, it was summer, so that was simply delightful (note a slight edge of sarcasm). I was frustrated because we didn't have air conditioning, so I didn't sleep as well at night. I insisted we sleep with the fan on even though my companion insisted that our power bill would be so much more expensive if we left the ceiling fan on all night long. She said we should just sleep with the window open, and the first night I agreed and we slept with it open, but the problem was this: when I woke up in the morning I was absolutely covered in bug bites; the whole night I was plagued by little buzzing and freaked out when bugs flew into my ears or in my face or... just gross. I was so irritable that I insisted on having my way and sleeping with the window shut and the fan on.

Without giving you an entire list of my grievances, I will just say that many of these problems would have been less of a big deal had I understood that I was experiencing culture shock, and taken the steps to deal with it directly. As it was, once I was with another companion I started seeing how wonderful missionary work could be, and thought my change of attitude was again directly tied back to my companion. True, yes, I did get along with her much more, but at the same time, I could tell I was getting more used to the culture. I was a little more confident with the language, and amazed that I was able to sufficiently show my companion around our area without mishap. As I got more used to the culture, the initial culture shock wore off, and I feel like eventually I was able to advance to biculturalism--if not completely, than to a much greater degree. I loved the culture and felt that I could understand more of the people's motivations and values.

Also, as I was reading the culture shock article I got to thinking that the MTC could probably do a much better job of preparing missionaries for experiencing culture shock. Because the adjustment from regular to missionary life is already a huge transition, and with the added stress of culture shock, it can be traumatic for a lot of missionaries. A lot of missionaries develop depression or other health problems on their missions, and I have to wonder how much of that is tied to not coping with culture shock.

So here's where I tie it into the beginning of my post. Because culture shock is a real problem, just as allergies or any other sickness is, it can have a real effect on our desires to get out of bed in the morning and actually work or go to school or be a missionary. Much of the time, and especially with culture shock, the best thing to do is get out of the house, stop feeling sorry for oneself and dwelling on the issue, and go to work.

The end.