Going All Along

[His Theme Song]

More than twelve months ago, He set off for a year-long crash course in what He hated to call 'soul searching.'  Thinking that He had lost it to begin with was more than disappointing; it was terrifying.  What else had been unknowingly dropped through the holes in his mid-Western khaki short pockets?

Having an idea of where the winds would take him but not completely sure of what, The Boy remembered boarding the plane that would whisk him far from the land where his closest family and friends resided.  This action, however small it was, would be the first of many times He knew that such a thing as happenstance existed.  Despising his parents for enrolling him into karate classes, being forced to become a puppeteer, being one of two boys who were cut from volleyball tryouts, watching as his parents lost almost everything they dreamed of having, first seeing a dance performance in high school, choosing which schools to apply to and which one to attend, falling in and out of love...  It all carried him to this year, this place, this state of realizing that He

needed

so

much

more

from 

his

life.

Wanting to break His curse, The Beast set out to find what it was He so desperately needed.  True Love's kiss?  Such things only existed in Fairy Tales, and given the circumstances, his story strayed far from that.

... Or not so much.

As a particular french host reminded him on his last night in one of the most romantic cities in the world, "For someone who claims they don't make many friends, there sure were a lot of people to say goodbye to you tonight."  This single phrase would unleash a chain of memories He strung together throughout the year.  He had found so much love in the flowered shrines of India, in the cement huts of Uganda, along the shores of Australia, within the dimly lit milongas of Argentina, and the cobbled streets of France.  Echoes of the most important lessons taught to him resurfaced in a rosy fog, reminding him that

"I never had to choose between passion and profession"

"There is a war in you, and it is coming"

"Wherever you go, there you are"

"You need more presence to lead successfully"

"Being handsome is not enough.  Be great, be beautiful"

The Boy, the Beast, the One that Got Away, Our Hero, now the Prince, had chosen his happy destiny [whatever that would be], that much was clear.  Whatever complicated pathways were ahead of him, He would face them with everything He learned this year, and with the lessons He would keep learning on this journey [according to the fellowship director, "The Watson is never over.  It's just beginning."].

The pieces He found to the jigsaw of his life were now in place, but he knew that there would be so much more to find.  The bigger picture was far from complete, but well on its way to being solved.  He would remember everyone He met during his travels, and how unstuck they seemed to be in life.  Actually, now that he considered it, there were an equal amount of people back home who seemed to be the same.  The unfortunate thing was remembering who did become stuck, so immobile and so scared to find their pieces, to complete their picture.  What they were holding onto, He'd never be sure.

The Prince would hold hold onto this year, these memories, this feeling like none other, trying to remember the last stanza of a poem he found scribbled on a hostel wall:

There once was a man who'd become unstuck in the world -

and he traveled around like a leaf in the wind until he reached the place

where he started out.  His car, his job, his phone, his shoes -

everything was right where he'd left it.

Nothing had changed, and yet he felt excited to have arrived here -

as if this were the place he'd been going all along.

Our Hero had reached the place where He started out, but wouldn't stay there for long.  Not when the next journey was waiting to begin.

[Unstuck in the World]

zher kom-pron

The first time I ever recall touching the french language was in Mr. Thompson's Introductory French class in sixth grade.  Firmly believing that I would never use it, I immediately dropped it at the first chance I got [after the final exam, C+, thank you very much], and never considered learning it again.

Unfortunately.

I've learned, over the course of the last two and a half-ish months I've been here, that a) one does not come to Paris to learn French, and b) the best place to learn any language is at the dinner table, in a debate, and in bed.  I have the unfortunate news to report, however, that regardless of the French phrasebook I bought in Buenos Aires, my repertoire of sentences I can [somewhat] confidently say can only get me tickets to the metro, food in a restaurant, and a finger wagging in the direction I want to go...

... usually a highly offended and confused look from the person to whom I'm speaking.

Which, in my case, was enough to get by for two and a half months.

Dedicated with wonderful gratitude to my hosts, dance partners, and complete strangers who spoke with me, I present a list of the most interesting things I've learned to say in French, and their translations.

And, of course, the responses I've received when speaking them.

 -||-

Je m'appelle Joshua.  Je suis enchanté !  or  Enchanté !
My name is Joshua.  I am enchanted!  or  Enchanted!

Interestingly, this is not the first sentence [or second, third, fourth, etc] that I use upon meeting someone.  Maybe after the second or third meeting is when I finally get to introduce my name.  The enchanted part is in response to said stranger introducing themself.  And until then?  I attempt to explain [in English] what it is I am doing in Paris.

-||-

Je suis un étudiant pour le danse.

I am a student of dance.

Not EXACTLY my reason for being in Paris, but at its basic, basic, basic core...  Vaguely close enough.

 -||-

J'habite à Puteaux avec un ami.
I live in Puteaux with a friend.  Not to be confused with I live in dirty whore water with a friend.

Also not absolutely necessary information people need to know, but I like to attempt to impress the Parisians with what I know how to say.  Unfortunately, the only ones who ARE impressed are female and older than thirty-five.

 -||-
 

Je suis désolé, je ne parle pas français.  Parlez-vous anglais ?
I am sorry, I do not speak French.  Do you speak english?

My default phrase when a flurry of French words are thrown in my direction.  Although the person to whom I am speaking normally responds in English [or even Spanish], it's at this point Host 2 will appear out of no where and whisper in my ear, 'You've already said too much.'

-||-

Voulez-vous danser avec moi?
Would you like to dance with me?
 
Voulez-vous guider ?
Would you like to lead?
 
Je voudrais guider.
I would like to lead.

 

À gauche, à droite.
To the left, to the right.

Maintenant.
Now.

Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Pardon !
Sorry!

The dance basics.  For either partner or solo dancing, these have gotten me incredibly far in all the classes I've taken.

-||-

Combien coûte une tablette de chocolat ?
How much is that chocolate bar?

I buy a lot of chocolate here.  A lot.

-||-

Je voudrais ... un vin rouge, un vin blanc, une carte, une baguette, un croissant, peroxyde d'hydrogène, etc.
I would like... red wine, white wine, metro tickets, a baguette, a croissant, hydrogen peroxide, etc.

Je cherche...
I am looking for... 

Being the demanding American I am, I've also gotten considerably good at stating what I want.

-||-

Merci !  Merci beaucoup !

Thank you!  Thank you very much!

Bonjour, bonsoir, bonne soirée, Bonne nuit.

Hello/Good day, good evening, good evening, good night.

However, being the gentlemanly son my parents raised me to be, I've also learned greetings and farewells.  Interestingly, I might not normally speak to things that can respond.  As a mnemonic device, I greet and say farewell to nouns [sheep, macaroons, Paris, stars, plate, cheeses, etc.] as I learn their translations.  Bonjour, mouton!  Bonsoir, fromage!

 -||-

Où est ...?
Where is...?

The problem with learning how to ask something in another language is that you REALLY have to understand the answer.  Unfortunately, whenever I ask for the nearest public toilet, the museum, a particular road, or even a monument, I receive a barrage of French words and a series of hand gestures that I can only assume to be French sign language.  So I simply nod and walk in the direction of their last hand gesture.  This, of course, only gets me more lost and late than I originally intended, but hey, at least I got directions in French.

-||-

C'est beaux/belle.

It is beautiful.

I once wanted to comment on the atmosphere, the ambience, the aura of the dance room I was in, and I thought that this was what one should say in French.  However, as a friend explained to me, 'Yes, that is how you say it.  But no one in Paris would ever say that, because we complain about everything.'

-||-

Je ne regrette rien.
I regret nothing.

La vie en rose.
Life in pink.

Quelqu'un m'a dit…
Someone told me... 

I once was asked by a Parisian to say everything I knew how to say in French, and these came out.  And with each one, he immediately knew to which song I was referring.  'Ah,' he would say, 'Like Edith Piaf,' or, 'Like Carla Bruni.'

-||-

Ah, l'été parisien, c'est romantique.

Ah, the Parisian summer is romantic.  

The same Parisian heard me say this, and responded accordingly:  'That eez, ah, like we say, ah, a cliché.'

-||-

Ah, c'est trop américain, ça.
Ah, it's too American.  

Host 2 noticed that I tend to shut my mouth and look in the other direction when in the presence of other loud Americans.  When I asked how to curse the Americans in French, this is what I got.

-||-

Ah, c'est une autre grosse américaine. 
Ah, it's another fat American.
I learned to say this only because I had crossed paths with a fairly petite American girl who complained LOUDLY at 5 in the afternoon: 'I AM SO HUNGRY I JUST WANT DINNER NOW.'  When I asked how to curse the Americans in response to her complaint, this was the translation I got.

-||-

Le fauteuil m'étend les bras.
The armchair reaches its arms out to me.
 

Possibly my favorite phrase, I wanted to learn how to say, 'I need to sit now,' but a dance partner said that this was the more Parisian thing to say.  Apparently.

-||-

Imagine me.  As she.

[le garçon]

One Day

 

"Joshua," he remembered his mother saying to him, a very, very, long time ago, "One day we'll go to Europe.  You, me, Daddy, and Kikay."  She looked back to the TV screen, where a young cartoon woman began to cry as she reunited with her long lost grandmother.  He remembered not taking his mother seriously, only being interested in finding another peanut butter jellybean somewhere in the bag they bought earlier that afternoon.

"Aye, my god.  Paris...  London...  It's always been my dream to go to all those places before I die.  We'll go.  One day.  Maybe.  When we win the lottery."

Many, many years later, as he pedaled his way past the Arc de Triomphe, past the Louvre, and past la Bastille, this tiny fragment of a memory, however minimally detailed, surfaced to his conscience.  Almost colliding with a parked car, he pulled into an alley and locked his bicycle.

He had fallen in love with the City, that much was obvious.  Throughout his travels, he never regretted any of the places he had gone, but was always asked,

Why did you choose to go there?

His initial answer was simple:  I want to touch each continent before I die.  Upon further consideration, he realized that different reasons brought him to different countries.  India:  where he would experience sensory overload.  Uganda:  where he would learn to appreciate a much more simple life.  Australia:  where he would find how much more he needed to grow.  Argentina:  where he would experience passion, firsthand.  But France?

Where he would live a dream - his or his mother's, that wasn't clear - at the end of a dream year.  Why the rest of his family never made it to Europe, he couldn't exactly understand.  He had made it here without the lottery [although the definition of lottery was now in debate], accomplished before the end of the first quarter of his life.

"Don't worry about your mother," Betty said in Argentina, "If she didn't travel somewhere, she had her own reasons."

As he walked past the patisserie full of macaroons and tartelettes, he couldn't help but think, How fair is it that I got to live her dream before she did?  A tiny pang of guilt tugged at his stomach.  

In Australia, Philip had once expressed hesitation in becoming a parent.  "I think the real challenge in being a parent," he argued, "would be to help my child find happiness.  And if my son or daughter could say one day that they found happiness, I know I'd have done my job."

Later that night, he would take his camera out of his bag and snap a picture of himself with a flower-shaped cone of gelato.  Maybe it was the mix of raspberry and chocolate, or maybe it was the first night that felt like summer, or maybe it was just the good company with whom he had dinner.  Happiness had been sitting there with him so far this year, and he was sure that it wouldn't leave afterwards.

Maybe knowing that would be enough for her.

[Living There TOday]

Recap

The Boy achieved several accomplishments, acquired copious skills, and experienced many a happenstance since He had last written from the City of Lights.  Not that He had scheduled himself into a free-time-less existence; it was as if the Boy was hit with the sudden awareness that he had less

than two months.

His 'free time,' or the time spent outside of His project, had become a series of moments when He 

just

felt

liberated.

Out of guilt, the Boy would come down from the clouds - or the steps of a church, or from a particularly wobbly or lovelock-encrusted bridge, or a wine-included picnic - and realize that many family and friends around the world had no idea what He lived through.  Instead of attempting to write detailed pages upon pages of those adventures [later, in due time], He compiled a list of highlights recapping the past few weeks.

This was what He had done, in no particular order:

•  Navigate Paris.  Namely, above ground, and on a bike.  This involved learning to go in and out of roundabouts [particularly around the Arc du Triomphe], getting lost until 1:30 am and having to bike 25 kilometers/15.5 miles [after experiencing a brief ten minute panic attack], and being guaranteed at least 3 hours of rigorous exercise everyday.

 

Public bikes?  Genius program, Paris.

• Lived with two ballroom dancers from the Czech Republic.  These two were the youngest competitors at the same-sex dance competition, and they won third place in the advanced level for men's latin.  SUCH A PROUD ROOMMATE!

• Somewhat related, He also started to learn choreography taught by middle-aged men for the upcoming Pride Parade.  Yes, He would perform.  Excited maybe?
• Moved to Puteaux.  New host, new scene, and new lifestyle.  Interestingly, Host 2 cautioned how to pronounce the suburb, as the sounds making it may translate to "dirty water" or "dirty whore" in French.  Or, as Host 2 likes to translate, "dirty whore water."  Also located next to la Défense, the business district, or the place with a lot of glass buildings that reflect each other.

• Rid Himself of His only pair of jeans.  Sad.
• Continued Argentine tango classes.  Interestingly, one of His teachers from Buenos Aires would come next month...
• Further developed His culinary skills.  Between His two hosts, He learned to cook quiche lorraine, boeuf borguignon, rhubarb ice cream sauce, and crêpes.

 

• Roadtripped to Lille, where the macaroons and pastries were cheaper, the weather a bit colder, and everything much more country.

• Realized that Parisians aren't fantastic dressers [as is the popular belief], but are just incredibly comfortable and confident with what clothes they have.  It was all in the attitude in which they wore clothes, not the price tag that made the citizens so attractive.  Maybe.

• Got spat on by a Frenchman whilst driving through the suburbs of Paris.  He should have known something was wrong when the Frenchman opened the car door and started yelling, but He had only assumed it were typical mannerisms outside of the city.
• Wore shorts that rose above the knee.  Contrary to the style he had grown accustomed to in the 90s, the Boy's thighs had felt a new freedom never experienced before.
• Saw the rat trap shop from Ratatouille.

 

• Attended a house party in Bures-sur-Yvette, in which most of the attendees were either musicians or singers.  To compensate for His lack of either skill, the Boy whisked around a young 20-something singer in Argentine Tango.  Many older women sighed longingly.  'Twas also at this party where a wonderful french woman who bore a red-headed resemblance to Meryl Streep spoke to [and thus taught] Him only in French.
• Found places that reminded him of friends from long ago...

 

Tong!

 

Coco?

• Picnicked many times, either alone or with friends.  During the summer, the picnic culture skyrockets and everyone saves money from going out to restaurants by buying food from markets and eating them along rivers, canals, in parks, or just on benches.  Ah, romantique.
• Met with friends from a long time ago, from another lifetime.
• Had a Groucho Marx sighting in Notre Dame.

 [Terribly Late]

Ides

A year ago, The Boy's chest pounded all morning, hesitant to open his email account.  He sat in front of the lobster heart He removed earlier, eyes pressed against the microscope, the tiny forceps in his hands hovering over silvery tissue.

"What's wrong?" Mika asked, "You've been quiet all morning.  That's not like you."

The Boy looked up, then at his watch, then at her.  "Today's..." He began.

"Today's when you find out!" She gasped, and grabbed his shoulders with harpy-like strength.  "Have you checked have you checked have you checked?" She asked, jostling him back and forth, and He shook his head.

"We don't find out until noon."  He turned back to the lobster heart, but didn't bother touching it.  His laptop lay nearby, shut off.

She said something reassuring, something about no matter what happens, something blah blah blah blah.  He wasn't listening.

Time at Mount Desert Island Biological Laboratory passed slowly to begin with; what was supposed to be a week-long stay during Spring Break felt like forty years of gluing shiny dots on lobster backs, placing them in water tanks and tracking movements, removing their tiny hearts, removing even tinier nerve bundles from the hearts, and dousing other hearts in neurotransmitter.  That morning passed slower than usual, and The Boy thought He would suffer a heart attack from all of the anxiety.  When the lab instructor called for a lunch break, The Boy realized He had been hardly breathing.

"Aren't you going to check before lunch?"  Mika asked while He put on his jacket.  His watch read 11:30, still a half hour too early.

Although it was spring break in mid-March, snow still lingered on the trees and pathways on the island.  The sun had done a decent job melting some of it, but He could still see his breath fog with every other step.  She skipped from side on the way to lunch while She held her arm in his.  This did next to nothing to calm his nerves, but if it made her feel like she was helping, He would let her continue.

-||-

Her cell phone beeped during the taco salad lunch.

"Emily wants to know if you got it." She said.

"Tell her I haven't checked my email."

Mika typed away, and in a few seconds, her cell phone beeped again.

"Emily says that you should grow a pair and check it."

He rolled his eyes, and took a bite of ground beef.  Food at MDIBL was considerably gourmet compared to most camp food [although he had never been camping], but today's lunch tasted particularly bland and dry.

The walk back to the lab seemed even longer than before.

Everyone in the group returned to their lab stations, and The Boy switched on his computer.  His fingers gripped the keyboard as He waited to connect to the internet, and opened his inbox.  There was a sudden sense of panic as his eyes ran up and down the list of new mail, and after a few seconds of not seeing what He was looking for, He realized He wasn't even reading the words.  Taking a moment to breathe, He slowly went through the inbox.  And there it was, the tenth or so line down:

From: Cleveland Johnson;  Thomas J. Watson Fellowship Announcement

He dragged his cursor over the email, and hesitated.  Grow a pair, Magno.  Emily's advice rang through his head, and He double clicked.

-||-

They stood on the shore, just outside the lab.  Fresh, clean air filled his lungs again, and She balanced herself on some rocks, and stared to the horizon.  The sky seemed less cloudy, the wind less cold, and the ocean water less dark.

"I...  I don't think I can breathe."  He gasped, and placed both hands on his knees.  "Holy shit.  Holy shit."

Mika smiled, looked at him, and then back to the ocean.  "You're going to see the night sky from so many places..."  

She, of course, would be right.

-||-

He thought of where He would be in a year.  Somewhere out there, He thought, beyond the sea.

In a year... Well, He wouldn't even be finished with the year.  So much would change in that time, and He didn't bother trying to figure out how much.  He'd find out, eventually.  

He knew that He would learn about himself, more than He dared to before.  The Boy would experience so much in a year; mysterious skin conditions, questionable invitations to homes,  eye-opening life conversations, and incredibly embarrassing practices and performances.  He would walk for kilometers before He admitted He was lost, learn how to speak a foreign language for the sake of getting a lower price, prepare to get into a contemporary dance school, and even wake up in stranger's apartments at 3 in the afternoon.  This year was something unexpected, something He never would have been able to predict would ever happen.  Living abroad would be more than just going to country after country.  He'd learn to do something He'd forgotten; how to live, and how to love it.

And when He came back home?  He'd still be miles away from where He used to be.

[One Year Away]

Again

Almost as if his first few nights in India were replaying themselves, but in Spanish, the Boy found himself flustered, exhausted, and frustrated with the local language.  Finally arriving in Buenos Aires, he sat in the arrival terminal and waited to take a taxi to a [temporary?] host's home.

"Personaquedia...no,noyolastenia...hayunavieja...porqueotrotrabajo...nadiedelos...yoaveces...nosecuandoparahacer...muchisimoporgeneralpersonaje...entoncesnadatenemos...loquepasa...tantoparacasarme...bienvenitodemifamilia...acasolteranotequeras...yoteniaunafascinacioncon..."

Words so very familiar to him five years ago suddenly resurfaced in his memory and blurred together; as to what were their actual definitions...  That was going to take some time.

He wondered when his [temporary?] host would be home.  Not that it mattered - his watch still read Adelaide time.

"Lo siento..." he stammered, the flavor of six years of Spanish classes tasting stale, "sabes qué hora es?"  He watched as the woman sitting next to him picked her head up out of her hands.  She too looked physically exhausted, but she smiled.  ||  "I'm sorry... do you know what time it is?"

"Son las doce y media," she said, first glancing at her watch then looking over to The Boy's.  His fingers fumbled over the tiny buttons, first moving the hours ahead, then behind.  ||  "It is 12:30."

"No, no las dos, las doce." she emphasized.  The Boy half-laughed, and fixed the time accordingly.  ||  "No, it's not 2:00, it's 12:00."

"Lo siento..." he always was apologizing, "hace cinco años que practicaba el español."  ||  "I'm sorry...  It's been five years since I've practiced Spanish."

"Ah," she nodded, and placed a hand over The Boy's, "es bueno. ¿asdlkfqjwpeoincsdkjahsdlfajsfdh?"  ||  "Ah, that's okay. [something unintelligible in Spanish]?"

The sudden barrage of Spanish language hit him full force, and he frantically waved his hands in front of him.

"Perdóname, por favor,"  Now he wasn't sure if he was speaking Spanish or Italian, or the bastard child of both, "¿Puedes hablar más lentamente? Tengo problemas con... el... escuchar y comprender..."  He slapped himself on his forehead, embarrassed at how much he couldn't say.  ||  "Forgive me, please.  Can you speak more slowly?  I have problems with...  the... to listen and to understand."

The woman nodded, laughed.

If one were to walk past the benches in front of the McDonald's that afternoon from 12:30 to 2:30, they might have overheard the laughter from a woman and a seen boy speaking in broken Spanish, waggling his hands, and wringing his fingers through his hair.  Upon careful inspection, one might have noticed that plenty of things were being said and understood between the two.

"Tu español es bastante bueno.  Pero mi inglés, ¡ay!" she shook her head.  ||  "Your spanish is good enough. But my English, ay!"

"¿No hablas inglés?" The Boy asked.  He wondered why he hadn't asked this before.  ||  "You don't speak English?"

"Nada."  ||  "None at all."

He sighed.

"¿Qué esperas?" she asked.  ||  "What are you waiting for?"

"Espero... el tiempo correcto cuando mi... ¿host?  La mujer con quien voy a vivir llega a su casa."  ||  "I'm waiting for... the correct time when my... host?  The woman with whom I am going to live arrives at her house."

"Ah.  ¿No sabes si está en casa ahora?"  ||  "Ah.  You don't know if she is in her house now?"

"No... recibí un..." his fingers tapped the air in front of him.  ||  "No...  I received a..."

"¡Ah!  Un correo electrónico."  ||  "Ah!  An email."

"¡Si!" He exclaimed.  He didn't realize how much Spanish he had forgotten, or how much he would recognize.  "Recibí un correo electrónico de ella, y dice que no va en casa hasta las tres o cuatro de la tarde."  ||  "Yes!  I received an email from her, and it said that she's not going to be in her house until three or four in the afternoon."

"¿Porqué no la llamas ahora?"  ||  "Why don't you call her now?"

"No tengo un teléfono cellular."  ||  "I don't have a cell phone."

"Vamos.  La llamamos."  She said, pulling out her coin purse.  ||  "Let's go.  Let's call her."

"Oh.  Lo siento.  Me llamo Joshua." The Boy offered his hand and he put his backpack onto the trolley.  ||  "Oh.  Sorry.  My name is Joshua."

"Me llamo Rocio."  ||  "My name is Rocio."

She placed some coins into the coin slot, pushed the button to release them into the machine, and dialed the number in The Boy's notebook.  He watched as she held the phone to her ear, and as her eyes lit up when a voice came on the other line.  A countdown timer read 1:00 on the payphone.

"¿Hola?  ¿Betty?  Me llamo Rocio, estoy aquí con un estudiante... asldfkjqwpeoifajsdlfkahsdkfjqncasdaldkfajefuiandfaksfhkalshfasfkbdkadjfhalalksdjhfasldkfjhqweiounacsxkf."  More words were said that he couldn't follow.  "¡Ah!  Pues, debes hablar con Joshua..."  Rocio shoved the phone into The Boy's face as the timer read 0:05.  ||  "Hello?  Betty?  My name is Rocio, I am here with a student...  [something unintelligible in Spanish].  Ah!  Well, you should speak with Joshua..."

"¿Hola?  ¿Betty?  Me llamo Joshua.  ¡Adios!"  The call ended, and Rocio laughed.  ||  "Hello?  Betty?  My name is Joshua.  Bye!"

"Puedes ir a su casa ahora."  ||  "You can go to her house now."

Rocio and The Boy exchanged email addresses, and planned on finding each other on Facebook.

"Eres muy interesante." She said, narrowing her eyes and looking him up and down, just before leaving to catch her flight to Peru.  As he began to say his goodbye to this utterly random woman who had helped him contact his host, Rocio pulled him into an embrace and kissed both cheeks.  He turned away, and went to catch a taxi into Buenos Aires.  ||  "You're very interesting."

This was going to be fun.


[interesante]

The Flame

The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.

-  Ferdinand Foch

The Boy had been hit with a kind of dry spell over December and January.  Except the occasional venture out into the city, to the country, to the wineries, to long lost relatives, and especially to the week-long dance intensives at Restless, all of Australia seemed to take a break from being eventfully stimulating [contrasting the experiences had in India and Uganda, where he had to painfully decide everyday what he would attend and what he would have to miss].  Apparently, dancers needed a break for the holidays too.

He remembered, almost a year and a half ago, staring at the poster for the fellowship in the dining hall.  He knew the answer.  Almost anyone who knew him could answer the question:

What sets your soul on fire?

He also remembered the day ten months ago, the one in which he opened the email after an agonizing morning of research set in the middle of an island.  First, the sensation of being dropped from the top of a tower.  Then, a small spark that spread from his chest to his fingers to his toes and then to his face.  His hands began to sweat, his jaw paralyzed ajar.  Leaving behind the microscope and the agar dishes full of lobster hearts, he ran with her to the edge of the island and stared to the eastern horizon.

"I can't breathe," the Boy said, over and over again.  She just smiled.

Something had been set ablaze that afternoon.

Classes back in the theater and the train station dance studio were bathed in a different light since that day.  It's going to be like this, he thought, only all the time.  And everywhere else.  Every step on the marley floor sent a warm pulse through his feet that settled in his chest.  Maybe it was even then he started to look different in the mirror.  One year of this feeling, he told himself again and again.

Months later, he would practice in the living room of his bharatanatyam teacher, on the outdoor marble stage with his kalaripayattu teacher, in the storage house of the Gulu Theatre Artists, in the cement hut of Breakdance Project Uganda, and in Restless' studio.  The same feeling came back every time.  So this is what it's like.  My soul's on fire, he would think, smile, and wave it away.  Okay, that was a little pretentious.  No need to start writing "Eat, Pray, Love: Magno Edition" yet.

The teacher at AusDance had used music that kept his fire burning; he wouldn't mistake her choreographic style or song choice for coincidence.  Too much had happened this year that was too perfect for random happenstance.  Three hours of moving across the floor in front of the mirrors and he was still looking for more, almost as if he would never run out of fuel.  And it was all so very strange: his sudden ability to pick up choreography, to let it stick in his mind, had sharpened since his days back at college and high school.  He hopped from foot to foot, impatiently waiting for the teacher to move on.  Whatever the fire was feeding on, he had plenty of it.  It certainly came as a disappointment when the class had ended; it wasn't enough! The bike ride home did little to expend this energy.  He decided that he would find more classes, more styles, more teachers tomorrow.  And the day after that, and the day after that.  He wanted to keep feeding whatever was inside him, whatever had awakened back on that island.

The Boy was sure it wouldn't extinguish, not for a while.

[Burning]

ReSolution

"Is there anything you want to say to 2011 while you still have the chance?"

The question fell out of the radio speakers and landed on Our Hero's lap one Boxing Day afternoon; The Host, driving the car and utterly oblivious to what had happened in the passenger seat, continued flipping through the stations.

Our Hero stared at the question as it wrapped its tendrils around his stomach, settled into a comfortable position, and looked up into the traveler's eyes as if to say,

This might take a while.

-||-

"If you could, what would you change about yourself?"

"You mean, right now?  Like, if I had a switch for it?"

The Host took a drag on his cigarette, blew it into a stream away from Our Hero, and nodded.

Our Hero paused for a moment to recollect the quote he had seen a few weeks ago, and recited, 

"There once was a man who became unstuck in the world.

He took the wind for a map,

He took the sky for a clock,

And he set off with no destination.

He was never lost."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Someone wrote it on a pillar in the hostel kitchen back in Byron Bay," Our Hero said, squinting off and staring into the garden, "I really liked it.  Still do."

The Host took another drag, waiting for Our Hero to continue.

"Philip, I want to become unstuck.  In light of everything we talked about, I just want to stop caring."

"Stop caring?"

"About what people think.  You were right when you said that I hold myself back.  A lot.  It sucks."

"And you know its keeping you from growing, from changing."

"... Yeah.  I know."

"Joshua, it's time to let go."

-||-

"So we're pretty set on heading to the beach on New Years Eve?  Probably 7 or so in the evening?" Jesse asked.  

Matt nodded in agreement, and Our Hero agreed by rubbing in more sunblock.

"And what about afterwards?"

"I don't know," Matt said, "I think we were pretty keen on getting back into town and probably going to a pub.  Josh has been to Mars a few times, how about we go there?"

"Look at you, Josh.  You have a haunt here already."

It was true, Our Hero had been to that bar on several occasions since he had arrived in Adelaide.  He couldn't help it; the bar was the first to which he was introduced in Australia, and the one in which he had met a considerably diverse collection of characters [including an ex-circus performer in a wheelchair, a part-time go go dancer and first year dance student, a woman who had moved to Adelaide because the job market in Chicago was terrible, and a drag queen named Malt Biscuit].  Our Hero wouldn't turn down the chance of going back to Mars, although Jesse's choice of words had slapped him across the face at the last second.

You have a haunt.

As expressed before, Our Hero had despised the idea of developing habits, running in circles, becoming predictable.  The idea of anchoring himself to one place during a year like this was more than undesirable and embarrassing, it was 

so 

terribly

like

himself.

-||-

Maybe this would be the first year he would follow his resolution, whatever he decided it would be.  

He didn't want this feeling to stop, whatever this feeling was.  Feeling like he was in the right place at the right time, doing the things and meeting the people he needed to, hearing, seeing, and learning things that would help sculpt him into the Prince he was destined to become.  worldlyfearlessconfidentsereneexperiencedknowledgedserene.  Feeling that fire inside rage every day, every time he practiced, every time he saw a performance, every time he felt the hard wooden floor beneath his feet vibrate from too much bass.

He wondered what it would be like when this would all stop.

That is, if it would.

He, Our Hero, The Boy, The One who would lose then find his way in India, who was adopted and beloved in Uganda, who smelled of sunblock and tasted of sea salt in Australia hoped this would never end.  The destiny he had chosen had taken him this far, and for the first time in his life, he would dare to see how much farther this rabbit hole would go.

-||-

When 2011 would leave, he wasn't exactly sure what he would say.  Goodbye?  Thanks for the ride?  Call me?  2011 would always be a landmark; he had always known it would be the year he left college, entered the real world.  But what came after that?  What happened after the end?  He never would have guessed he would be traveling, dancing, living.

This past year was all about knowing what would happen next, having a plan, and watching as it all fell into place.  2012 should be different.  And it would.  Everything was already changing; why should he let it stop now?  If there was any time to let it all go...

... it would be now.

[New]

Made

"You've already made a choice." Adriano, director of Ranters Theatre, said over a glass of Cooper's Dark Ale.

This, the Boy had never heard before.

"There is no 'choosing between dancer or doctor' at this point, mate.  You're traveling for a year studying dance, not how to become a doctor.  Spend it learning as much as you can, and see where it takes you.  At the end of the year, you'll be in a place where you know whether or not you'll continue down this road.  By then, there'll be no more 'I'll have to make a choice between this or that,' but more of a 'I've already gone down this path, so I'll go a little further' or 'I might backtrack a bit.'"

The Boy nodded, and reached for a salt and vinegar potato chip.

"I can see that this is something you really want to do.  That much is obvious.  So why keep questioning what you want?  You made the choice when you took on this year.  Let yourself explore it as much as you can."


[Chosen]

The Hitch Hikers

|| one ||

"I used to do it all the time," Philip said, "It was how I got around Australia when I was your age."

The Boy and his friend, The Companion, looked at each other.

"So, are you going to do it?" Philip asked.

The Boy and The Companion shrugged shoulders.  They were in Pottsville [no association with marijuana, actually] for the next five days with next to nothing planned before the dance workshop with Restless and Heartbeat would take place.  Why not?

"Yeah, we'll hitchhike today.  All the way to Byron Bay, and back.  It'll be today's adventure."

|| two ||

The Boy and The Companion had been waiting for half an hour on the side of the road, thumbs sore from being held erect for an unusually uncomfortable amount of time.  Philip had dropped them off at the midway point between Pottsville and Byron Bay, just to get a 'running start.'

"This is humiliating," The Boy said, "It's like all of my attempts at relationships in college.  All rejected before they even get to know me, based on just a passing moment."

"I don't know," The Companion replied, "Isn't it kind of exciting?  It's like an adventure!"

The Boy did not share the same opinion about rejection as The Companion.  "Maybe we should make a cardboard sign like they do in the movies."

The two searched the side of the road before finding a reasonably-sized piece, which The Boy picked up.

The cardboard already had the words "Byron Bay" written across it.  Whether this was [literally] a good or bad sign, they would find out soon.

|| three ||

"So you're a carpenter?" The Companion asked Driver the First, who bore an uncanny resemblance to John Locke on Lost.  A business card lay on the dashboard, and The Companion had taken the opportunity to strike up conversation with the kind man who had offered both travelers a ride to Byron Bay.

"Nope." He replied.  

Silence followed, and an awkward one at that.

"Oh.  So you're a farmer?" The Companion asked, noticing a second set of business cards on the dashboard.

"Nope." Driver the First replied again.

Another silence followed, more awkward than the last.

Please, please, please stop asking him questions.  The Boy mentally shot at his friend.  This guy clearly does not want to converse with strangers, [even though he did pick us up].

"... But you do like chocolate?" The Boy realized this came out of his own mouth, regardless of what he had been begging his friend to do.  Driver the First looked down at the dashboard, and there lay a semi-full wrapper of chocolate.

"Actually, no." He replied.

|| Four ||

Driver the Second was a delightful man from Copenhagen, Denmark, and moved to Australia with his wife three years ago.  He just had to move to Byron Bay, as he had momentarily saw it years ago when he traveled as an flight representative.  In addition to Australia, Driver the Second had been to the Philippines, Malaysia, and generally a good part all over eastern Asia.

He had never been happier in his life.

|| five ||

It had started to rain, and The Boy and The Companion had been standing on the side of the road for twenty minutes.  It was decided that the weather was the reason she had picked them up.

"Thanks heaps," The Boy said, trying out a recently learned Aussie mannerism.

"'Course," she said, "It started raining.  Felt bad for the two of ya."

"Yeah, it would've sucked to walk home all the way to Pottsville from here."

Since that morning, The Boy's learning curve for bringing up conversation with the drivers had improved exponentially.

By end of the relatively short drive, The Boy and The Companion knew all about Driver the Third's time in Byron Bay: how it was a fantastic place before the tourism made its way there, how she used to be able to sleep on the beach without having to worry about beach patrol, how she had gotten into seed collecting/agriculture, and what she was doing with a mysteriously large sack of goji berries [making jam], and how her boyfriend had come to live in the area [started an aboriginal artwork shop].

This was key: although part of the hitchhiking game was getting a driver to trust you in their car, the real trick was learning about as much of the driver as possible.  In the end, the one behind the wheel would be more interested in talking about themselves than learning about the crazy morning or weekend or month or year of travel you had.

|| six ||

Driver the Fourth and Last - a considerably free spirit with blonde dreadlocks - would bring them less than a couple of miles away from where The Boy and The Companion had started that day.  With The Companion in the passenger seat, The Boy found himself in the fetal position in the back amongst a propane tank and four dirty tires.

White shorts were a poor choice that day.

"Sorry about that, Man." Driver the Fourth and Last apologized, and The Boy only nodded and waved him away.

|| seven ||

"Hi," The Companion began, "Today's our first day hitchhiking, and we're actually really lost now because we can't get a ride, and we've already walked ten kilometers, and we're still a ton of kilometers away from Pottsville, and we were just wondering if we could use your phone so we could call a friend to pick us up at a pub nearby."

The Boy looked away from The Stranger's doorway and grimaced.  The introduction, the charm, the buildup, the explanation, and the request for a favor weren't as eloquently executed as he imagined, but then again, The Boy wasn't the one who was at the doorstep.  The Stranger tilted her head in suspicion, and led The Companion upstairs.

"I'll just stay here," The Boy said.  No one was going to offer him drugged water.

|| eight ||

"Sorry, Philip," The Boy and The Companion said, looking up from their half-empty glasses of beer, "We tried, and we failed.  We suck at hitching."

"No, no no no.  Today was good.  It was a good effort for a pair of first timers."

"Really?  Thanks, Philip.  You know, at one point, we were thinking of what it would be like to hitch around Australia for a year."

Philip shook his head.  "Yeah, at the rate you were going, it would be ten years before you made it around Australia."

[Hitched]

COMING SOON:  Hitch Hiking, A How To!

Reckless, Restless

This was a well known fact:

He did not take risks.

Contrary to the rather portentously precarious year he had decided to embark on, the Boy considered himself a particularly conservative [...] person when it came to gambling.  When Lady Luck would make a pass at him while wearing considerably provocative dress, he would return to whatever nonsensical task he was tending to, most likely reading novels or peeling fruit or worrying about the future.

He needed information: price, price per unit, advantages, disadvantages, emotional stability, long-term benefits, short-term benefits, relationship status, color options, mortality rate, coolness factor, and the amount of time he spent weighing all these factors into making a decision.

Buy the Cheerios or the generic Honey Os?

Buy this awesome smoking jacket from Salvation Army?

Ride the Giant Drop, or just watch from the funnel cake stand?

The blue or the yellow shorts?

Box 1, 2, or 3?

Watch The Ring or Saw?

Keep talking with the roomies at dinner or go back and read articles?

Date you?

Every choice was calculated, planned, and executed, all results lying somewhere on the "mediocre" to "incredibly painful" to "blindingly awesome" spectrum.  Unfortunately, with the gathering of information came extremely long periods of decision-making, and restless frustration with both himself and the world for making things complicated.

With his time in Uganda swiftly coming to a close - two weeks left? - the Boy encountered a new decision: Where to next?

The dancers from Country X had never responded to his emails.  A relatively rude woman from Country Y had accused him of 'failing to answer our questions pertaining to [his] stay with our company' [not true], claimed that he 'barraged [her] staff with emails' [also not true], and promised that upon his response, 'we will further discuss your interaction with the company' [ESPECIALLY NOT TRUE].  The artistic director of Country Z - the Boy had so desperately wanted to go here sometime in his life - had offered him a place to stay for a reasonable price.

As a German woman [a neighbor at the CTC] once told the Boy:  "Isn't the choice obvious?  There are signs pointing you in the direction you should take.  What's convincing you otherwise?"

Money, simply.  Travel to [and, probably, stay in] Country X and Y was painfully cheaper than Country Z.  Considering the European countries he would travel to afterwards, it would be wise and safe to save money now.

"I don't know," the German woman said, "If money is the only reason that's keeping you from going...  I'd say that's a pretty sad reason."

The Boy made his choice [no, not out of peer pressure].  This year was about change, about stretch, about doing things he had never done before.  So what if he was reckless this early in the game?  There'd be plenty of time to fix that later.

But for now, he was fine being so Restlessly Reckless.

[Bold]

Last Friday Night

The Boy no longer divided his week into Weekdays and Weekends.  After all, when his "research schedule" revolves around going along with whatever happens to happen, everyday turns into a Weekend.

Or do they just become more interesting Weekdays?

Although a part of him missed the TGIF attitude so prevalent in the States [and the more specific "work hard Sunday-Thursday afternoon, play hard Thursday-Saturday night" attitude at his alma mater], he and his liver were glad to make a drastic change in party attitude.  Instead of running around campus between themed social events [i.e., 'The Anything But Clothes Party'], mixed beverages [i.e., 'Jungle Juice' made of who-knows-what-as-long-as-it-tasted-good-and-got-the-job-done], and protein/fat/carbohydrate rich end-of-the-night snacks [i.e., chili cheese dogs and M&M brownies], the Boy had now fallen in love with a[n arguably] more adult weekend routine.

After traditional dance, Morris - Luo Talent Center leader, choreographer, and overall Beast - would take the Boy to a nearby bar to have Nile beer [which came in only 500 ml bottles], play billiards [the Boy had always won because his opponent scratched on the 8 ball], watch The Lion King [waitress' choice], listen to Mariah Carey [barkeeper's choice], and enjoy the conversations of [mostly inebriated] middle aged Ugandans, all in one night.

If this was what life was like after college, what it was like to grow up, what it was like to be a sophisticated adult...  The Boy knew he'd never look back and long for his college weekends again.


[Mature Weekender?]

Malarone

For some inexplicable reason, the Boy had met an unusually high number of doctors during the two and a half months he had promised to accomplish two things:  a) learn about dance and community service, and b) avoid thinking about the possiblity of applying/going to med school.  Whether this turn of events was meant to come off as fate, symbolism, or merely good/bad luck, the Boy acknowledged one important fact:

Networking with doctors abroad proved easier than attempting to do so in the United States.

In India, the Boy had developed a most questionable skin rash that would best be left undescribed [for the moment]. After consulting with general practice doctor after skin specialist doctor - for the unbelievable consultation price of Rs. 70|$1.55 to Rs. 400|$8.88 - it was concluded that he had developed an allergic reaction to the daily doxycycline tablets [an anti-malarial] prescribed in the United States.

You could say that it wasn't the Indian food or air or water that was making him sick, but the American medicine.  Ah, symbolism.

The Boy underwent a several weeks-long treatment of pills, creams, and dietary restrictions [no tomatoes, bananas, curds, or chocolate].  Most importantly, he was told to stop taking the anti-malarials in India [Doctor Siddeshwar: "You don't need to worry about catching that here.."] and wait until his arrival in Uganda to find a new prophylactic.  Although it left scars [concerned mother: "Is it... unsightly?"], the rash's source was treated and the Boy continued on his merry way bearing a nutty brown complexion for the rest of his days in Asia.

-| "Treatment 2 of 3" or "Buying Out the Pharmacy" |-

Following the Murphy's Law so characteristic in his life, the Boy again developed a questionable bump on his skin [why this would always be the target of foreign disease, he would never understand] within the first week of arriving in Uganda and forced himself to seek medical attention at St. Mary's Lacor, the nearby missionary-based hospital.  After the long [and highly abbreviated for mature content's sake] treatment, the Boy asked some of the Ugandan doctors and nurses about getting a new prophylactic.

Their response: "You didn't come here with any prophylaxis, so we cannot give you one."

Although the Boy did not understand this logic, he was fortunate to have been overheard by Abbie, common bystander and also travel organizer for a group of week-long volunteers.

"Oh, we definitely can help you with that."  Abbie said.  Introductions were made, and the Boy was whisked away to meet doctor after doctor after nurse after photographer after fireman.  The purpose of the volunteers' visit was simple: provide free clinics, treatments, and education to those who needed it.  He watched as doctors applied antibiotics to fungus growing on the heads of babies, as firemen taught children and parents to stop, drop, and roll [how many burn victims were there because they didn't know how to put out a burning article of clothing?], as nurses tended to women who couldn't walk, and as photographers recorded children playing duck, duck, goose [which, to a degree, didn't prevent the head fungus from being spread].

"Come with us," Abbie said, packing leftover hospital id bracelets into a ziploc bag, "We have plenty of medication back at our hotel, especially ones you're not allergic to.  Hey, if you're lucky, you might get a dinner and beer out of this."

For the umpteenth time in his travels, the Boy got into a mysteriously large van full of strangers.

Later that night, he sat among the circle of volunteers, all drinking a bottle of Nile Special Premium Lager.  He listened as they spoke of the day's cases like gossip.  Although he recognized next to none of the more advanced terms, he took mental note of ones easier to pronounce:

"I mean, didn't they invent the wound vac?  And they didn't even have one?  We were all like, 'where is it?'"

"Yeah, it's bad.  I mean, how many people did I see with hepatitis c?"

"So then, she comes in and says, 'Who wants to do a triple-A?' and after a day like this, I shot my hand right up."

"And they wanted me to work on the hernia, but without mesh, I was like, 'It's going to fall apart anyway.'"

He found himself less interested in explaining his reason for being in Uganda [Abbie: "Could you imagine just spending a year doing what you want around the world?  Chris the Fireman: "Yes, I could.  So the budget covers prison bails, right?"], and more absorbed in learning who these people were, why they came here, and [of course] where the funding came from.  Some came with their mothers, some worked at Harvard's Public Heath Office, some were aspiring nursing school students, and some were just asked to join because a member from the previous year was unable to return.  Most came for the experience, to do something bigger than their jobs back at home, to give more to people who had so much less.  Although there were some funds and donations, they came here out of their pockets using their own vacation days.

The Boy was floored.  Amazed.  Jealous?  He explained how the first two years of college had convinced him that he wasn't cut out for med school, but times like now [ironically, during this year in which he hoped to avoid the thoughts of med school] were convincing him the opposite.

Victoria, one of the older doctors, leaned over and said, "Honey, you have time.  You're young.  I only realized now that giving something is so much more important than getting something."  For a fleeting moment [or two] the Boy could see himself in their place, traveling to developing countries and treating afflicted locals who didn't have enough to pay, or knowledge to prevent.

As dinner [beef steak, tilapia, potatoes, chapatti, rice, and sauteed vegetables] began, Abbie came over with a small plastic bag in her hands.

"Okay, so here's the deal.  We don't have any extra malarone, which we think is the prophylactic you should take.  You're going to have a difficult, if not impossible, time finding the prescription here, but you might have a chance in Kampala.  Lisa, our pharmacist, is sure that you can get it in Nairobi.  But why go through all that trouble?  I've decided to go around to all of our volunteers and ask for their last day's malarone pill [everyone forgets to take it anyway], so you should have about a month's worth of prophylactics when I'm finished.  As for the second month's, well, why don't we just send you a prescription when we get back?"

Lisa stepped forward.  "And I've taken the liberty of putting together a kind of first-aid kit, based on what I think you'll need in Uganda and what you definitely need after your treatment at Lacor.  I'm sure I have all of the things with me here, but I'll double check tonight just to make sure."

The Boy asked Abbie how much the package would cost.

"Hey, we're here to give medication to people who need it.  For free.  You fall into that category too, bud."

Free drugs?  In Africa?  The Boy looked at the small plastic bag packed with brown tablets.  Each pill had come from a different volunteer, donated without a second thought.  Most of the volunteers were off in their own world, eating dinner, attempting to connect to the internet, or working on the group's blog, completely unaware of the Boy's dumbfounded stare.  He imagined what planets had aligned for this meeting to happen.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear his Mom and Dad thanking the volunteers who provided  proper healthcare for the next two months.


[ Protected ]