morning conversation.

Brother: Are you packing a lunch, Kristina?

Me: Yes.

Brother: Cool!

Mom: Why's it cool, Nate?

Brother: I don't know. I do it.

Green Loc-Tite: Or, Learning to Be Less Efficient.

It's almost 9 pm. I'm tired. My feet are reminding me that they still aren't used to being confined in socks and shoes all day. My hands are dry, and there's still grease under my fingernails. Eight hours at work today, most of them in the parts room or shop, and how good it feels to have actually accomplished some really concrete tasks today (and to have marked hours on a timesheet). I must head to bed soon: tomorrow will be an even longer day, particularly if I work in the evening as well. I won't complain though: I like my jobs, and after two weeks of hanging out at home, I'm thankful to have something to keep me busy.

And laughing.

I've worked in the parts room at my dad's shop often enough. In the fall, I was the one to receive and stock each day's inventory; I've pulled and shipped many an order. I did some of that today, too (the shipping, not receiving). While Clarence welcomed me back with the suggestion that I go sweep the roof of the shop (this will likely remain at the bottom of my to do list forever), Dave quickly handed off a few invoices to pack and ship. Including one to Canada - which meant I got to jump right back into not only the regular aspects of shipping, but also customs and commodities declarations! I remembered most of what to do, and he walked me through the rest of it once again.

But the biggest lesson of the day came when Clarence and Kevin and John put me to work pressing bushings and bearings into pulleys. For the non-mechanically inclined among my readers, this basically means that I was inserting small metal pieces into larger metal pieces, which will eventually (tomorrow!) be connected to other pieces to become large mechanical equipment. The pieces fit together very tightly, so I had to use a press. The first batch went fine: two bushings per pulley until I ran out, and then we ordered more.

And because I had done so well, the guys decided I should do some more. But this next batch was a bit different, so we added a couple steps to the process. Now, instead of just setting a bushing into the pulley and using the press to push it in, I would be smearing a bearing with green loc-tite, using the press to push it level with the edge of a (different-shaped) pulley, then using a rod with the press to push it into the middle of the pulley. Trust me, the steps are easy enough when you see them done.

Now, this "green loc-tite" stuff was obviously held in high regard: that much was obvious from the way the guys talked about it. Reading the label, I learned that it was supposed to "augment" the connection between two pieces of metal. But I wasn't told, nor did I quite figure out until (much) later, how it did this. Maybe it should have been obvious from the name; perhaps, in the midst of remembering and learning so much, my brain wasn't functioning at quite it's fullest speed. Regardless, when I began my task, I hadn't yet learned to respect green loc-tite nearly as much as it deserved.

There were three shelves of pulleys, but not nearly enough bearings. For the first group, John had given me 24 bearings, which I was to fit into 24 pulleys. He had demonstrated on one, but I didn't see any reason to do them individually, so I set myself up with a nice little assembly line on the receiving table. I opened 24 boxes, then removed 24 bearings from their plastic wrappers. Wearing gloves - at John's demand - I smeared green loc-tite on each one and paired it with a pulley. Then, I used the press to push each bearing level with the pulley. 24 presses: so far, so good.

But then, disaster struck.

Just as John had, I set the rod in the first bearing and stuck it under the press again. I pulled down, and, nothing. All my strength couldn't budge the bearing any deeper into the pulley. I readjusted the press - a few times - with the same result. I tried a different pulley: still no luck. Thinking there was something wrong with the press, I paged Kevin, the Shop Manager, to the parts room. He couldn't get the press to move the bearing either. But, being far better acquainted with green loc-tite than I, he quickly recognized the problem.

Green loc-tite is like super glue - only superior. It sets fast and solid. To unstick something which has been stuck with green loc-tite apparently requires heating to a very high temperature.

By trying to be more efficient with my assembly line style, I had created a problem on par with the sticking power of green loc-tite. I was horrified. We don't stock cheap parts, and I thought for sure that I had ruined these pulleys and would never be allowed near anything mechanical - or sticky - again.

A couple more guys got involved, mostly laughing at my predicament. Clarence, however, knew how to solve such a problem. Taking one of my super-stuck pulleys and the press rod, he led me out to the shop - and to the hydraulic press. Warning me never to pull the press when my hand was near or under it, he quickly proved its power: this press was more than able to push the bearing solidly into the pulley. I breathed a sigh of relief (maybe a few) and went to fetch my other 23 stuck pulleys.

The story ends happily: I finished the rest of the pulleys (including another 20 or so from each of the other shelves) using the hydraulic press and didn't have any trouble; I learned to respect green loc-tite as much as any of the guys; and the frequent retelling of this story throughout the afternoon to various employees and vendors provided much comic relief.

Moral: Efficiency isn't always a virtue, particularly in the presence of almighty green loc-tite.

colour.

I went up to my parents' attic earlier this afternoon with two goals in mind: 1) find an old manuscript draft that a theology professor gave me a couple years ago and that I wanted to try reading again, and 2) find my slippers. The former task was simple: I found the manuscript in the third box I opened. The latter, less simple: I'm still wearing the slippers my kid brother loaned me last week.

Unsurprisingly, I came across a few other things, mostly books, that I decided to bring down with me. One of these, a journal from the Theatre for Social Change class I took my senior year, I decided to repurpose for a new project: an art journal. The first half is already fairly artsy: apparently my last semester of college was a creative one!

And now, in an attempt to re-inspire my creative side, the second half will be dedicated to magazine clippings, markers, glue, and my globe-trotting colored pencils. My journal hasn't been getting much ink lately, so maybe this will also be an outlet for those things which aren't getting written - or a spark which compels me to pick up my pen.

For those who are interested, here was the beginning attempt...

Random Connections.

It's funny sometimes the people you run into when you're least expecting it.

Earlier this week, I spent an afternoon hanging out in the Commons at EMU. It was "Calling and Career Day," and I was helping Luke represent MCC at the job/service fair. I took a few copies of my resume along. Given that I'm not really looking for an unpaid summer internship or a short term mission trip, I didn't have any luck finding a job. I did get to talk to lots of students about SALT and other MCC service opportunities, however, something which I really enjoyed.

It felt a bit surreal at times: stepping out of the present, I would reflect back a few years when I was the one stopping by the service fair recruiting tables. How experienced and put-together and cultured the seasoned travelers and service workers seemed then!

The afternoon brought many strange encounters, (re)connections with people I never expected to meet. Here are a few such tales...

I was idling by the registration table while I waited for Luke to show up with the stuff to set up our table. A very outgoing woman came over and start chatting with me, offering to show me where our table would be while I waited for "Michelle" (not sure who she was thinking of, but it was just Luke and I representing MCC...). As we walked around the indoor track where the fair was taking place, I learned that she was representing Eastern Mennonite Missions, and that she works in the Lancaster office. "Oh, that's interesting. I have a friend who was applying for a position there a couple weeks ago." She asked for my friend's name, then informed me that she had gotten the job. In fact, this woman told me, she was the one who had trained my friend at orientation earlier in the week (turns out this wasn't true: my friend starts orientation next week). Random.

After we set up the table, Luke and I went to get lunch. Taking sandwiches (shame on EMU for not having any veg. options!), we went to sit with some other recruiters. Introductions went around the table, then conversations continued. I started talking to the girl beside me, who was representing SWAP. She looked a bit familiar, but I didn't have any idea why. Until she complimented the beads in my hair and asked if they were from Uganda. "I was just there a few months ago for a SWAP project with a Methodist church in Gulu," she told me. Oh, of course. She was part of the group that wandered into the MCC office in Kampala right after I returned to Uganda. We had chatted a bit while her group leader got incredibly excited to take photos of the actual MCC Uganda office. Interesting that we would both just happen to accompany official recruiters to this same event.

I took a break after an hour or so and wandered around the tables myself. After turning down a few invitations to sign up for a summer missions trip, I stopped at a display for a local ministry that provides tutoring and other services for immigrants. The guy at the table had listened to my spiel about SALT earlier, so I returned the favor and let him tell me about his work (he spends a few hours a week helping immigrants fill out legal documents). He asked if I was from the area, then where I had gone to high school. Turns out he attended the same high school, albeit a few years behind me. "Do you have a sister there?" he asked me. Before long, he informed me that my middle sister was a friend of his, and he had sung in choir with her for a few years. Well, okay then.

I didn't intend to stop at the table for the Korean Anabaptist Center, but the elderly gentleman staffing it caught my eye and started asking me questions. As I answered his questions about who I am and what I was doing there, I watched the photo slideshow with my peripheral vision. Suddenly, I saw a familiar face. "Hey, I know them!" pointing to friends from my last MCC orientation who just moved to South Sudan this month. I knew my friends had taught English in Korea, but I wouldn't have guessed that this was the organization they worked for - or that these two recruiters would happen to know them well. So, we spent a few minutes chatting about these friends - who I know in connection with MCC Africa and these people knew from Korea. It's a small world after all.

Still amazed by the day's connections, I went back to our table. I found Luke deep in conversation with a guy who looked vaguely familiar. Looking at both his face and his name tag, however, I couldn't figure out why. I was talking to someone else when he finished his conversation with Luke, so I didn't get a chance to say anything to him. A few minutes later, this familiar-looking stranger came back. "Were you in Nairobi in December 2008?" he asked me. "Oh, yes." Now I recognized him as one of the EMM Yes participants who had been at the EMM/MCC East Africa retreat mid-way through my SALT term. More than a year later, I was meeting him again as a first year student at EMU. Who would have ever guessed?

I've heard it said that everyone in the world is connected to everyone else by no more than six degrees of separation. In the Mennonite world, however, I'm not sure it isn't less than that!

Well, that's a new one.

*Disclaimer: I neither use nor endorse the following service.*

I occasionally get a spam message on skype. Not often enough for this to raise concerns, but just every once in awhile. I have no idea how I am chosen, but these spam messages have invited me to do a variety of things, from sending money to an unknown recipient to soliciting information about some new exciting technology. Today's message was a little different - well, it was unlike any I've ever received before. Reading it caused me to shake my head, "Really? Well, that's a new one." I won't be visiting (or sharing) the link they sent, but I thought some of my readers might also be amused by this message.

*Disclaimer: I neither use nor endorse the following service.*

"There are thousands of unhappy married women and men in every city, but they DO NOT want to leave their spouse. They want to stay married, but they want to have an affair without ever being caught. Our dating community is extremely popular!

Having an affair can be stressful because you never know if the other person involved is going to get attached to you. You just want to have an intimate encounter and nothing else.

A great thing about this Discreet Dating Community For Married People is that there is no cost to join. You can check it out, see if you like it, and then begin contacting married people for secret intimate encounters.

Press here if you want to have an affair with a married person:

[deleted link]"

*Disclaimer: I neither use nor endorse the above service.*

Safety Precautions.

In her novel, Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver relates the tale of a Southern Baptist missionary to the Congo in 1959 through the eyes of his four daughters. Early in the story, Leah recounts the difficulties they faced in determining what to pack: latrine spade or hand mirror, aspirin tablets or canned ham, and of course, powdered cake mix. Their plans were complicated, however, by the luggage restrictions enforced by the airline that was to fly them across the Atlantic.

"Getting here with even the bare minimum was a trial. Just when we considered ourselves fully prepared and were fixing to depart, lo and behold, we learned that the Pan American Airline would only allow forty-four pounds to be carried across the ocean. Forty-four pounds of luggage per person, and not one iota more. Why, we were dismayed by this bad news!" (14)

After weeding out some less-essential essentials, like the eldest daughter's beloved toiletries, their luggage was still overweight, not surprising since, as Leah put it, they carried the "full measure of civilization's evils" they would have access to during the one year mission (14). Eventually, however, with some hints from the Mission League, they stumble upon this creative solution:

"Through an oversight (or else probably, if you think about it, just plain politeness), they don't weigh the passengers. ... We struck out for Africa carrying all our excess baggage on our bodies, under our clothes. Also, we had clothes under our clothes. My sisters and I left home wearing six pairs of underdrawers, two half-slips and camisoles; several dresses one on top of the other, with pedal pushers underneath; and outside of everything an all-weather coat. ... The other goods, tools, cake-mix boxes and so forth were tucked out of sight in our pockets and under our waist-bands, surrounding us in a clanking armor. We wore our best dresses on the outside to make a good impression." (15)

----

The above passage came to my mind a week and a half ago as I waited for my flight from London to Philadelphia. It was Sunday morning, more than 24 hours after I landed at Heathrow International Airport. After two cancelled flights, sight-seeing with a good friend, and a night spent fighting jet lag in my complimentary hotel room, I was tired of traveling. According to the Departures board, my flight was still on, and I had rechecked my luggage.

When I reached the Security check-in, the officer read my ticket before eying my backpack and carry-on bag. She then informed me that new regulations forbid more than one piece of hand luggage on flights bound for the US. Never mind that all their signs still stated that travelers could carry one smaller piece of luggage plus a briefcase/laptop bag/etc. Granted, my backpack was a bit fuller than necessary for just a laptop, but that wasn't what she was taking issue with: "Ma'am, you need to either put everything into one bag, or check another piece of luggage."

Now, remember that I hadn't slept more than 8 hours in the past 50, I had already stood in three long lines this morning, and the deathly cold had settled into my bones: I was a bit snappish in response to this woman, demanding that she return my passport and ticket so I could go away and think a bit, then suggesting that they publicize such new restrictions more widely.

I found a seat and spent a few minutes contemplating my best course of action (despite the coffee I'd had earlier, my mind wasn't working too quickly at this point). My carry-on actually wasn't too full: mostly winter clothes in case my luggage didn't arrive at the same time as I did; I'd already removed a couple kilos of mangoes as a gift to my friend the previous day. My backpack held my laptop, a few books (I've learned never to put in my luggage anything that I can't stand to live without), my favorite blanket, and my travel documents - but there was no way I could just stuff it inside the other bag.

My eventual solution was like that of the Prices in Kingsolver's novel, though I didn't have any cake mixes to worry about. Grateful for bathroom stalls as large as most walk-in closets, I sorted through the clothes in my carry-on. I was already wearing undergarments, tank top, button-up shirt, sweater, jeans, belt, socks, sneakers, coat, scarf, and quite a bit of jewelry. I added the two shirts I had been wearing the previous day, a skirt, a second pair of socks, and a second scarf, tying my hoodie around my waist like a third grader. Into the pockets of my coat went my travel documents, passport, money, ipod, hat, gloves, and zip-loc bag with lotion, toothpaste, etc. Everything else, backpack and laptop included, got stuffed into my carry-on bag, and I traipsed back to Security.

After getting past the officer at the first desk, I then stood in line to go through the metal detectors. At the front, I piled into the bins: laptop, coat, ziploc bag, hoodie, shoes, belt, and carry-on bag. Waiting to bundle up again on the other side, my anxiety spiked again when the officers pulled my zip-loc bag out of the bin and started checking the things inside it. "Pardon me, is there a problem?" I asked as they opened the bottle of cough syrup that I was using to fight a 2-day-old cold. No problem, they just wanted to "test" it.

Two hours later, waiting in line to get my bag hand-searched and my body patted down so I could enter the gate, I learned the reasons for these new precautions from other passengers: America was still on super-alert since the last plane bombing attempt. Personally, though, as I stretched out my arms for yet another officer to ensure that I wasn't packing explosives, I didn't really feel any safer.

I just felt tired. And annoyed.

The Thing About Friends.

I have a lot of good friends. On multiple continents. In various time zones. Friends that I chat with online every day. Childhood friends whose blogs I recently discovered. Friends whose genes distinctly resemble my own. Friends who laugh at my strange accents and linguistic passions. Friends who teach me their native languages. Friends who remember when I used to mismatch my clothes intentionally. Friends who stay up late in uncomfortable social situations with me. Friends who send me texts that only we could understand. Friends who've seen me cry. Friends who can make me laugh by raising a single eyebrow.

Friends, friends, friends.

At a time like this - when so much of my life is once again in transition - I am ever so aware - and deeply appreciative - for all of my friends. So, to those of you I've talked to recently, as well as those I haven't, just know that I love you and am extremely grateful for your presence in my life.

And for moments like this one, when I'm working on an essay (well, "letter of intent" in this case), reading through edits, and have to contain my laughter in the middle of the library:

"They’d be morons not to accept an extremely qualified person like you!"

Motion Sickness.

mo.tion sick.ness

noun

nausea caused by motion, esp. by traveling in a vehicle(ref: Apple Dictionary).

It caught me by surprise again.
I arrived in the US on Sunday afternoon, but it was Philadelphia, so we used public transportation: train, subway, feet. My first car ride came on Monday morning, when an MCC volunteer met me at the train station to drive me to the Akron office. I was suffering from severe jet lag; I chalked my ill feelings up to the exhaustion - and to the slightly nervous feelings I got when he turned the wrong way down a one way street in Lancaster City.. Later, on the way to and from lunch, I thought, "too much coffee on an empty stomach." And, the jet lag that made me feel like I had just pulled an all-nighter - or two. No wonder my system felt a little out of sync.
It was later that same evening, riding in my sister's car, headed to her house where I would spend the week, that I realized what was happening. Maybe because it was a longer car ride. And I had been feeling perfectly fine until we started moving (I regulated my caffeine to water ratio better after lunch). The symptoms were more pronounced: my body just felt off-kilter. Headache, nausea, clamminess. The air felt too hot, too artificial.
My body was reacting as it used to the few times I made the mistake of riding a roller coaster - but the roads we were driving were perfectly smooth, mostly straight. The car barely swayed. Certainly a more pleasant experience than riding on Ugandan roads, where I always came away counting my bruises.
But therein lies the problem. For whatever reason, my body adjusts quite quickly to Ugandan transport. After hours on a bus, I usually felt stiff, bruised, and parched, but never once do I recall suffering from motion sickness. That's a problem my body saves for straight, smooth roads and vehicles with well-maintained shocks. When riding on "good" roads recalls the off-roading some of my guy friends loved in high school, I feel perfectly healthy - afraid for my life at moments, but never nauseated. But bring me back to the developed world, to such subtle swaying, and it can be torture to ride for just a few minutes.
At least there's this hope to hang on to: when I came back in the summer, I eventually adapted again, and the motion sickness reserved itself for more dramatic twists and curves. Assumedly, the same will happen this time. Fresh cold air also helps - and Virginia seems to have plenty of that these days.

Superlative Intimidation.

As part of my quest for employment, preferably in the education sector, I've been working on an application for Teach for America this week. A two year Americorps program, TFA is an alternative certification program for teachers who commit to working with underserved populations, particularly in urban or rural areas on the lower end of the achievement gap. Given that I really enjoy teaching, but have neither teacher certification nor a degree in education, this kind of program seems like a good option for me. So, in the midst of adjusting to the cold North American climate and catching up with old friends, I've been working on this application (necessary since it's due next week!).

Most of it has been fairly straight-forward: questions about my academic and work experience, a required letter of intent including why I want to join TFA, etc. One set of questions, found on the "Academic Information" page, caught me off-guard yesterday, in part because of the superlative used in the first line.

• What is the longest amount of time you have ever spent pursuing a goal or interest or refining a skill?
• What was that goal/interest/skill?
• Are you still involved in this pursuit?

As you contemplate how you might answer these questions, bear in mind that this is not an essay prompt. The first question offers a drop down menu: less than one year, 1-2 years, 2-4 years, 4-6 years, more than 6 years. The second has a short answer line. The third, another drop down: yes, no, occasionally.

And remember, they're not asking you to highlight the goal/interest/skill that is most important to you or even focusing on that goal/interest/skill; the first question, and thus, seemingly, the most important piece of information, asks for the longest amount of time you've ever spent pursuing it. "Longest." A superlative, denoting the highest possible degree.

I couldn't answer this question immediately. In the hours I spent considering it, quite a few options passed through my mind. Two of my top considerations were basketball and my bachelors degree. But still, I wasn't sure if either of those was the short answer goal/interest/skill I wanted to highlight on my teaching application.

Finally, with the help of my boyfriend - who had no such difficulties identifying what goal/interest/skill he'd pursued the longest - I found the goal/interest/skill that I probably have pursued the longest in my life, and which also reflects well on my personal interests.

My final answers:

• More than six years.
• Language learning.
• Yes.

Feel free to comment with your own response to this intimidating superlative question...

just what i needed.

Each of my sisters keeps a quote book: a journal in which she records quotes and sayings which challenge or inspire her. I don't have one of my own, though if I ever give you leave to riffle through the pages of my numerous journals, you will find a plethora of quotes, both short and longer. Today, my darling middle sister loaned me her quote book to read, pointing out that the first passage is from a letter I wrote to her last year (can I put that - "I'm quotable" - on my resume?). As is inevitably the case when reading a volume of quotes (or poetry), some of the lines jumped out at me, seeming to be just what my heart needed to hear today, even though I had heard/read many of them before. Here, I share with you a few of these.

"Be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars.

In the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul."

- Max Ehrmann

"I beg you... to have patience

with everything unresolved in your heart

and try to love the questions themselves

as if they were locked rooms or

books written in a very foreign language.

Don't search for the answers,

which could not be given to you now,

because you would not be able to live them.

And the point is, to live everything.

Live the questions now.

Perhaps then, someday far in the future,

you will gradually, without even noticing it,

live your way into the

answer."

- Rainer Maria Rilke

"Walk in the rain,

smell flowers,

stop along the way,

build sandcastles,

go on field trips,

find out how things work,

tell stories,

say the magic words,

trust the universe."

- Bruce Williamson

"Be who you are and say what you feel,

because those who mind don't matter

and those who matter don't mind."

- Dr. Seuss

"Courage does not always roar.

Sometimes

courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day

saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.'"

- Mary Anne Radmacher

"Some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Life is about not knowing, having to change,

taking the moment and making the best of it,

without knowing what's going to happen next.

Delicious ambiguity."

- Gilda Radner

SNOW!!!!

As I write, I'm in central Pennsylvania, sitting around a table in the library of my alma mater with a couple friends. We're in the basement, near the windows, where we'd normally have a perfect view of an employee parking lot.

But today, I can't see any cars. They're hidden from sight by the 6 foot (literally) hill of snow piled up outside the window. An adult standing on the other side of this machine-enhanced snowdrift would be just as hidden. Six feet: it's a wall of snow!

And more is coming. The forecast for this area predicts another foot or so tonight... starting about thirty minutes ago. This will be the third severe, more than a foot of snow, storm to hit the region in the past two weeks. But, oh, how beautiful the fluffy flakes look as they float down from the gray sky!

I'm sure I loved snow as a young child. There are numerous photographs of me playing in the snow: sledding, building snowmen, and just generally enjoying it. As I grew older, I appreciated snow more for its ability to get me out of school and work. I still played in the snow, and I can remember one especially epic snowball fight during little sibs weekend of my sophomore year, but generally, I tried to stay inside and warm.

Today, it's been absolutely thrilling to walk in the cold air that smells of snow (all bundled up in warm clothes, of course). I took off my gloves to grab a handful, delighting in its frozen wonder: it appears so solid, but crumbles into powder when I close my hands around it. It's good packing snow: I marveled for awhile at the almost-ice ball that stung my fingers. My sister and friends keep shying away when I head toward the drifts; they, having seen such for weeks, don't understand my profound excitement just to grasp it in my hands.

I'm not generally a fan of cold weather, and I've already had some moments in the past few days of feeling chilled to the bone. Today, though, wearing a fleece and coat and gloves and scarf and shoes with thick socks, on an afternoon that the locals described as "warm," I touched snow for the first time in two years. For the past few hours, every time I pass a window or thrust my bare hand into a snow drift, a huge smile has lit up my face. I probably haven't been this excited for snow in 15 or 20 years, but gosh, it's a grand time!

And on that note, I'm leaving the library and heading back into the open air, where I can feel the snowflakes on my face and I don't have to contain my excitement.

Let it snow!

cold enough to see my breath.

it has been almost exactly twenty four hours since i boarded british airways flight 062 last night, from entebbe (uganda) to heathrow (london, uk). if everything had gone as planned, i'd be in philadelphia right now: passport stamped, customs cleared, and on the train to my boyfriend's flat. instead, i'm typing from an airport hotel room in london.

my flight from entebbe was uneventful. i had a great seat: aisle, bulkhead row, so lots of leg room. i usually can't sleep on planes, but last night, i actually managed to get a few hours of good, solid sleep. not the equivalent of a full night's rest, but much better than normal (which is surely the only reason why i'm still awake now). we got into london in good time without any trouble. unlike the eastern us, the weather here was quite decent: overcast and cold, but above freezing and without precipitation.

i went through customs and border control because i had plans to meet a good friend who currently lives in london for coffee in the terminal. before she arrived, i went to pick up my boarding pass for my connecting flight to philadelphia. the british airways clerk was surprised: "but, didn't they contact you to tell you that this flight has been cancelled and you need to rebook?" then he noticed that i didn't have a contact number listed on my eticket, and i explained that i had been travelling from uganda anyway. he was quite helpful: booked me a seat on the later flight to philadelphia and even upgraded me to the section above economy rather than leave me on standby. i walked away with a boarding pass, two five pound food vouchers, and a ten hour layover in london.

when my friend reached the terminal, we had coffee as planned. i gave her the mangoes i had brought from southern uganda, and we discussed what to do with the day in light of my extended layover. we ended up riding the subway into town and spent the mid-day hours wandering the "must see" parts of london and warming ourselves in cozy cafes. it was a lot of fun, and a great chance to catch up. later, as we rode the subway back toward the airport, she remarked that i was the first person aside from her husband whom she'd ever hung out with on three different continents. aside from people i've been directly travelling with, she's also the first person i've ever visited on three different continents either (africa, europe, north america). but, given that this was the first time i'd ever actually gone through customs in europe, this isn't such a surprise.

on our way back to the airport, we used heathrow's text message system to check the status of my flight: ba 069 to philadelphia was on time and scheduled to take off at 17:05 local time. back at the airport, i went through security, then had my carry on luggage searched two more times and was patted down before i finally reached the departure gate - the tightest security measures always seem to be for us-bound flights.

when it was time to board, i joined the long queue: given the earlier cancellation, it was obvious that this flight was going to be quite full. reaching the attendant at the desk, i was worried by the frown on his face when he scanned my boarding pass. "is there a problem, sir?" "yes," he responded, "but i think it's one you're going to like." the flight was overbooked, so i was once again upgraded, this time to a business class seat. i'm used to travelling economy class: i had no idea what to expect from a seat in row 13.

entering the plane, i was shocked: business class seats have their own cubicle sections, seats which fully recline (to a horizontal position, although i'm too tall for this to be very comfortable), footstools, drawers, and even outlets for using laptop computers. this was the most space i'd ever had on a plane: as the guys beside me (who, like more than half the other passengers in the section, had also been upgraded at the last moment) figured out, each of our seats took the space equivalent to 3-4 economy seats. whoa! shortly after we boarded the plane, the flight attendants came through our section with local newspapers, champagne, and menus detailing the options for the multi-course meal that would be served after take-off.

we settled in... to wait. when everyone had boarded (which didn't take very long, as we were all anxious to be on our way), the pilot came on the address system and informed us that we were still waiting for clearance to take off. no flights were allowed in or out of philadelphia at the time because of the severe weather hitting the eastern seaboard, but our pilot was optimistic that it would clear by the time we would reach and that we might still be allowed to go. but alas, it was not to be. an hour later, the pilot informed us that this flight was also being cancelled. we were to disembark, claim our luggage, proceed through customs, and then visit the departure desk to rebook.

exhausted and sad to leave my nice seat (which i didn't think to photograph!), i joined the flow of people leaving the plane, wondering if my bags were really going to come around on the carousel (they had also been shifted when i earlier rebooked my flight). they did come, and i reached the departure desk earlier than many others, but still waited quite a while before speaking to a clerk. "you've been rebooked on the morning flight to philadelphia tomorrow," she informed me, "and we'll give you a hotel voucher for tonight." within ten minutes, i had the necessary paperwork: new ticket, hotel voucher, and voucher for the bus to the hotel.

standing with the rest of the group waiting for the bus, i was absolutely shocked by how cold it had become since the sun went down. for the first time in quite a long while, i was shivering enough for my teeth to chatter, and i could see my breath hanging on the air. it might take me some time to readjust to this cold climate.

but, i didn't freeze to death, and the bus did come. my hotel is nice - very nice. i have a room on the second floor: i'm a bit in awe of the huge soft bed and super hot shower. i turned on the heat, made tea with an electric kettle i found in the cupboard, and set the alarm clock for morning, uk time. i was shocked to notice the price of the room on the back of the door, even more so when a friend told me that most airlines refused to give hotel rooms to people whose flights were cancelled by the weather today. guess i'll add this to my list of reasons why i really like british air.

now, i'm going to drink my tea and curl up in the warmth of my bed. in the morning, i'll ride the shuttle bus back to the airport. hopefully, my flight will actually be on time, take off, and eventually reach philadelphia tomorrow.

after all, don't they always say, third time's the charm?

seeing the world.

04.02.10.

Just now, I was browsing through all my photos from the last year and a half, looking for any which MCC might want to use for the office bulletin board or the updated brochure that my friend is working on. I tagged 25 and ended up printing five... out of thousands. There are over 30 gigabytes of video and images stored on my hard drive, most of which are from the last year in Uganda (and also, most of which are backed up on discs; maybe I should back up the rest as well?).

Shortly after I finished this project, I was reading the blog of a friend I've known (though recently, not so well) since first grade. A talented photographer, she nevertheless expresses doubt over the worth of her images... and openly admits her struggle to think highly of her photography without the validation and praise of others.

Aside from the fact that I love the way she sees - and captures - the world, her post resonated with the way I think about my writing. I write mostly for myself, but, like anyone, I always feel a bit better about my writing - and my self - when others praise it. Which is why it bothers me a bit when there are no comments on my blog. But that's a tangent for another day.

Flicking (virtually, of course) through my photos, I rediscovered some images that I really love. Moments and memories and fleeting thoughts captured on (digital) film. Reading my friend's blog has inspired me to share a few of them with you (assuming the internet connection holds up) - not to seek your praise, but instead, to invite you, for a few moments, to see the world through my eyes (or lens).

...........

dusk at lake bunyonyi.

hibiscus flower.

st. monica's day care centre.

mango season in atiak.

rachel marie.

the sibs.

so many things you can do with those tiles.

aren't we cool?

colours.

water.equals.life.

chemistry, much?

blitz.

skip-bo master.

chicago. see how straight those lines are?

happy 15th.

so many memories.

cute cami.

processing, with ink.

shadiah ne pinto.

windmill, kotido.

friends.

i have this thing about photo-ing my foot.

party time with patu.

boys.

this is friendship.

beautiful sky.

fruit drying.

foot, yes?

the beauty of desire.

family, southern hemisphere.

college chocolate.

inshallah.

Itinerary, as currently planned:

4 hours from now:

riding in a special hire taxi from Kampala to Entebbe.

6 hours from now:

checking in at Entebbe Airport.

8 hours from now:

sitting in a plane as it departs from Entebbe enroute to London.

17 hours from now:

arriving at Heathrow Airport.

19 hours from now:

sipping coffee with a very dear friend who happens to be living in London.

22 hours from now:

sitting in a plane as it departs from Heathrow enroute to Philadelphia.

30 hours from now:

arriving at Philadelphia International Airport.

31 hours from now:

attempting to adjust to the deathly cold and snow.

But then again, this might throw a kink into the plans...

regardless, i'll get there eventually...

Telling Stories.

"Story-telling is dependent on memory,

and is itself a way of remembering essential

to being and remaining human.

That is why we keep diaries

and treasure photographs of significant moments

that document the stages on our life's journey,

bringing into focus people we love and respect,

and recalling them in ways that help us savour the past in the present.

That is why remembering the past rightly by a nation

in search of a better future

is so fundamental,

and why the suppression of such memories is so dangerous.

Stories evoke hope, whether personal or communal,

without which we cannot be truly human.

Thus story-telling links memory and expectation

in a way that helps make sense

of the present."

--John W. de Gruchy, Confessions of a Christian Humanist, p. 7.