Oba-Mao

Next to Hitler, and maybe Che, Mao is perhaps the greatest marketer of all time, clearly putting the prop in propaganda as his face can still be seen on watches, posters, plates, gloves, food ... you name it. For the past two years, there's not a country I've been to that hasn't been covered in Obama bling. Leading up to the election, there were T-shirts and full-on albums of songs about Obama in places as remote as Dominica, and those lovely rhinestone dotted Barack watches are still being sold next to a pile of zippo lighters and gold coins.

In China (and Hong Kong), I'd say that Mao is still leading in Bric-a-Brac design, littering thousands of items in dusty shop windows; however, I was surprised to find so much Obama in a communist country (even if one is just a store with his name in the title) ...

Brainstorm

We're about six weeks into the voyage and at that time when people start coming out of their shells. The friend groups that were formed during the first few weeks are starting to branch out, partners have come and gone from the ship, and multiple tables of smiling, familiar faces now look inviting at each meal. Thanks to Becca, Chinese Mahjong has become the new craze and much of the staff can now be found up in the FSL in the evenings, tapping the dice made of bone, not bamboo, and shouting words like "pong" and "chur."

I'm sometimes overwhelmed with a feeling of hysteria when I think about how I left my "real life" three years ago, and how I've spent countless hours since staring out at the ocean, hoping for some sort of epiphany to come my way. Should I apply to PhD programs? Should I look for teaching jobs? For any sort of job in say San Fran, Seattle or Portland? Should I try living in another country? Stay freelance? Join the Peace Corps? Ahhhhhhh!! It's so overwhelming sometimes I feel like my head is going to explode, especially when I am met with the following seemingly congenial yet unanswerable questions: "Where do you live; What do you do in real life; What's next?" Truthfully, I don't know. I once again have no idea what the hell I'm doing once this ship docks, where I'll be living a year from now let alone ten. But a beautiful conversation I had with a friend yesterday was a much needed reminder ... nobody does. Ever. Who is to say what is real and what isn't, and as crazy as this shiplife existence is sometimes it's real because it's happening. In the now. The present -- the very idea that seems to be wrapped up, packaged and even sold in a million different forms by varying levels of experts, but at the core is perhaps the universal truth if there is one. It's not about what I did or what I'm doing next, or who I think I am or who I'm supposed to become, it's about what I'm doing at this very moment. Which for me, has been worrying about all of this crap, including the constant fear of ending up partner-less and alone forever instead of focusing on the fact that I'm alive, healthy, surrounded by 100s of interesting people and sailing around the f*ing world.

On a somewhat related note, I've been trying to gage if self-worth is a universal struggle for women around the world, or if it's heightened in Western culture? Part of me would love to shave my head on Neptune Day, just to live that altered experience. To see what my head actually looks like. To have all of my hair grow-in brand new and for once, to not deal with the grooming. But another part of me is scared to be judged. How would I be perceived by the rest of the world? In a job interview? It's so stupid when you really think about it ... it's just hair that will grow back. So why is it such a big deal, especially for women in our culture?

This was on my mind yesterday when I read an email chain about clothing from a group of girlfriends back at home. The discussion began with a friend venting about her current wardrobe and landed in a heated argument about the importance of wardrobe altogether. I lost 25 pounds last year and would be lying if I didn't admit that buying some new duds made me feel attractive and, all-in-all, happy. Part of that has been feeling more attractive, but another part is how we are influenced by clothing, which in a larger context feels ridiculous as I head into third world countries where people are lucky to have shoes on their feet.

In Japan, I had the sense that Masumi and her friends were concerned with their appearance. They wore cute, mostly cool-colored dresses with tights, kept a healthy entourage of beauty products, and as married women, seemed rather conservative in the amount of skin exposed both to the sun and other men. In Shanghai and Hong Kong, malls and shopping is as popular a hobby as eating noodles, and though it is an opposite struggle, I listened to more than one man comment on how he wants his woman to be plump -- a sign of prosperity in Chinese culture, which might explain the need for a seven-patty burger at Burger King (which I was told is in honor of the new year).

Smokin' Clean

When I began this voyage, I knew that I wanted to find a common thread to write about in each culture, a barometer if you will of the similarities and differences we all share. I put a quick shout out on facebook and was met with about 20 genius ideas. My initial thought was to hunt down the different Scientology centres, for they claim to have offices worldwide and how fascinating would it be to see if the emeters in Japan are written in Japanese characters, or to spend an afternoon nodding my head at the theory of Dianetics explained in Chinese, but since I want to actually finish this voyage I thought it might be wise to stick to something less controversial. Something that might not land me in jail or lead to my mysterious disappearance.

I don't know why I never thought of this before, or at least in tangible terms, but if there's one thing I would love to seek out and explore in every country I visit, it's soaking. To me, there is no greater form of relaxation than a dip in some hot water, and when you strip people of their clothes, their handbags and any tangible piece of personality, any comparisons to be made are based on nothing but culture and ethnicity. Our skin tones may vary, and occasionally we might disagree on acceptable shaving standards for the vajayjay territory, but in these moments I am reminded that beneath it all we're nothing more than mounds of flesh, jumping in and out of pools and washing the dirt from between our toes.

The Japanese Onsen was all I suspected it would be -- floors and floors of fastidious bliss. In China, however, hours and hours of scrubbing and enlightened soaking land in a dark chamber where men puff away on cigarettes and you are half expecting to see a giant keno board, horse race, or better yet, stripping pole.

I wasn't surprised when the women laughed at me instead of offering to help when I didn't know where and how to get a towel. The attendant in the scrubbing room shook her head "no" when I pointed towards the tall stack of white, fluffy towels, that seemed to be off-limits. Everyone else seemed to have one, so when I walked back out to the staging area where you swap rubber slippers for fluffy ones, they laughed and laughed before finally handing me one. When I watched another Chinese woman walk up behind me and immediately receive one before entering, I felt a tinge of frustration even though I laughed it off. If there's one place that won't get a tear, it's China, damnit.

In most situations, I would feel flattered to have 50 sets of female eyes all on me, but while showering, not so much. I couldn't tell which bottle was which in the shower, so after rubbing lotion all through my hair, a mishap that thankfully went unnoticed by the masses, I decided to head back to the scrubbing station to see if I might be able to stumble my way into a professional rub down. The women, dressed in basketball jerseys, were more friendly than the front of house personnel and though I still had no idea what I was ordering, I pointed to something on the menu and agreed to two when I couldn't figure out how to say one.

What came next was a relaxing 40 minutes of scrubbing and pouring milk from plastic packets all over my body. The language of touch is universal, so I only needed to flinch once for her to know that my left shoulder blade is still suffering from a 2008 ship wound. I felt the past 6 weeks of cramped cabin living wash away as she hit my skin with mittens and jabbed her elbows into my back. When I went back to the staging area, I at first put on my standard issues before realizing that they were also issuing panties -- "high waist" seems to be popular in China, for even the jeans at trendy Uniqlo were of the mom variety.

With underwear up to my breasts and pink pajamas, I explored the rest of the facilities. The place is called "Orient Rome," and judging by the massive gold pillars and greek gods that had greeted me upon entrance, I was expecting something garish. A pink explosion, not so much.

Mannequins lined the halls of the ladies floor that looked somewhere between a Victoria's Secret, Roxy Carmichael's room and a Stanley Kubrick set -- I was half expecting the dummies to suddenly open their eyes and attack. The bath hall itself was a pink paradise, complete with two adjoining warm pools (one with aloe, one with jets), shower stalls, sauna, turkish stream room, and greek marble statues that have been re-appropriated to hold such coveted items as plastic razors and toothbrushes. All in all, it was the level of fancy that could pass for a cheaper room at the Madonna Inn, but might not reach the coveted "wagon wheel suite" status of VIP only, though I was told that themed VIP rooms did exist on the top floor.

The large spiral staircase takes you past a full in-wall aquarium, random oil paintings of what look to be British aristocrats and slippery marble steps soon landed me on the "relax" floor. Unlike the arcade in the Japanese Onsen, the Chinese equivalent of R + R was a blackened smoking room. Had I been there at night, I was told that a movie would be screening followed by a stage performance. My afternoon leisure included a personal recliner, where I watched an Olympic curling match and sucked down the orange drink they insisted on serving me (for a small fee). I was secretly rooting for the cute Swiss girls to beat the Chinese, though the roar of the TVs and the dark cloud of smoke invading my clean body helped me make the decision to leave before the match was over.  My shoes reappeared down below at the check-in station, and even though they didn't take credit card, I had exactly 160 Yuan to cover my tab.

Japanese Tryptich, Part 3: Homestay.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I go to meet my family at the Kobe Port Terminal and little Yuka is holding a sign with my name on it. Masumi smiles when I say hello, little do I know that she will think my first name is Miller for the next 24 hours until I find a polite way to correct her. After the 20 families are paired, we play a weird game involving a train and roshambo (which is consequently not a Japanese word as I had always suspected), until the woman whose shoulders I am grasping suddenly turns on me and points. The male emcee then shoves a mic in my face. "You must say something!" I hesitate for a second, then he clarifies. "You Losah! You need sing song." There's a pregnant pause as every song that suddenly clouds my brain is 80s soft rock. "Mary Had a Little Lamb," I begin after a student thankfully shouted the suggestion,  proving once again that I am only the chosen one in a crowd when it involves losing or being asked to shout songs in foreign countries.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I ride the subway to Gakken Toshi on the Shigino line, not sure if I should strike up conversation with my host or continue to observe the unwritten Japanese metro rule of silence. I decide to adhere, which also helps me conjure up some much needed energy after a night of not-sleeping on the Tokyo night bus. We ride for an hour then walk to her two story house in a middle class neighborhood of Osaka, stopping at a Patisserie to pick up lunch. I choose a piece of Japanese sweet bread which looks strikingly similar to Mexican pan, then another almond/chocolate puff as she jokes that I must not be hungry. Do all Japanese middle class eat pastries for lunch? Me like.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
The doorbell rings and the energy of the house is transformed from semi-formal to gigglefest when the grandmother arrives. Though her petite frame and small, angular face lead me to believe she might be of the delicate nature, the minute she opens her mouth I am relieved to see her bouncing up and down like a chipmunk. We have long conversations in all Japanese over coffee. I once in awhile gesture to see if we are on the same page. She flashes her disproportionately large smile and warmly touches my arm to say, "I don't know what the hell you're saying, but I like talking to you."

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
The women at the bus stop laugh as I sneeze every five seconds beneath my faux fur hood. "She from California," Masumi explains. "Ohhhhhh" they say in high-pitched unison, a sound that I will soon hear many of them make while agreeing or thinking. It must be the Japanese equivalent of the Indian head bop or the California "like." Ryotaro, who just turned four, screams when he sees me but later punches me in the chest with a toy gun. I pretend to shoot him back. All is okay in kiddieland. If only they had wanted to watch the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics instead of an overdubbed Disney cartoon, I'd say it was a grand, even if over-stimulating day.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I'm riding grandma's bike through the narrow streets of Osaka. Red lanterns sway in the wind above me and the not so pleasant smell of fish fills my nearly clogged nostrils. We walk the aisles of the market and I am suddenly aware of my own awkward presence. I stare at the foreign vegetables and examine the labels like Jeff Bridges in Starman. My hair is blonde and it takes me a second to figure out how the basket fits in the cart. In my mind, I know the situation is akin to one of them walking down the aisle at a Ralph's. I make my way back to the house without falling, though my hands have turned to icicles and I've been too embarrassed to profess that I need to find a toilet (did I mention that I started my period on the Tokyo night bus that was supposed to come with a toilet).

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
When we arrive at the local Hippo club, instead of finding all of the other SAS students and families I enter the room and am suddenly on stage. They pass around a microphone, each saying to me in strict order "My Name is, My Nickname is, Please Call me, Thank You." I speak multiple times on behalf of the English speaking race then we play an hour of games. My wool socks don't mesh with the slippery wood floor, so I fall on my ass during a game of "Tom and Jerry." The slam felt just like it did back in the roller skating days, but I get up laughing, ready for the next stimulant. When they ask me to share a childhood game, all that comes to mind is "Light as a Feather," followed by the vague notion of "Duck Duck Goose" though I can't remember for the life of me how to play it. I cover by asking to learn one more of theirs, until I later spy a CD with a few lines written in English. I think that I am the Messiah as I interrupt their Arabic session to teach them the hokey pokey. I soon realize that it is the most awkward version of the song ever recorded. With a long interlude between every single verse, I improvise, and with all eyes on me, have now started a new Japanese rumor that the Hokey Pokey involves air guitar, air sax, and a horrible version of the white man shuffle. If you see someone doing this, blame me and my bruised hip.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I love that a party is thrown in my honor where I must say hello and goodbye. When Masumi's female friends hear that I stayed in a capsule hotel, they respond with "You so brave!" I avoid the question of why I'm not married and am happy to soon meet Mieko who is a musician and lecturer. Though Masumi has told me over the past 24 hours that she enjoys staying home with her two children, literally riding them around on her bike, I have had the feeling that she is tired. And based on her limited and seemingly sterile interactions with her husband, I am wondering if it is her choice until she quickly responds to an inquiry that she built all of the furniture in her living room. She shines for a moment then quickly crawls back into her homemaker shell, dismissing her work as well as her art school past "as not big deal" and serving another delicious batch of Okonomiyaki. If there's one thing that's universal, it's tension.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
Mieko and I speak for hours about the power of the right brain and differences in our cultures. She asks me how to pronounce certain words, admitting that most Japanese find the "L" and "R" sounds particularly challenging, and recounts an embarrassing story of how she kept trying to order a coffee on her way to Seattle and realized she was saying "correy." As she spoke more and more about the problems she sees in modern Japanese culture, including the inequalities between women and men, it hit me that in this way, we are all alike. It is so easy for a foreigner to view another world from a gaze of wonderment, but there is so much beneath any surface. For example, I took my onsen experience to mean that Japanese take time out of their busy lives to relax, soak, and take care of each other in a way that we don't. However, according to Mieko, working too hard is a huge problem.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
Masumi serves the Hawaiian Macadamia nuts I brought, commenting on how American sweets are too sweet, and I know I've been on the ship for a month when I offer to do the dishes and am overjoyed when my request is granted. I am very sad as the women walk me, along with little Yuka to the train station. For the past 48 hours I was a guest in a complete stranger's home, and now I leave Osaka feeling enlightened and lucky to have made new friends.

Japanese Tryptich, Part 2: Capsule.

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
I put my shoes in the locker, step into the green
plastic slippers that are suspiciously too large, and make my way up to the ladies floor, where Danielle and I have keys to both 8011 and 8012. Who will be on top?

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
The whitish plastic walls of the surprisingly spacious interior are postmodern, the control panel even more mid-century with giant knobs. I flip the switch, turn the lights up and down, then watch a bit of the Winter Olympic trials on my TV. Like dogs in a kennel, Danielle and I poke our heads out, barking hello and rolling our eyes at the surrounding fleet of SAS students.

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
We drink warm Asahi from the vending machine and play Uno with Chris and Nate on the 9th floor, next to the laundry station. An older Japanese man hands us a pile of seaweed covered peanuts before stepping outside to have a smoke. He is wearing nothing but the standard issued smocks; I shiver at the mere thought. It is so cold out that I have been sneezing uncontrollably and wishing I that had brought even more layers.

I'm in a Japanese Capsule.
The female students take one look at the communal bath and guffaw at the mere thought of sitting on a plastic bench, as if it is any less clean than a public toilet seat. We have the entire bathroom to ourselves as we scrub, rinse, then soak in the delightfully warm water. Thankfully, the onsen police are nowhere in sight to issue a penalty, for Danielle has body art that soon starts itching. Nate remembered the tattoo cream from Hawaii. All is well as we check out and set off to find a Mister Donut.

Japanese Tryptich, Part 1: Onsen.

I'm in a Japanese Onsen.
I choose Kimono style #2, walk through the pink doors and head out to the women's section in my towel. I soon realize that only the small ones are being used, so I quickly recycle the big one and place the small one on my head, clasping it with a hair clip.

I'm in a Japanese Onsen.
I sit on the plastic bench, scrubbing my legs with a coarse sheet and rinsing with a bucket full of hot water. None of the signage is translated except for one that reads "No tattoo or body drawings." Thankfully, I'm a pseudo-Jew and tatt free. I continue on to the steamroom, where I watch a soap opera on the giant flatscreen TV. Thankfully, there is lots of white padding to separate my butt from the scorching bench.

I'm in a Japanese Onsen.
I grab a handful of salt from the urn and begin scrubbing my toes. I sit up, using the shower hose to rinse the salt from my back and accidentally squirt the woman across from me. I try to play stupid American, gesturing with my hands that I'm sorry, but she shakes her head in disbelief. I gracefully make my way to the shower.

I'm in a Japanese Onsen.
I make my way through a series of outdoor baths, soon landing a spot in front of the mega jets. The pressure is perfect and the mineral water feels soothing on my back. The sun soon pops out from behind the clouds and it suddenly hits me that I am seven stories up, looking out at the MV Explorer in the Yokohama harbor, naked.










I'm in a Japanese Onsen.
I head to the "relaxing room" on the Fifth floor, wearing nothing beneath my kimono, and curl up on one of the hundreds of recliners. I watch an episode of "Bones," with Japanese subtitles until the snoring around me escalates and I suddenly feel like I'm in a sawmill. A giant clock on the giant ferris wheel reminds me that it is 4:20 pm, so I leave in search of the foot bath.

I'm in a Japanese Onsen.
I ride up the elevator, get off on the Eighth floor and unexpectedly find myself in the middle of an arcade, again, with nothing on beneath my kimono. I walk past the rows of video games, stopping for a brief second to poke my head into a Purikura machine, then grab a large puffy yellow jacket from the rack before heading up to the 9th floor lookout. I soak my feet in the large circular rock bath, once again looking out at the ship in the harbor and reading about UC Berkeley in my New Yorker magazine. The puffy keeps me warm but my kimono keeps flapping in the wind. Maybe I was supposed to wear something beneath it? Oh well.

Dance Your Face Off!

When I walked into the FSL at 2100 on my bday, there were large blue signs taped to the dance floor that said in Times Bold, "DANCE YOUR FACE OFF." Needless to say, Nate's phrase has become a recurring theme that we often utter down the halls or at dinner. Things always seem to happen for a reason, so I suppose in hindsight it was an extra good thing that I had such a wonderful birthday and was still pumped up from that unexpected high when I heard the disappointing news only a few days later that my Fulbright project to Iceland didn't even make it to the finals.

I spent 26 Jan trolling around Hilo with Chris, Nate and Danielle ... not a shabby way to bring in the double threes.  Since we were transiting from Hilo to Honolulu that night and US Customs required everybody to be on the ship, I knew that some friends were meeting up in the Union to celebrate with pajamas as the recommended attire, but I had no idea that Becca, Chris and Ali had gone to so much trouble. The theme was three -- there were three different kinds of chips, three types of donuts in lieu of a cake, and Mandy the bartender made a special "Courtney Cocktail" with three ingredients, which I'm guessing were rum, pineapple juice and cranberry.

I had been singing the Snuggie theme song off and on all day, and even did the dance a few times while walking around the Volcano National Park. When I went to open my present from the Field Office and they asked me to guess what it was, I couldn't believe that a piece of blue magic was really about to come out of the box, cleverly wrapped in a Tokyo map. It has the touch and feel of an airplane blanket, not quite the plush I had imagined, but boy oh boy is it comfy for sleeping. And if I were just a few inches taller, even better for dancing.

Rocking + Rolling

If I were one of those unlucky folks who had a predisposition to seasickness, I might be a little scared at the sight of waves crashing onto Deck 7 forward ... but thankfully, along with my extra thumb, I made out well in that department. We've been traveling eastward bound but south en route to Japan, but as we're supposed to be there in two days, the captain had to turn the wheel today, for to get there we have no other choice but to head north. Straight into the eye of the storm we've been avoiding. There's just no other way.

As the ship breaks through the waves, taking them head-on like a bull, we fly up and down, oftentimes crashing straight into them. This makes you feel like you are on a giant speed boat in an even more giant wake. I don't mind the rolly-polly action either, where we rock from side to side with the swells, but there's something about the excitement of the rumble, I must admit. The wine glasses shake back and forth, creating an almost percussive backdrop to the near sonic boom of 25,000 tons dropping 25 feet. Looking out the window, you see the ocean suddenly suddenly fill the frame, followed by all sky, then BAM! Your stomach jumps up and down along with everything on your table, and if you're extra lucky like me, your might even fall out of your chair. Good thing my coffee had a lid on it.

ShamWow!

In addition to our students, staff, faculty, family members and crew, the MV Explorer shipboard community has another contingency called the "Lifelong Learners," adding yet another layer of uniqueness to this floating college campus. For not only do students eat and sleep in the same physical space as their professors, and further share the ship with various family members and young children, we also have a group of auditors -- people who are just here to travel, learn, and take classes for non-credit. Typically speaking, they are more of a retired crowd. The ones who spent their entire lives cranking to then hang up their hat one day and sail around the world, putting good use to that lifelong savings. Over the years, there have also been some more non-traditional LLLs. People as young as 24 who for whatever reason were not able to go on Semester at Sea as a student, but can now travel. How they can afford it, who knows, but they are a wonderful addition to our community, and I especially enjoy their daily 1700 happy hours.

The LLLs are a friendly crowd, here to engage and contribute in any way that they can -- with the exception of one woman named Gladys who discovered a few years ago that living on ships full time is more cost effective than convalescent care. If Gladys were a drink, she'd be a Molotov Cocktail -- just when you think you're about to take a sip of something sweet and vintage, she spits fire. She's the kind of woman who offers you a stale cookie then cackles when you take a bite. But along with the makeshift bridge-friendly table top made in her honor, she's a fixture upon the decks of the Explorer, like the wall of rocks, the giant toaster and the Piano Lounge artwork known to most as "Lady Masturbates with a Ladder." 

Over the years, two of my favorite people have sailed in the role of Lifelong Learner Coordinator -- Deb Resling and Betty Waldron, two of the kindest people you will ever meet. From planning social events to organizing ship families, they've always been a face in the community. However, Spring 2010 has brought about a newfound zest from the sea oftentimes entered into the Olympics under such nom de plumes as "Dead Sea," "Silver Sea," or my personal favorite, the "CannotSea."

At the orientation, when this woman burst into the AV Booth excitedly asking for a wireless headphone mic, I assumed she was going to talk about fitness or was a professor planning to dedicate both hands to a flipchart. Twenty minutes later, when Kathy took the stage and I cued the lights as requested, a star flew out of the gates like Barbra Streisand singing a Yentl medley. Gone are the days of bridge tourneys and stiff martinis, we've gone motivational and I love it! Suddenly we weren't in the union, we were on the set of QVC, willing to purchase diamonds and blenders. She strutted across the stage like the late Billy Mays, tossing air quotes, raising the roof, and getting us revved up like the Colts taking the field. So what if I work twelve hours a day. I want to adopt 4 children. No wait. Maybe 8, or 12. My god, these poor homesick kids need a hug and someone to play scrabble with. I'll take them all, damnabit!!

Lost + Found

Sure as the gift certificates for McDonald’s hamburgers I would receive as a kid every week for reading books in elementary school – in pure Fresno fashion, not only were the few of us who actually read rewarded, we were given a stipend of pure fatty goodness that could be sure to kick the chocolate milk of today’s campuses to the diabetic curb – it was rare that I would miss the release of a GoGo’s album or an episode of Facts of Life. I didn’t know at the time that Lisa Welchel would grow up to be a fundamentalist Christian, that Mrs Garrett was nearly a drag queen or that my obsession with Jo was indicative of future epiphanies. In high school it was China Beach, followed by Six Feet Under and a late twenties realization that the greatest sitcom still written to date involves four old ladies, a floral couch and a table full of cheesecake. My undergraduate degree is in cinema and television, but outside of these few obsessions, I’ve never been one to spend much time salivating over a TV Show. That is, until one day a few years ago I entered the living room to find John fixated on the tube. On it, a young toned woman in a sweaty, dirty wifebeater climbed a tree trying to outsmart a plume of angry, black smoke. Followed by a polar bear in the tropics, I didn’t know I was LOST until I found myself immediately mesmerized.

Groundhog Day and the premiere of the final season, which I will be missing, seems like the perfect time to spell out this analogy. Twelve years ago, when “surfing the net” was a relatively new thing, I stumbled upon a page while sitting in my EVK dorm room for a university ship that sails around the world – a chance encounter that seemed almost premeditated by the universe. A high school band trip had taken me to Canada and freshman shenanigans had brought about a few last minute strolls down to la revolución in TJ, but outside of that, the idea of traveling to not one but ten foreign countries seemed so outrageous, so unreal.

When I returned from that voyage in 1998, I remember having a near panic attack at the grocery store. At that time, we weren’t chatting online or blogging everyday – we had been literally disconnected for 4 months, with nothing but a one page AP wire keeping us abreast of world news. Until then, I had never realized how crazy it was to have multiple varieties of produce, mostly out of season. To have aisles and aisles of colorful, pre-priced boxes and no bargaining power. The mall was big, classes seemed pointless, and as I tried to reassimilate back into youthful Los Angeles life, the only place that seemed comfortable and “normal” was my shower.

As an adult working for Semester at Sea, I’ve experienced a similar acculturation challenge upon return with the heaviness that more time on this earth brings you. I’ve had people I’ve known my entire life suddenly accuse me of being elitist, family members unable to engage with me beyond small talk, and a feeling of outsider in a world that was once so comfortable and familiar. Since the beginning of television, there’s always been that throwaway line or mindscape of a discontent character wishing they could up and leave their life and “just travel around the world.” I’ve found, as you suddenly become the manifestation of that otherwise surrealistic fantasy, it’s not only difficult to sometimes fit back in where you came from, it’s hard to move forward. It’s hard to know what to say and when, to know when and where the circumstance is appropriate for reflection, and for those around you that have been feeling stuck in their daily lives and harbor that fantasy of escape, to not take it personally when their inhibitions require distance.

As I sit in the Faculty Staff lounge, wondering what Kate, Sawyer and the others are up to, I am reminded of the connection that ties me to the Dharma initiative in a way that I will hopefully understand even more once the answers are, hopefully, revealed. There are times at sea when you reminisce about all of the things you are missing and count down to the day you can return to your old home (well, for those that have them), life and people. The food, the sounds, the smells, it all seemed so perfect until the day you soon walk back through that door and realize that though not much changed in that time you were away, you changed. The conversations involving multiple countries and regions now sound ridiculous and out of context, driving is not as fun as it used to seem, time is no longer nebulous and negotiable, and as you long for an immediate reconnection to that far away world you just left, you soon realize that you will spend the rest of your life trying to find your way right back to it. Like the island, the ship is never in the same place or the same time, and will never make any sense to those who have not lived it. The people you met there are the only people that will ever really understand that you, and as they haunt your dreams for years to come, you will stop at nothing to get right back to that mysterious world that had sucked you straight out of your old, comfortable reality, and soon catapulted you into an ever-transforming enigma along with a group of people who would soon give new meaning to the idea of extended family. Was it fate calling or mere chance that brought us all together? Time will tell, but for now, as we jump from Feb 2 to Feb 4 in sheer Daniel Faraday fashion, it sure feels good to be home.

Time

Just to prove how man-made it really is. I'm crossing the antimeridian (International Date Line) as I type, at 1600 on Monday 1 February. We were originally going to lose tomorrow, Feb 2, but have instead decided to keep tomorrow and ditch Feb 3 -- meaning that we'll go from Feb 2 straight to Feb 4. Even more fascinating to me than losing a day is knowing that it, along with when to implement 25 hour days of which we will have many, can be decided by a round table discussion.

One Earth, One Future

Two weeks in, and I’m delighted to report that our voyage has been off to a very promising start. The students arrived in Ensenada with most if not all of their luggage, no easy feat for ISE to pull off considering that bribes are standard fare for crossing the Mexican border, so I hear. A few students had to go home for medical purposes and we had 5 straight days of 15 – 20 foot waves on our first half of the Pacific crossing (causing a mess of sugarpackets in the FSL and a disaster in my cabin), but overall I feel like we’re settling in to a nice groove. It’s not often that I can say with honesty that I adore 98% of the people. The faculty are savvy, the staff friendly and the deans are clearly the best of the best.

Donny G is at the helm of Global Studies, taking it back to the days of student and faculty involvement. Often dressed in a cherry tart Mr. Rogers-esque V-neck, his self-proclaimed “republican haircut” is not to fool you, nor would he be caught dead in a bowtie though I have offered him a slice of Americana on more than one occasion. When he’s not roaming around NY on his hog, he’s bamboozling the students for two sessions a day, 4 in total with A and B days. With an exaggerated drawl the likes of a character actor, he rings in each day with the greeting “Hello fellow adventur-errrs,” followed by our bearings in relation to the “Priiiiime Meridian.” With classic rock cues and the perfect amount of powerpoint versus talking time, I’d say it’s the gold standard.

In addition to our focus on Sino-US Relations, the voyage is also focused on “sustainability,” hence our voyage slug “One Earth, One Future.” Semester at Sea has worked incredibly hard to make the MV Explorer one of the first ISO Green Certified ships, a pretty major feat considering the floating carbon footprints that litter our ocean, including the newly launched Oasis of the Seas. In addition, we are endeavoring to print less, encourage less energy, water and food waste, and are trying to verse the community on ways to lessen their overall footprint. Considering we all live in 100 square feet (or less) aboard the ship and aren’t driving our cars, I’d say we’re off to an okay start. Now we just need to find a way to start charging for printing services and to maybe turn off the neon tube lights in the Garden Lounge, though I will admit that I love our little splash of Vegas.

Daily Water Consumption as reported:
1/31: 498 ltrs / 132 gallons per person
1/30: 404 ltrs / 106 gallons per person
1/29: 390 ltrs / 103 gallons per person

Here is even more information regarding our sustainability efforts if you're interested. I find it quite fascinating myself.

Mariachi Blowout

One of the things I have found particularly unique about working for Semester at Sea over the past few years, in addition to the whole living on a ship thing, are the friendships I have forged with colleagues that I only see on frequent occasion. We meet-up at the beginning and end of each semester, sometimes travel together for a few weeks on the Enrichment Voyages or reunions, but at the end of the day, none of us know each other in “real life.” We’ve never seen each others’ homes, cars, animals, family, land friends, and our wardrobes are limited to the clothes we pack in our suitcases, which suspiciously, always tend to be the same ones. I could easily let on that I am extremely religious, own my own home in Orange County, drive a hummer and keep a cage full of hamsters in my living room. Hell, I could probably even pretend that I have a husband and kids. Nobody has anyway of knowing, which is kinda freaky and fun at the same time.

As we approach groundhog day, literally passing over the international date line as I type (we’re deciding to ditch 3 Feb instead), I am reminded of the peculiar history Britta and I share. We both were on Tybee Island at the same time 6 years ago; we more often than not show up wearing the exact same clothes, mine from LA, hers from Charlottesville or Germany; and we often relive the same night(s) over and over again either in Nassau, San Diego or Miami. In each episode, something gets in the way of our perfect night straight out of a sitcom. In Nassau, nothing is ever open. In San Diego, my 33 years of living in California always seem to fail me navigation-wise. In Florida, we can never make it back to the ship in time no matter how hard we try, and in Ensenada two weeks ago, in an effort to find a quiet place, I somehow chose a “more local restaurant” that was soon invaded by the largest and loudest mariachi band this side of Herb Alpert. Coincidentally, they also had crappy guacamole. Adios mio!

Helado

I feel like Mexico oftentimes gets a bad wrap. The drug lords who roam the streets of Tijuana, ripping the eyes out of innocent tourists' sockets straight out of a Cohen Brothers film, horrible heat waves, enclaves of American tourists looking to "git their culture on with some mar-ger-itas," and oh yeah, that swine flu thing. It probably doesn't help that they are also geologically positioned as America's bottom. But hey, they still have Thrifty ice cream with the proper logo. Combined with mouth-watering food and beer without preservatives, I say, sabroso!

Thirty. Something.

One of the cool things about being an Aquarian, in addition to our futuristic genius and severe allergy to patience, is that each new calendar year also marks the beginning of a new age. Which I guess is also true of Capricorns with January birthdays, but I’m venturing to guess that Aquarians probably spend more time dwelling.

As I look out over the now-calm Pacific, about to ring in my 33rd year, I am reminded of a conversation I had on this very ship with Missy Mott over a year ago. In sharing stories about feeling lost at times, and finding the balance between wanderlust and security, she expressed the query she had pondered over regarding her own daughter, Jill, my near doppelganger. “I wonder what her life would be like if she had never gone on this ship?”

Her point, which was subtle, was that perhaps she, or I, would be more content if I had never ventured outside of the box and had stayed the more traditional course. House. Marriage. 401k and health insurance … in both cases, the path of our younger siblings. Sometimes I think about it ... where would I be right now had I never heard the calling to join this ship?

I’d probably still be working in the entertainment industry. I’d perhaps own my own place, have a newish car. Nicer clothes and enough discretionary money to pay for my own cell phone. But as I re-enter this floating academical village, I cannot help but to immediately feel reminded of the visions that were forever imprinted on my callow brain the day I traded a semester of USC film school for a mind-blowing peephole into the actual world where "reality" could never and probably will never end: more than half of the world lives on less than $2 a day, and even more than that do not have access to clean water. I know this here and I know this now, but what about that future moment when I temporarily forget that whether or not my hair should have high or low lights is really not important?

Yoga

The funny thing about doing Yoga on a ship is that even savasana is a core workout. The tilt sometimes works to your advantage, like the extra umph coming into a chaturanga. Tree. Warrior III … not so much. It was a rare occasion for me to have been outside of the AV Booth in the afternoon, but the sun and smoother waters were too much to resist, especially since last night marked the beginning of a much-needed sleep catch-up-athon. Tonight will be part two. The kids are doing a “coffee house” up in the Piano Bar but I just don’t have a round of acoustachill in me. I overheard one girl say to another on day one “How will we, like, ever find each other again  without cell phones?” Hopefully the open mic night has reunited them.

Five is the new Four ...

One cannot live on a ship with 1000 other people without designating a favorite spot. Some choose their cabins, their workspace or a cozy corner table in the Garden Lounge. Mine has always been Deck 4 aft. Starboard, in between the rail and the stairs. It's a hidden little gem. Free from faculty asking questions, or at least limited to the few who can find me. Speaking of camouflaged endeavors, one would think that lying naked in the sauna grants immunity from all questions involving microphones and powerpoint, or really just all questions for that matter, but there once was a time mid-sweat when I literally got the tap on the shoulder. "Um, Courtney. I'm sorry to bother you. I need some help setting up my computer." Which really means that you're not sorry to bother me or you wouldn't be checking the sauna. I don’t personally harbor a lot of inhibitions surrounding nudity, but if there’s one thing I don’t want to think about while naked, it’s an elderly woman’s thumb drive. You can take that to mean whatever you like.

So now that Deck 4 has been designated a crew-only area on semesters, which is a long overdue solution to providing them with a private outdoor space, I’ve migrated to Deck 5. More people can spy from the Main Dining room and Deck 6 has an occasional assortment of overhang gawkers, but I have to admit I’ve been finding it rather cozy. Since my POV shot seemed to go over on facebook, here is the first edition of my S10 foot cam. On A2, live from my new spot during the storm. Which I'll get to next ...

Rough Seas on Day 2

The sea is swelling ever so tall but gently. With the grace of a painter, we lean a little, okay maybe 20 feet, towards starboard, taking potted plants, silverware, wine bottles, and anything not secured along with us. Though before we can reach out to grab the table full of plates coming our way, we suddenly shift portside, as if Bob Ross is behind the canvas, illustrating how a tree blows in gale force winds. It leans from side to side, then forward, back. And before you can curse mother nature for the plate of food now on your lap, the sun shoots tubes of light down through the clouds in a picture so saturated and perfect that it is literally God shouting “Suck it up, kid. You’re sailing across the Pacific and then around the world. Remember?”

Shark Blood

To order such a concoction would usually mean one of two things, a 21-year-old on Spring Break or an adult American tourist in Cabo. I’m going to profess that while I fall into the second category – I was in Cabo, and yes, I couldn’t resist ordering a drink as obnoxious as a “Shark Blood Margarita” from a marina-side patio with English-translated menus, I think my moment of misjudgement had more to do with the subconscious than with a sudden desire to act like the kind of girl who could strut around in a cowboy hat/bikini combo when not ordering cheap tequila with food coloring.

After a long week of work, Kristi, Britta and I sat on the Cabo beach all day in front of a bar called “The Office,” surrounded by barefoot Mexicans in flowy white things and staring out at the various watersports in-between vendor avoidance naps. If there’s one thing that makes you think of Shark Blood, my friends, it’s young girls on Banana boats. So really, I couldn’t order another Pacifico (delightfully sans preservatives) when something emulating Jaws was available, and consequently one of the most disgusting drinks I have tried this side of a Harvey Wallbanger.

Until the selfish conservatives one day decide that I also have the right to live and enjoy my life, I will most likely never know this from experience, but Kristi appropriately compared the Reunion Voyage to a wedding reception. Hordes of people from all different factions and years of your life come pummeling at you, and while you would love nothing more than to spend hours, even days catching up with every single one of them, the nature of the beast permits you to do nothing more than relegate the intimacies of lifelong friendship to a quick, small-talkish catch-up over a bowl of nemos and a Tiger if you’re lucky. Thankfully, since it was the wonderment of being open that brought us all together in the first place, the MV Explorer is one of the few places I have found where people are understanding and impressively flexible. “Always working in that AV booth,” they all said with a smile. Whether you’ve sailed with me for 10 days around the Caribbean or 100 around the world, it’s my home away from home. Err. Actually, it’s now my only home.

I heart mail

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