Exercises in Writing: Excerpts from a Writer's Workshop

Lately I've been having a hard time thinking of what to write about. There is a lot going on and just about anything can be written about, but nothing has caught my attention enough to turn it into a post. So I decided that instead of sitting here and rambling about nonsensical things, I would do something a little different and share some things that I've written over the past few weeks in non-blog form.

I've been going to a writing workshop every week, a quaint little setting at a man called Ron's house. There are usually between four and seven of us there to write. I arrive every Tuesday after a half hour commute through the rolling hills of the Austin back roads, trying at all costs to avoid rush hour traffic. I usually arrive straight from the rowing center, fatigued, wearing a Texas Rowing Center shirt (which the other workshopees must think is the only article of clothing I own at this point) and I let myself into this charming house, to be greeted by Tess, a dark gray standard poodle. She licks me a few times, sniffs me, and finally walks next to me towards the kitchen, where I find a countertop full of food -- pasta, salad, sauce, bread, sliced avocados, iced tead, hot tea, water... On certain tuesdays, I get there just in time to smell the fresh brownies that have just been pulled out of the oven and will be ready to fill my belly when we take a writing break later in the evening.

I make my way into the back room, what looks like it used to be a porch that got walled in, and find a spot, not always the same spot, at a dinner table. As close to 7:15 as possible, sometimes later when we get distracted with some conversation about the happenings of that day, we all plant our feet flat on the ground, let our arms hang loose by our sides, close our eyes, and are led through a short group meditation. I've never been one to meditate and have never thought myself to be too good at it, but there's something about Ron's voice, or my level of fatigue by that point of the day and the energy I put into staying awake to hold my head up while my closed eyes try to take me into a seated nap, that allows me take some weight off my shoulders as he walks us through the mental exercise. We always finish it up by rubbing our hands fast fast fast super fast creating heat, creating energy faster faster, and then gently placing them over our eyes. At this point, happy I washed the boathouse filth off my hands before I sat down, as I feel the weight of my hands, of that heat resting on my eyeballs, at that point, I am ready to open my eyes and pick up my pen.

He usually gives us a prompt, or an object, or a word, or something to "do." The rule is to keep the pen moving, whether you are inspired by the prompt or decide to go off in your own direction, it doesn't matter as long as the pen is moving. He gives us anywhere between 10 and 20 minutes, and off we go, into what usually, if you are having a good day, seems like too little time to get everything you want down on paper.

Below are three little things I've written in class. As you read them, keep in mind that (a) some are fiction, some are not, some parts are true, and some parts are not, (b) there is zero room or time for editing (c) there is not always enough time to wrap up. Some might sound familiar, and some might seem totally random (because you don't always know where the piece is going until the time is up).

1. Given all the awful and sad stories we've been hearing about people losing their homes to the Bastrop, TX fires, think about five things you would take with you if you had to leave your house. Now pick one from that list, the one that stands out the most, and write about it.

A box. I never even cared enough to buy or make a nice box. It's an old shoe box. And it's purple. It matches nothing in the room, but for some reason I never seemed to care, because it was always a place for all that stuff, all those things that your mom might call junk, or maybe all those things that if you spent your entire life collecting could get you nominated for that show Hoarders. But it's all that stuff that no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to be able to crumple, to toss into the trash can with last night's dinner leftovers without the desire to pull it back out. It's stuff like a race number. Why in the world would I want a piece of paper with the number 5335 on it? If my house was burning, what will I do with this? Further ignite the fire? But how can I not keep a box that holds this crinkled piece of paper, probably still covered in swear? How can I get myself to leave in the flames something that took me almost a year to achieve? Months of waking up at 6 to run, to lace up my sneakers and try to beat the Texas heat. Months of rolling out of bed when I wanted nothing more than to keep my eyes closed at least until the sun came up. All this just to show up in San Francisco one chilly Sunday morning at 5:45, once again, before the sun even thought to poke its head out, and wear this piece of paper. To wear this piece of paper and do the very thing I had been doing for months. But this time, with the number 5335, for 26.2 miles, at a pace I never thought I could hold for so long. And all this to cross the finish line three hours and thirty three minutes later and qualify for one of the most sought out marathon by crazy runners like myself. Crazy runners who keep this wrinkled number, medal, and memory in a purple show box that cannot and will not be left in flames. 

Of course there are other things in this box, other perhaps "useless" things in a stranger's eyes. Stuff like other numbers. I miss you letters. More pictures. Happy notes. Sad notes. Love notes. A love note from eight grade. How can you make it for more than ten years with a goofy letter from a goofy boy asking you to circle "yes" I like you like him too, or "no" I think you have cooties? Ten years of holding onto all this to let it be slowly devoured by the hot orange fire? Hell no. Let's just say it's a good thing that letter made it into the purple shoebox with number 5335, because the purple box is coming under my arm when I walk out the door.

2.  Think about the 5 objects you love the most in your life. Pick one and write about it.

The numbers go up to twelve, the way the Romans would write to twelve. Why twelve? And why Roman? I never really thought to ask, to be honest, perhaps because when someone you love and you'll miss, and you know you'll never have enough words to tell them how much they've changed you and how much they'll stay with you, when that type of person gives you a gift off her own hand, you simply don't stop to ask them at that very moment, why twelve? You also forget to ask, why do the numbers star counting at 2 instead of 1? Or why is the four written with four I's and not and I and a V as real Romans would write it? Please forgive me if I can't come up with all the answers to the flaws of this beautiful treasure. 

The day she gave it to me, the sterling silver could have blinded me on the spot if the sun had hit it at just the right angle, but the deep blue strip that ran through the middle of it, opaque yet vibrant, must have caught the ray that saved my eyesight. Perfectly round, simple, curious, I had always admired it on her right middle finger. We used to laugh about what an important finger that was to have an illumination band wrapped around it... just in case the moment ever presented itself to tell someone off with class. 

I often wonder if it was pure luck or one of those curious things about life when we discovered that my right middle finger happened to be the same width as hers the day she took it off her hand, gave it one last glance and told me to keep it. I promised her I would never lose sight of it as I held her close for the last time until... well, until we met again. An entire continent would separate us, and before the days of facebook and email, we had no choice but to revel in the cheesiness of this ring. 

It had been over two years, and the only time I could remember taking it off my right middle finger was when a bitter official at an indoor track race had instructed me to take it off if I wanted to stay in the race. I slowly pulled it off as I marched to the starting line, thinking about how naked I felt without it. I promptly placed it back on its spot after completing my race, and went back to never taking it off -- not to shower, sleep, or row. My finger was pasty white beneath the millimeters of skin that it covered, while the rest of my hand turned toasty brown in the summer heat. 

I'll never forget the morning that I walked out of the house, softly playing with it loosely in my right hand when it escaped my grip, and rolled, rolled, rolled away. I thought I saw it roll into the bushes by the car. I searched, and searched, got to school late because of it, came home and searched again, and finally, devastated, left it for lost under the pile of autumn leaves I had forgotten to rake. Was I giving up too easily? Should I be searching the yard more methodically? But no matter how hard I looked, how thoroughly I stared at every inch of grass in front of me, it was nowhere to be found.

The cruel Boston winter came and went, snow piled and melted. One particularly sunny spring morning, as I walked to my car where icicles slowly melted off its tail, something caught my eye. Something shiny peered out from underneath the pile of leaves that still remained unraked. It was unreal, like a sailor lost at sea finding his way home.

It's not quite as shiny anymore. Or quite as round anymore. The blue is not so blue anymore. But the number one is still missing, the four is still four I's, the numbers still go up to 12, and ten years later, somehow, it still sits on my right middle finger. 

 3. We each pulled out a page from a calendar. Each page had a picture of a shoe with a brief description of it. My shoe was a red pump, called Ravishing Ruby. Write whatever comes.

They called her Ravishing Ruby because she could turn heads left and right even if she walked by in her sweatpants and yesterday's make up, slowly spilling her coffee and looking around her to make sure no one had seen her clumsy moment. 

But her fans never seemed to notice these details. Men fantasized about her and women envied her. She walked tall her in her five-foot-eight athletic body and carried herself flawlessly on her red stiletto shoes. How was it that she could make red match just about anything? 

The red of her shoes was a distracting a sight as the kindness in her eyes. Wide open, as if trying to ensure she didn't miss a second of the life in front of her, with a small wrinkle in each corner as she softened her glare to emanate comfort and understanding. 
She easily gained the trust of her clients, although she never dared called them clients. Client had such a harsh ring to her ever attentive and all absorbing ears.

Top of her class at the Harvard Med School Department of Psychiatry, she had every reason, or every stereotypical right to call them clients, appointments, chart numbers, and only vaguely show interest in their latest problems as she peered at them over her yellow legal note pad. But not Ruby. Instead, she leaned in with utmost desire, showing more than her perfectly round nose, to hear every word, every story she was told as if it were the script of the next Oscar-winning thriller. 

Home (away from home)

They say that “home is where the heart is,” but do you think it’s possible to leave pieces of your heart scattered around the world and call each place a little bit of home? As of lately, I think I do. I can think of countries, cities, people, and moments, that have given me something to remember, to feel, to talk about, to take with me, but who have also taken something from me, a little piece of me that stays there and somehow takes me back there. Maybe we don’t always go back to all of these physically, but we become kind of like marionettes with countless strings scattered all over the map, and there are so many strings that one alone can’t control you, but it can have a little pull, a little nudge in a certain direction, in a certain thought or feeling, or way of understanding what’s in front of you.

As it turns out, not too long ago I started to feel that string in Argentina give me a little extra pull, so I said hey, what the hell, I don’t know what I’ll be doing next year, if I’ll have time, money, or desire to go, so why not go now? I knew this wouldn’t be the kind of vacation where you see amazing new sights, or learn a lot of cool history, or bask in the sunshine on a beach covered in white sand, holding a margarita and staring into crystal clear turquoise water. It would be more a trip to the known, to the comfortable, to the lounging around and sitting around a table talking to people about nothing and everything at the same time. It would be more like getting a really expensive cup of coffee with an old friend, if you think about it.

Now maybe AmeriCorps doesn’t quite pay me enough to make it worth the expensive cup of coffee, but then you have to wonder, why do we spend years saving money if we never use it for what we want? Besides, MasterCard once told me there are some things money can’t buy, and the Beatles told me you can’t buy me love, so maybe sometimes it’s worth one pricey plane ride for moments that you can’t find anywhere else.

So I started the trek to the motherland, and I know I’ve talked about how that whole “where are you from?” question can be so confusing, but it really hit me harder this time around when I arrived at Ezeiza international airport in Buenos Aires a few short weeks ago, with a navy blue American passport in one hand, and a navy blue Argentine passport in the other. As a newbie to American travel, I was confused as to which immigration line to approach when I finally got off the airplane.

In line number one: Argentina passport holders. Oo, me! In line number two: USA passport holders. Oo, me! In line number three: Passport holders who are waived of reciprocity fees. Oo, me! Well then, what gives? I approached a security man who promptly noticed my American passport and immediately addressed me in English. In Spanish, I expressed my confusion, and he explained that I belonged in line number three for being born in Argentina, but needing my US passport stamped without having to pay to enter my own country. Hm, interesting how a question that can keep coming back to you can be so easily answered by a man in uniform. How come he didn’t exist in my daily life to clarify things like that? Anyways, as it turns out, this is why line number three was created, for those people like myself who can only be explained as that little overlapping piece of a Venn Diagram. I looked over and there were just a few other people of my variety. Score. I made my way over, no questions asked, U.S. passport stamped, done. Easy as 1, 2, 3, as the Jackson Five would say.

The day after I arrived, after chatting with my adorable yet testy grandmother and having a friend come over to cebar me my first mate, I left for Mar del Plata to celebrate my friend Sandra’s birthday (*Cebar is the act or perhaps art of preparing and pouring a mate adequately).

Just 48 hours earlier, I had been in Austin, a place I call home these days, but now here I was, in the place I used to call home, greeted by some of my favorite people in the entire world. As soon as I got off the bus and saw my friend’s face I felt alive. I felt giddy, but also relaxed. It’s a feeling that is so hard to put into words, because it’s a combination of the excitement of running into the boy you have a major crush on in the street, and the comfort of saying hello to a family member.

As the week went on and I began to see some of my other friends – Paula, Carla, and Ana, who I went to school with, and Emilce, who I’ve known since the day she was born two days after me. It felt like nothing had changed. Ten years later, ten years after we all gathered outside my house to say goodbye before my final trek back to the U.S. of A., we were all sitting around the fireplace at Paula’s house, chatting, laughing, sharing fun stories, sharing difficult stories, cooking, drinking, playing monopoly, and never running out of things to say. It was like I just…belonged.

Monopoly Champion, Sandra, Carla, Paula, Mimi (the cat):

There is something, a je ne sais quoi as they say, about the ease and warmth and immediate throwback to the old days that rushes through my body when I spend time in this place with people who I left so long ago but somehow feel like I see them every day of my life. It’s a curious thing, no?

In Mar del Plata I went back to some favorite restaurants, my old neighborhood, my old house, where I couldn’t resist taking a picture with my mom’s lemon tree that once came up to my waist and seemed to have no hope of ever producing any lemons…and here it was now, full grown tree, full of bright yellow lemons.  

Mi casita:

One day I went to the beach, layered in clothes, but eagerly kicked off my shoes and rolled up my pants to feel the sand between my toes and touch the frigid Atlantic. Whenever I used to go to the beach, the very first thing I (and my dad) would do when we arrived, before we even lay a towel out in the sun, was walk to the water and touch it. Just to test it, just to see if it was still as cold as it always was, and to see how much motivation it would take to actually jump in. Of course in the winter now I had no desire to actually jump in, but old habits die hard, you know?

Dancing in the water, making sure it's atlantically cold:

After about a week I headed back to Buenos Aires and make some rounds there. I saw my grandmother, relatives, faux-relatives, old friends, new friends, went back to my old salsa class, went salsa dancing (can’t get out of the habit), took millions of buses, gave lots of hugs, lots of kisses, shared laughs, and shared more stories.

And now in two days I head back to my other home, which I am excited to do, but also un poco triste. Coming to Argentina is like playing with a double-edged sword you see, it’s bittersweet, whatever you want to call it, something that is fulfilling yet heart wrenching at the same time. But, as Dr. Seuss said (and as I quoted under my Senior picture): “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” Truth. Hasta la próxima, argentina amiga. Austin, here I come. 

A 26.2 of beauty and achievement

Sunday, July 31st.

I was sleeping like a baby without a worry in the world when the clock turned 4:15 and my alarm woke me up. I jumped up and turned it off, letting myself snooze only once today (as opposed to my usual three times). At 4:20, I knew it was time to get up. In the dark, I searched for the neat stack of stuff I had arranged the night before. I felt the Bay Area chill as I got out from under the down comforter and changed into shorts and a t-shirt after applying Body Glide to practically my entire body (I won't over share, but I'll just tell you that after running for hours, your body starts to chafe in places you didn't even know could cause friction).

Emily woke up a few moments later and turned the bedroom light on, making the process easier. We both puttered around in silence, each of us doing our thing (Emily was prepping to run the half), put some layers on, toasted some english muffins, did a quick check for all the things we needed, laced up our shoes, and hopped in the car to meet Dan at the course.

I felt awake, alert, excited, nervous, but not completely aware that this was actually happening, that only five months later I was doing this marathon thing again. Now is not the time to question my sanity, I thought.

As we got downtown, traffic got a little heavier, but I was able to find Dan standing on our arranged meeting corner. Emily wasn't racing for another hour, so we gave each other a giddy hug, wished each other much luck, and said see ya at the finish!

5:10. The race started in "waves" and I was scheduled to start at 5:43. Ok, still have some time. Dan and I checked our bags and went over to the bathroom line. Here we were surprised by a photographer who tried to take a picture of me and the random girl standing next to me in line. Finally, he understood we didn't know each other and snapped a pre-race shot of Dan and I. (Apologies for the watermark, I haven't committed to purchasing any of these yet). So here we are, still a little sleepy, still a little surprised to be photographed in the bathroom line.

Finally, we made it through the line and jogged over to the starting area. I suppose that was our warmup. Dan's wave had already left, but completely unstressed, we both started in my wave, which just meant you were held back from starting for just a few minutes. We pushed our way through people and suddenly, sooner than I expected, it was 5:43 and we were running, running faster, and then we stepped over the starting line and off we went!

My initial idea had been to start with a 3:40 pace group, but since we missed the previous starting wave, we were running close to the 3:50 group. And so we started the classic beginning-of-a-race-weave-through-the-people game... weaving to the left, to the right, past the man running wrapped up in a blanket, past the 3:45 pace group, to the right, past a bakery starting to make some bread and teasing us with its delicious scent, to the left, past the 3:40 group, in, out, around, and finally, we seemed to settle into a comfortable pace. Way ahead of the group I had intended to start with, I looked down at my trusty Garmin watch, and we were running sub- 7:30 min/mile! Holy crap I thought, we need to slow down or I'm going to explode before we get half way. But the surprising part was, it didn't feel that fast, it felt manageable.

So I relaxed and just ran with it. I took a moment to look up past the crowds and remembered where I was. At that moment we were passing past Ghirardelli Square and a wonderful little beach, with the Golden Gate ahead in the distance, behind a light layer of fog. As we passed the beach I stared out towards the water to take in a deep breath of pacific bay air,  and suddenly saw a guy in a wet suit and swim cap pop his head out of the water! Just as I was about to nudge Dan to point out this guy, the swimmer yelled out: "You all are awesomeeeee! Keep it up!" Great way to start the day.

Smiling, I continued on, thinking about how easy it was to breathe, how easy it felt to move through this high-50-degree weather, and how mysterious the Golden Gate looked up ahead. The bridge appeared to be sitting much higher up than where I stood, so I thought, hmmm, the only way to gere there is up...And just then, as we came around a turn, I saw a sign on the course, asking "do you know what the steepest hill in San Francisco is?" This would be the first of many trivia questions along the course. I didn't know the answer, but I sure hoped it wasn't something along the lines of "this hill coming up, suckers!" The next sign read the real answer, telling of the steepest hill and it's % grade, and the sign just behind it read: "Aren't you glad you're running this one instead?" Phew, I thought. And so we hit the first water/electrolyte station of the day in preparation for the first hill of the day. Nothing terrible, a steady incline up and up towards the bridge and suddenly, we were on the majestic red structure, leaving a quiet and sleeping San Francisco behind us.

Here we are, filled with mostly excitement, and moderate awkwardness on my behalf:

On the way out and over the bridge, I had the pleasure of spotting a man in full out Elvis costume (big hair and bellbottoms and all), and another man in Minnie Mouse garb (dress, ears, the whole deal). Impressive.

As we turned around and began to double back across the bridge, it became a wonderful opportunity to people watch and to city watch as the sun tried to come up over the foggy city. Crowds and crowds of people now filled the bridge, as the half marathon had started. I searched the crowds for the entire length of the bridge in search for Emily, but no luck finding her.

As we finally made it off the bridge we headed into the Presidio, an incredibly attractuve park with a few long, steady, not super steep uphills. I felt as though I had been transported somewhere else. The course was quiet at times, there was no sight of the city buildings, no sight of the Golden Gate anymore....just runners making their way together through a forest.

As we wove through the park, the hills began to get to me. Dan and I were still together, still way ahead of pace for my goal of 3:40, but he began to pull ahead on the hills. It became a game of push and pull at the crest of each hill. I knew I wanted to stay with him, I knew he was helping me pace myself, I wanted to stay on that pace. Around mile 12, he pulled ahead and I stayed a ways behind. And then he pulled ahead a bit more, and I stayed a bit farther back.

Dammit, I thought.

Still moving faster than my planned pace, I decided to forget about catching him and instead I settled into my own race. I felt a twinge of fear. I was responsible for my pace now. I could still see Dan up ahead, I was still moving, so I looked around, took note of the people around me and thought, ok, these are my people now.

As an old Brookline cross country coach used to say (and his saying made it onto a moderately inappropriate high school sweatshirt), you have to run "hard but relaxed." He was never my coach, but I never forgot the line. So I did. I took in a deep breath and let my shoulders drop, my fingers unclench, my eyes relax, and made myself more comfortable in my own stance. 

I realized that I was now running next to a woman called Faye (her bib told me so, she did not seem like the kind of person who was eager to exchange pleasantries during the race) and stayed close to her for quite some time.

The thing is, as I've said before, the marathon becomes a mental game as much as a physical one. It's not just, can my legs do it? It's also the feeling of being supported, almost being held accountable by someone for what you're doing, that really keeps you moving. When I was running next to Dan, I knew I had to stay next to him. When he pulled away, I was alone. There is nothing worse than being in a park you don't know, when you're in pain, alone, right? So I felt this need, an urge, perhaps, to have some kind of support. And so while Faye never spoke to me, and she may never know that she helped me, she did. Because for many miles, almost the entire back half of the race, I could feel her close to me, just ahead, just behind, just next to me, as if she were my running buddy to keep me going. Maybe it sounds bizarre, but it's even more bizarre how your brain reacts when you test it in such a physically taxing situation.

So here I was, out of the Presidio, now running through Golden Gate Park. I passed the brightly-colored flowers outside Cnservatory of Flowers, Stowe Lake, the Japanese Tea Garden. And then, the finish line for the half marathon. This was probably the most demoralizing moment of the day, when the course split into two chutes, one for the half marathoners to finish, and one for the full marathoners to carry on. I enviously stared at finishers with their blankets, bananas, and medals, celebrating, staring at the rest of us run by to do the entire distance we had just done.... all over again. For a few moments, I felt my energy level drop. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to stand there and chug an entire water bottle, rather than taking a sip out of a cup and spilling the rest all over my face (this actually happened at about every single water stop, including the one where i managed to get gatorade in my eye and be blinding for a few steps).

But then I remembered why I was here, what I ran for hours in the Texas heat for, why I was signed up for the longer race. I decided I had to cut the crap and pull it back together. So I picked my pace back up, and next thing I knew, I was out of the park, past the 20 mile mark, into the Mission neighborhood, ready to start the final push.

Around mile 22 I hit the biggest downhill of the day. Now I know you probably think, great, a downhill! And that was indeed my first thought. But then I started to make the descent and picked up some speed, and some more speed, and some more, and the next thing I knew I was running so fast I didn't think I'd be able to stop myself, but most importantly, I didn't think my legs would be able to turn around so quickly and hold me up anymore. I zoomed past other runners on the downhill, my heart pumping, adrenaline rushing, pure focus on the bottom of the hill, overwhelmed by how my legs were managing to do this right now. I pictured myself lying on my side, arms and legs stretched out, and rolling all the way down, like a kid on a grassy slope. However, I didn't think that would fly here.

Finally, I hit the bottom, still standing on my two 'ol legs. Phew. After I set back into my pace, I felt amazingly better than I expected to at this point in the race. I was still trucking ahead of pace, and suddenly it hit me, holy crap, I'm about to qualify. If I keep this pace up, I am going to qualify. I was overcome by joy and anxiety at the same time. The little devil on my one shoulder started to think, what if you cramp up right now and fall and have to slow down? But the little angel on my other shoulder thought, I've felt better than I ever have in my life during a long run, why would this feeling just go away now? Lets do this.

As I hit mile 23, I was ready to be done. I was ready to be there. I wanted to say eff this, but for a few miles, I was able to turn off my brain and put my legs in cruise control to haul myself the rest of the way. By mile 25, it seemed like it had just taken me forever to run 2 miles. My legs wanted to quit. I needed an extra boost. I thought, c'mmon arms, be useful for once in your life! So they started pumping, giving my body a little extra oompf that it needed. I pictured someone running behind me giving me a nudge forward.

I came around a turn and saw the Bay Bridge. I knew we had started just on the other side of it, and we would finish just on the other side of it, so I thought ok, just have to get to the bridge. Stride after stride, the bridge did not seem to be getting any closer. Neither did the Mile 26 marker. I found myself trying to peek around each turn, thinking, are we there yet?

Finally I saw it, 26 miles. Alright, this is it, point two, POINT TWO, that is absolutely nothing. So naturally, it was the longest point two miles of my life. I eagerly searched for the finish line, where is ittttttttt. I was cruising at a rate that would get me there in under 3:35. This is not real, I thought. This isn't happening.

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, I spotted it. The finish line. I turned off my ipod; I wanted to hear crowds, I NEEDED to hear crowds.

My legs were spent, my arms were spent, I wanted to cry and smile at the same time. My body wanted nothing more than to stop immediately and curl into the fetal position. But more than that, I wanted to take that last step across the line. I looked at my watch 3:32....holy crap, this is happening. I picked it up to what felt like the fastest sprint of my life (but of course was not), an leapt across the line.

3:33.22. Seven minutes to spare!? Did this just happen? My old buddy Faye came across the line moments after I had managed to catch my breath. We didn't exchange any words, but just looked at each other and smiled. She gave me a head nod and I smiled again. Classic.

I hobbled through the finish chute, and headed straight for the wonderful man handing out water. I grabbed one, and greedily asked for another, fumbled both of them, and dropped both of them just in time to have the photographer catch me. He laughed and said, "shall we try that again?" I smiled back, and said sure, as long as he didn't publish the first one online (Which he actually did, but I won't embarrass myself by showing making it public). 

I kept walking and had a space blanket wrapped around my body. I hadn't realized how cold I suddenly felt until it radiated heat through my body. Mmm.

I kept walking and was handed more food that I could hold.

I kept walking, and had a medal placed around my neck.

I felt so pampered, so dazed. I finally made my way out of the chute, and since Dan was nowhere in sight, I made my way to the finisher's Beer Garden, our initial meeting spot. I mean, you know me, how can I say no to free beer? They poured me a wonderfully chilled Sierra Nevada, and I plopped down on the ground with it. Here, I befriended two dudes, one from San Francisco and one from Canada, who kept me entertained for about half an hour, before I realized I should probably go find my people.

So I peeled myself off the ground like a crotchety old lady and wobbled over to our second designated meeting spot with Dan. There he was, sitting on a corner, relaxing. We smiled and hugged, he had finished just 2 minutes before me, and beating his previous marathon time by 5 minutes. Congrats to Dan! Shortly after, we met Emily(who finished her half and beat her previous time, congrats!) and her wonderful sister Eleni who had come all the way from Chicago just to support us. She even made a wonderful shirt for Emily and I, with a most ridiculous picture of the two of us Argentina.  

Here we are, all smiles for the three finishers:

 All smiles with Eleni (note ridiculous yet wonderful shirt):

 And exhausted, doing a whole lot of sitting back at home:

So here's to a day of successes. To 26.2 miles of San Francisco beauty. To a huge accomplishment. To achieving a goal I used to think was unreachable. To incredible soreness with a purpose. 

Cheers, and hope to see you at Copley Square next April!

The Odyssey to San Francisco

Saturday, July 30th.

I left Austin surprisingly full of energy, considering the early wake up call to catch an 8 a.m. flight. It was the first time in weeks that I didn't quite seem to mind being up before the sun. I hopped into the passenger's seat of my own car, something that doesn't happen very often, and left the driving up to a much-less-lively Booth. We set off to scoop up my running pal, Dan, and headed off to the airport, boarding pass in hand for a non-stop flight to San Fran.

Security. Check.
Boarding. Check.
Getting awkwardly identified as a runner by a random passenger. Check.
Taxiing. Check.
Cleared for takeoff. Check.

Waiting on the runway, waiting on the runway, nothing's happening, nothing's happening, people look pissed, . Pilot comes on the loudspeaker with news of a faulty smoke detector. Being an important piece of equipment, we turn around and head back to the gate to get it fixed. They tell us it should be a quick 5 minute fix.

Fifteen minutes later, it's still going to be a 5 minute fix.

Half an hour later, they are trying a new approach that should take 5 minutes or so.

An hour later, I've napped, woken up, found that we are still at the gate, and assume it will be at least another undefined period of 5 minutes before we take off.

Two hours later we de-plane, given that, as it turns out, five minutes x infinity will apparently not equal a fixed a smoke detector.

Meanwhile, I had been chatting to my row neighbor. He was a man in his late 50's or so who was traveling to San Francisco to visit his daughter. As soon as it had become apparent that we would not be leaving Austin any time soon, he made sure to tell me about how crappy jetBlue had been lately as far as getting him to places on time, and how he wanted them to stop giving him travel vouchers because he'd rather just fly a different airline. Touché, sir. His wife, even more exasperated than the man himself, sat angrily on the other side of our row, and made no eye contact whatsoever. (*Note: keep this couple in mind as they will be relevant later)

So I drag my feet off the plane, much less giddy, much less enthusiasti, much lower energy than when I left my apartment and plop down in a new chair. After waiting around, getting a snack, running into a salsa student while achieving said snack, we are told we need to wait for a new plane to come in from Fort Lauderdale in 2 hours so that we can take that plane and head out to Cali. Ho hum.

So there we were, Dan and I, chatting away, waiting for two hours to go by, when we saw a man with a sandwich. Now, this wasn't just any old sandwich. This was a Thundercloud wich... probably one of the tastiest and cheapest (so by definition, greatest) sub shops in Austin. We immediately looked at each other and wondered, is there really a Thundercloud at the airport? Or did the man bring in the wich from the outside world? Is he teasing us? Or is this the real life? Tempted to asked, but ashamed to be so excited about a sub, we wandered off on a Thunder-Mission. I mean, what else were we going to do for another hour?

I'll tell you, Austin-Bergstrom airport is not what you'd call LARGE, so after walking down rows and rows of restaurants, I legan to feel a bit demoralized and offended by incosiderate man who decided it was appropriate to aunt others with his lunch products. But in the midst of my self-pity .... I spied a lightning bolt! Could it be!? Ah, the classic logo, yes, it was true: Thunder, thunder, thuuuuuunder cloud!

After rejoicing with the sight and taste of a great wich, we headed back to the gate, and moments later, began to board our new plane.

Wooooo, send it around again! In a serious case of deja-vu, we re boarded, I got re-greeted by the random passenger who identified me as a runner traveling for the marathon, re-seated next to my angry row companion, re-taxied, and finally, this time around got cleared for take off!

After four hours of puzzles and girly movies, we descended into the wonderfully sunny and pleasantly 60-degree bay area. We got off the plane at long last and as we were walking down the hallway in search for the exit, *crraaaack....SNAP....plop* My 8-year-old Adidas duffel bag lost it's strap and plummeted to the floor. My initial reaction was to be pissed, bothered. But then I thought, I've been trying to get to this wonderful city for over 6 hours, now I'm here, I don't give a crap about my bag! So I picked it up by the handles and moved on.

Dan and I finally made it out of the airport, and were greeted by my most excellent friend Emily.

Emily and I were two Brookline High School grads who managed to go for four years at the same school knowing many of the same people without ever crossing each other's paths. That is of course until we were fortunate enough to make the same decision to volunteer in Chile at the same time, and became roommates in the world's smallest apartment with our goofy 19-year-old british roommate Jack. And well, after months of living in close quarters (literally, our beds were about 2 feet apart from each other and our door didn't open all the way because the room was so small), surviving an earthquake, a robbery, panic attacks, camping trips, happy moments, sad moments, arguments and laughter, you can say we passed the test of friendship.

So here I was, getting picked up by one of my favorite people, in one of my favorite cities, about to run a heck of a lot....JetBlue and a broken bag had nothing on me. I was a happy camper.

And so we found each other, piled into the car, and the three of us headed to the somewhat overwhelming but not that impressive marathon expo to pick up our race packets.

After an evening of meeting Emily's wonderful sister who came down just to support our running (more to come about her later), spending time lounging at a park nearby, chatting, catching up, and coming home for an early pasta dinner followed by an early bedtime, the nervousness began to set in.

I carefully laid out my shoes, socks, clothes, watch, iphone, race snacks, and bib number. Shit, I'm really doing this tomorrow.

I set my alarm for 4:15 a.m. and hit the pillow.

Every New Beginning Comes From Some Other Beginning's End

...At least that's how the song goes. But sometimes I think it's spot on.

I started singing these lyrics in my head when I woke up this morning (the song is Closing Time by Semisonic). I must have been in some kind of sleeping, air-conditioning induced daze when I rolled out of bed because I made the mistake of reaching into my closet for a pair of jeans. Pants? Seriously? I can't remember the last time I wore pants in this state. It wasn't until I opened the oven door, er, I mean, the front door, when I realized what I had done. But alas, I'd gone too far, so I breathed in the last bit of a/c and headed over to the Communities in School central office to sign a bunch of paperwork and officially complete my year of service.

A beginning's end: AmeriCorps, year one, a year that began last fall, in the bag. It seems totally surreal that I've already spent a year working for this organization, but I'm happy to think that, despite the fact that I'll be at a new school, with a new supervisor, new coworker, and new students, I myself will not be a total newb. So it's not REALLY an end, but since AmeriCorps is a yearly contract, I DID get oficially recognized for completing a year of service, Ta da! So here's to the end of one service, and the beginning of a whole new year to come!

Another beginning's end: Back in March, about two weeks after I completed the Austin marathon, I got the itch to run again. For days right after the race I'd stare are my shoes and think, maybe I'll go for a quick one. But then I'd stand up and my legs would overpower my brain with an adamant "no." Stubborn as I am, I decided to let this one go, and plop back down on the couch. Finally after what seemed like ages of not lacing up my asics, I went out for a short 3 mile run. When that felt ok, I went for another one. And then for a 4 mile run. And then for another one. Before I knew it, I was back on a running crusade.

I even started meeting up with my tuesday morning running buddies again. None of us were training for anything anymore, we weren't meeting for a speed workout anymore, we simply were doing it for the pleasure of socializing with each other in the pitch darkness of the trail at 6 a.m. once a week. That's totally normal, right? So there we were, bopping along one morning, when I said, hey guys, soooo, I'm thinking of running the San Francisco Marathon. In return I received a lot more pep and excitement than I would have imagined so early in the morning. The others wanted to go too! Cool. So a couple weeks later, after vacillating about the topic, I couldn't come up with any good reasons not to go, so I signed up. And then one friend signed up. And then the other signed up!

After the excitement of signing up and making it official passed, it started to get warmer. April was nice, and then May rolled around and it started to get a little uncomfortable to run. Ah May, killing me softly with your heat. Next things I knew, it was June, no more of this "softly" business, just flat out killing me with your heat. We started to wonder, what the eff were we thinking we decided to sign up for this race? Training in the heat? In Texas?

And now he were are, 4 months later, and I just went on my last run of the training, and packed up my sneakers with 355 miles, 55 activities, and over 33,000 calories logged since March. The end of training? I say logged because sometimes I find myself falling into the woes of what people are starting to call "zen running," where you go out with just you and yourself, no music, no Garmin GPS watch to record my every step, no nothing. There were mornings when I'd wake up and the last thing I wanted to do was monitor my pace, my time -- numbers numbers numbers, gaaaah! So I'd lace up and run out the door with no watch, nothing to look at but the road. And so, I hold no record of these runs other than in my head and on my legs.

I'm actually quite shocked that these Asics sneaks I've just packed up, the same ones that got me through my first marathon, with 700+ miles pounded on them since last December, are still in condition and ready to leave with me this morning to head westbound for another 26.2. Send it around again!

My goal? I feel like if I say it out loud, if I even write it, I'll jinx myself. But then I realize that this is a goal many runners share, it's no secret, and it is something to be a little scared of, but also something to look forward to, to strive for, to fight for. So, if I could get my way this Sunday, what I would want the most would be to qualify for Boston, to run 9 minutes faster that I have and cross the finish to make the standard before they change it in september and make it even harder to break into. Sometimes I think, 9 minutes, that's NOTHING. And other times, when my feet hurt, I feel dehydrated, my stomach aches, and I still have more miles to go, I think holy shit, 9 minutes is IMPOSSIBLE.

I recently read a quote about a runner and the Boston Marathon that really stuck with me. She said: "Isn't it the weirdest thing? Something so damn hard, so humbling, so fickle, so painful, is also the thing we seek on purpose?" That's exactly it. The harder it is to achieve, the fewer people can get there, the more restrictions there are, the harder we have to work for it, the more we want it. It's like when you're a kid and your mom tells you you can't have a cookie... well damn, you think, now I really want the cookie.

So here I go, curiously feeling less nervous than I did in february, perhaps because I've already surpassed that initial fear of the unknown 26.2. Of course I'm sure I will wake up tomorrow morning and head over to the course at 5 a.m. filled with race-day jitters, but I'll try my best to keep in mind the following thought:

"The runner's greatest asset, apart from essential fitness of body, is a cool and calculating brain, allied to confidence and courage." - Franz Stampfl

On your marks, get set....

"Why Do You Travel?" Asked the New York Times

Not long ago, I was browsing the Travel section of the New York Times, without a motive really, other than perhaps my constant thirst for a new travel destination with the very limited funds that I have.

So there I was, reading along, when I came across an article titled "Why do you Travel? Share your Stories." A contest. The idea was for readers to submit short essays describing why they travel, and whether they have been particularly enlightened, surprised, or changed by a travel experience.

As soon as I read this, there was no doubt in my mind about the single most enlightening trip I've made: Chile. Now there are pages and pages and pages I could write about my time there, and all the wonderful, scary, and random things that I went through while I was there. But in light of the work I've been doing with AmeriCorps, I found the best way to keep the essay brief was to talk about the world apart from the great metropolis that you can discover on a single subway ride. And so I said:

I travel because I’m curious. I travel because I have a never-ending urge to see what’s around the corner, to get a glimpse of something new. I travel because I want to give my mind an escape, a reason to be challenged, to think about something different, to ask questions, to get confused, and if I’m really lucky, to completely shut off. This is maybe the same reason why I run – because I want to feel unleashed on my own two feet, lost in my own mind and the sole determiner of where my next step will land.

It was this curiosity and this desire to throw the tourist guidebook out the window and find my own road map that led me to Santiago, Chile. I was more than surprised when what started out as a five-month volunteering experience turned out to be the very trip that pulled me eyes open and dragged me into the reality of economic disparity that I knew existed but never envisioned to witness so distinctly.

I am a native of Argentina, so I have learned, lived and noticed, without doubt, the differences between South and North America – economically, culturally, and even racially. But I never really saw it the way I did until I was living in downtown Santiago in an apartment building with a rooftop pool. Now don’t get me wrong, this was the smallest apartment for three people I have ever seen, but it had wireless internet, a clean bathroom, and solid walls that on the twelfth floor of the building didn’t even suffer from a minor crack when we were hit by a magnitude 8.8 earthquake. Rather, the 15-story skeleton swayed like a flag in the wind and brought itself to a controlled, soft stop after the gruesome four-minute quake.

What was most enlightening about this trip was that every morning I would wake up in this modern, structurally sound, adequately equipped apartment and walk five minutes to get on one subway for half an hour, switch to another subway, ride that one for another half hour, while watching the city get farther and farther, and the mountains get closer and closer, to arrive in Puente Alto, a poverty-stricken suburb of Santiago.

From there, it was a 15-minute walk through vendors, barking dogs and graffiti-covered walls to the final destination – an iron door surrounded by a wall of bricks stacked in a way that looked like the tail end of a game of Jenga, topped off with a line of barbed wire. A wall, that coincidentally, did not survive the earthquake the way my apartment building did, but rather, in true Jenga form, collapsed into a pile of rubble at the shake of the ground.

Behind this fragile wall lived 65 teenage girls, victims of psychological and physical abuse – angered, scared, intimidated by their traumatizing pasts, lacking the trust to open up to outsiders. But they were much more than that – what I came to find over time was that most of the girls really did want to share their stories, laugh, giggle, be silly, receive positive attention, talk, and simply, have a new friend.

During my five months in Santiago, I believe I was able to build relationships and make an impact at least in some of these girls’ lives, but never without closing that iron door behind me each day, walking away from the barbed wire, back to the subway, and heading home into my own reality with a hint of guilt –guilt from leaving the girls behind, better grasping the conditions they lived in, and with a better understanding of what Santiago really was like, and what really existed beyond tourist attractions.

How could there be such a gap within one metropolis? And we’re not even talking the poorest of the poor nations in the world here – in fact, Chile is one of the most economically advanced nations in South America, and yet, this immense difference was palpable – and it only took me less than 1 dollar of subway fare to find this out, to be thrown into this enlightening reality.

In a country that has so much beauty, that is so skinny that you can get from the Andes to the Pacific coast or from your apartment to the country next door in a short bus ride, that is famous for its wine and it’s Patagonia hikes – why wasn’t everything thriving as it should be? Why was one subway ride the ticket to another galaxy?

I can, without a doubt, say that this experience changed me, how I think, and how I differentiate tourism from travel, stories from reality. This experience was what today leads me to lose myself in new destinations. I suffer from a never-ending itch to travel, to see what I can find next, and where I can feel that sense of enlightenment again, where I can feel so motivated, puzzled, and intrigued for new adventures by one subway ride again. 

So, I didn't win the contest, and my essay was not published in the New York Times, but it was worth the writing just to get myself to sit down, and more than a year later look back on my time in Chile. 

Interestingly enough, just last week, VE Global, this organization I volunteered with, had a contest as well, where they asked ex-volunteers to post a picture (extra points for wearing a VE shirt) and give a brief description of where they are now. I thought this was a super cool idea, and a great way to find out where VE alumns have gone -- all over the world, really. 

And so I told my story. I wrote about how much I miss everyone over there -- the other volunteers, the girls, the people at the home I worked with, pretty much everything about Santiago....except of course the huge earthquake (a great story, but not one I ever want to re-live). I wrote about the sadness I felt when I found out the home where I worked, the one filled with 65 young girls, closed down just last month, forcing these girls to re-locate and find a new place to call home. I wrote about what I do now, the great organization I've been fortunate to work with, Communities in Schools, it's empowering mission to keep kids in school, and my efforts in running a marathon to achieve a personal running goal but also to raise money and more importantly, awareness of what this organization does. 

To my great surprise, and contrary to my New York Times experience, I won this contest! I think the picture, greeting everyone from one of Austin's best known murals (and let me tell you, there are murals everywhere), sporting a VE shirt, and jumping for the warmth VE makes me feel, was really what did it. What did I win? A free VE shirt. Sweet! More importantly what did I win? The chance to bring back memories, to share memories, and to feel proud of where those memories have taken me. 

Happy greetings, and cheers to travel, y'all!

Greetings!

There's nothing like a rainy moment after months of drought in Texas to really get you to sit down and write once and for all. Seriously, I've had this blog titled and ready to go with no post for quite some time now, watching the days go by, waiting for something worth writing about, something to start the posting off with a BANG.

And today, just as I was about to continue to ignore the blog to walk over to the neighborhood pool and get out of the air conditioned bubble that is my apartment to venture into the oppressive heat of the day, BANG, lightning struck.  Pool denied. So maybe it wasn't the great entrance I was hoping to have into the blogging world, but at least a kick in the right direction....in the direction of the chair in front of the computer, that is.

Gosh, I guess I'm a "blogger" now. I never thought I'd see the day. I used to think a blogger was an uber-nerd who sat in front of the computer in a star wars t-shirt, writing about star wars, hoping to find someone else to talk about star wars with, or maybe to buy a new t-shirt from. I guess that was a long time ago, because now I actually read blogs, have many friends that write their own, and have absolutely nothing against star wars, or nerds for that matter. So here goes.

I anticipate this blog is going to be a lot about everything and a bit about nothing at the same time. I have a hard time dedicating this blog to writing about only one topic, and so, I dedicate it to all topics, and to no one specific topic -- Here's to ramblings, reveries, and ruminations to come!