Welcome to On Sunday Morning. I’m the voice behind the blog and the person behind the camera. I’m an eager explorer, wannabe writer, capable chef, creative conversationalist, aging athlete, and proficient photographer. Queer in its original meaning is an apt adjective to describe me. I even have a day job working in healthcare. Social media is making us sad; let’s go for a walk somewhere together or trade tales around a campfire.
"I'm a big believer in winging it. I'm a big believer that you're never going to find perfect city travel experience or the perfect meal without a constant willingness to experience a bad one. Letting the happy accident happen is what a lot of vacation itineraries miss, I think, and I'm always trying to push people to allow those things to happen rather than stick to some rigid itinerary."
Usually, sometime around the middle of September all I can talk about are the bears of Katmai. Sadly, for all my friends bear talk started in July and never really stopped. Every year since 2014 Katmai National Park and Explore.org has hosted fat bear week. Ok, back in 2014 it was just Fat Bear Tuesday. However, from 2015 on, it’s been a full week of bear bliss.
My sweet Oatie Bear [RIP] is a 4x and lifetime achievement winner, Beadnose [RIP] was massive when she won in 2015 and 2018.. Holly is another fat bear champion [2019]. 747 aka Colbert aka Bear Force One is another gentle giant 2x winner [2020 and 2022]. In reality, it’s a fun contest raising awareness of the Alaskan Coastal Brown Bear. All bears that get fat and survive the winter are fat bear champs in my mind.
The even have fat bear junior bracket for all the little cubbies just learning to be big bears
During an Alaskan winter, these big bears lose up to a third of their mass during hibernation making it crucial for them to fatten. up during the summer. Last year’s salmon run was sort of pathetic leading to a lot of bear fight and some not so plump bears heading in to winter. This year’s salmon run was nothing short of spectacular and we had so many fat bears and even better fat cubs.
Every year, the first Tuesday of October is known as Fat Bear Tuesday. Although this year it fell on October 8th, FBT occurs when Katmai’s fattest bear is crowned. Fans from all over the world vote on Explore.org’s website. And the winner is—GRAZER!!! She’s a two time champ defending her 2023 title this time being the first bear to ever win FBW with a spring cub in tow, Grazer is mama bear personified.
So many fat bears
And since we are humans and we assign human emotions to animals, think on this. Grazer beat Chunk to win the fat bear title. During the summer, Grazer’s smallest spring cub went over the falls and directly in the path of Chuck. Chunk did what bears do and Grazer did what mama bears do. There was a fight. And while Grazer saved her littlest cub that day, it died about a week later. Grazer said ‘Fuck you, Chunky Bear’ and took her remaining cub on a walkabout and both Grazer and the cub got FAT. Fat enough to beat Chunk in a head to head match-up of Fat Bears.
“They” say if you toss a coin in the fountain, you’ll guarantee your return to Rome.
Everything you ever wanted to know about that famous Roman fountain, including a guaranteed way to get back to Rome… and then some
How did that famous fountain get its name?
The Trevi Fountain stands at the junction of three roads, ceremoniously marking the end point of one of Rome’s earliest aqueducts, Aqua Virgo. It’s location led to it’s rather literal name- Fontana di Trevi means Three Street Fountain. It’s believed the name was derived from the Latin word trivium, which as you might have guessed, means three streets.
History and stuff
Trevi fountain has not always been spectacular. In 1629, Pope Urban VIII was unimpressed with the earlier version of the fountain, claiming it lacked drama. The Pope asked prominent architect and artist, Gian Lorenzo Bernini to design possible renovations for the fountain. The renovations were never completed though, as the project was abandoned when Pope Urban died. Fast forward to 1730 when Pope Clement XII organized a contest with the winner of this contest being commissioned to redesign the Trevi Fountain. The original winner was Alessandro Galilei, but Romans were outraged that a Florentine had been chosen. To silence the outcry, the second place contestant, Nicola Salvi, was awarded the commission. [Rome and Florence always seem to be testy with each other].
Salvi soon began designing the new fountain around the theme “Taming of the Waters”. Construction began in 1732, with Palazzo Poli serving as a backdrop. The fountain’s facade and sea reef were made from travertine, a form of limestone deposited by mineral springs. The statues were carved from Carrara marble. Unfortunately Salvi would not live to see completion of his masterpiece. After his death in 1751, Giuseppe Pannini took charge of the project, completing the fountain in 1762. The finished fountain would be the largest Baroque fountain in the city- 26.3 meters high and 49.15 meters wide.
Want to get back to Rome & What happens to all that money?
Legend has it that if you turn around and toss a penny [eurocent?] into the Trevi Fountain, you’ll find your way back to Rome. Who am I to argue with a legend?
When I travel, I like to do all the fun little rituals that promise everything from good luck to falling in love. So like custom dictates, I turned my back to the water and using my right hand, tossed a coin over my left shoulder. There… now I have guaranteed I’ll be finding my way back to Rome at some point in the future! Legend holds, that if you toss in a second coin you’ll fall in love with an Italian. I’ve even heard that throwing in three coins means you will marry an Italian.
Let’s just say I only tossed one coin in the fountain. Falling in love is the last thing I need in my life right now… especially a long distance, international affair.
With all that coin tossing, there is a lot of money that ends up in the fountain! Every night about 3,000 Euros are swept up from the bottom of the basin. The money is donated to Caritas, a catholic charity, who uses the money to provide services for needy families in Rome. Some of the money is used to subsidize a low cost supermarket. So at least you know that Eurocents are going to support a good cause.
2018 Michelle here: This museum I found in Zagreb, Croatia is perhaps one of the more interesting museums I’ve ever been in [The Sex Museum in Naples is another]. While Zagreb is no uber charming city, this museum had me enthralled. The end of a relationship is always a trying time for everyone involved even if it’s just a ‘whew, I dodged that bullet’ thought. But I’ve never thought of putting my relationship detritus in a museum for other to look at. Let this be a reminder that atypical museums can be some of the more educational/informative/pleasurable.
A break-up is like a broken mirror: it’s better to leave it alone than to hurt yourself picking up the pieces.
His name was Michael. Today is his birthday. I shouldn’t remember that, but I do. When we met he was 32, and I was 24. We met at work. I loved his sense of humour and he loved my adventurous spirit. We were friends first. Nearly a year, before anything more than friendly happened. But as is often the case between men and women, something did happen. I practically dared him to kiss me, and when he did, it was as if time stood still. July 19, 2004 …after lunch. The kiss lasted exactly 42 seconds. I know because I had a digital atomic clock on the wall in my office. The kiss touched every neuron in my body, and for the first time in my life, I felt alive.
I named him “Nobody” and he called me “Girl. ” If people asked me who I was dating, and they did because people love to meddle in the affairs of others, I’d say “Nobody.” If people asked him who he was seeing, he’d say “Just some girl.” It was our secret, and it was exciting.
We carried on our secret affair for 18 months –until I moved away… co-workers weren’t supposed to date. And even after moving to a different state, the thought of him was like a drug. We were like addicts addicted to each other; couldn’t stay away, yet couldn’t get enough.
The first step in recovering from an addiction is admitting that there is a problem, and oh boy, there was. Michael was as strong as any drug I’d ever encountered, and willpower alone wasn’t enough to make me quit him. Over time I came to rely on a power greater than myself and contact with Michael became more and more sparse. Withdrawal is a painful master. There was physical pain. There was emotional pain. There were tears.
There were no stuffed worms. No legs were broken in this break-up.
The last conversation I had with him was right before I left for Moscow. He said “you always did want to go places.” and I said “I will always love you, but this will be the last time I tell you that.” And I haven’t had contact with him since. After returning from Moscow, I wanted to call him. I wanted to tell him all the amazing adventures I had. Instead, I got a cat. I named her Lily. She was a sweet cat.
Lily helped me heal.
I still have a post card he gave me. And ticket stubs for various events. And a necklace. And various little notes. What can I say, I’m a sentimental soul.
I knew before I went to Zagreb that I wanted to go to the museum of broken relationships. I find it fascinating to see what people keep as mementos from relationships. Not every relationship ends on a sour note. Some have other obstacles that time just could not overcome. Some just aren’t meant to be. Some exist solely to prepare you for the future. Michael was not my first boyfriend, but he was my first love, and without that relationship, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
I’ve held on to the mementos of the relationship with Michael for 15 years, and karma, good energy, and such being what it is, it’s time to release that energy into the universe. Good bye Michael.
PS...I have a slight confession to make. One time I was dating this guy. His name was James. Now I knew that the relationship with James was never going to be long-term, but he was ummm, fun, and I had recently broken up with a cheating bastard I caught with another woman. I made James brownies for his birthday. I left them on the kitchen table with a ‘Happy Birthday’ note. I came over the next day to find everything in the trash. I was pissed to say the least. Livid. Irate. Incensed. A seething cauldron of raging fumes; you get the idea. He was being such an ass. I went to the local World Market, bought a bottle of cheap $7 Il Bastardo wine, and switched it out for his fancy $200 bottle of French Bordeaux. My friend and I drank the rich, velvet wine while sitting in her hot tub cursing all the shallow men in the world. I still feel no shame in taking Il Bastardo’s prized bottle of red wine.
In retrospect, the Il Bastardo was still probably pretty good. After all it comes from Tuscany and is a Sangiovese so probably still good. I really would have like to have smashed Il Bastardo over the bastard’s head, but I got my revenge in other ways that even though the statute of limitations has passed, I’ll still keep my mouth shut because some things are just better left unsaid [or in this case… things are better left un-typed].
at least no axes were ever involved in any of my break-ups
PPS…Names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent…Except Il Bastardo.
PPPS...If I dated women, I’d totally give every.single.one I ever broke up with this bar of chocolate.
I have traveled a lot. Not as much as some, but a lot more than most of the people I deal with on a daily basis. I often get asked what’s my favorite city/country area, and it’s hard to say. Sometimes it depends on my mood. Sometimes it depends on the reason they are asking. So, I’ve come up with a list to answer what’s my favorite. OK two lists: one for smaller cities and one for European capitals.
First up, my favorite European cities.
Kotor, Montenegro
Belgrade, Serbia
St. Petersburg, Russia
Krakow, Poland
Bwets-y-Coed, Wales
Cardiff, Wales
Quedlinberg, Germany
Next, my favorite European capitals.
I’ve made no secret of the fact that, in general, I don’t love large cities. Luckily for me, some of Europe’s capital cities are quite small. Europe is so diverse and every country is so different that it is often impossible to make fair comparisons.
London, England
I have been to London 5 times, but only in the last two years have I gotten out and truly explored the city. I have barely cracked the surface, and there is so much more to explore. I am absolutely head over heels for it. If I could magically get a work visa and a job offer in London [not sure if the NHS hires foreigners or if I’d want to work there, but I digress], I would move there tomorrow; that’s how much I love it. I’ve never pictured myself living in a big city — until I finally explored London for the first time.
Things I love about London:
The variety — neighborhoods, food, museums, parks, historical sites; they’re all here
The location — London is situated perfectly to explore Europe, which this traveler loves. The only time I haven’t flown into London for a European holiday was when I solely toured Italy.
The Englishness — the Tube, the castles, the red double decker buses, the black cabs, the pubs, the tea… it’s all so quintessential English!
Berlin, Germany
At the Olympic Stadium in Berlin
Berlin doesn’t get the attention than Munich or Bavaria does, but that’s OK by me… I’ve never been one to fall for surface flashiness, and on the surface Berlin is grungy, but it’s OK. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I am in love with Berlin. You could actually say that it was love at first sight, as I felt an immediate connection with Berlin from the moment I arrived. I don’t know if it’s the alternative culture, the history, or a mixture of the two that draws me to Berlin. But there’s no denying that it’s a place I can see myself spending a lot of time in in the future.
Things I love about Berlin:
The history — from Nazis during WWII to the Berlin Wall during the Cold War, Berlin has a fascinating (and very recent) history
The creative side — because I have a soft spot for hipsters and street art
The vibe — it’s a little gritty and a little alternative, but Berlin is evolving in a way that I find very exciting.
Budapest, Hungary
August 2015–Danube River–basking in the summer moonlight
I never planned to go to Budapest at least not the first time, but a cheap flight from Geneva on EasyJet had me landing there one January afternoon, and my oh my was is bone-chillingly cold. The capital of Hungary was a bit of a surprise for me — I never expected to like it as much as I did. But, whether it was strolling along the Danube, visiting the Semmelweis Museum, or soaking at the Szecheni Baths while watching snow fall, I found myself loving everything about Budapest. It’s also seriously awesome ( and hot!) in the summer.
Things I love about Budapest:
The two halves of the city — the Buda and Pest sides of the city have completely different feels to them.
The bridges — which are attractive and offer up nice views of the Danube.
The buildings — from Parliament to Fisherman’s Bastion to Buda Castle, there’s plenty of amazing architecture here to view.
Edinburgh, Scotland
The capital of Scotland is one city that I probably will never tire of visiting. It’s not a large capital like the others listed here, but it still has a unique character all its own. Whether it’s roaming around the Old Town or climbing up to quieter parts like Calton Hill, Edinburgh is always enjoyable — even in that unpredictable Scottish weather.
Things I love about Edinburgh:
The architecture — with the gorgeous Victoria Street being my favorite example
The history — the entire city is recognized by UNESCO, which tells you something
The people– Scottish people are a treasure
Cardiff, Wales
Cardiff Castle–Cardiff is home of the 2017 champions league and the Welsh dragon is guarding the trophy.
Cardiff, the smallest capital in the UK doesn’t get near as much attention as London, Dublin, or even Edinburgh, but it’s still pretty amazing. Only two hours by train from London, and 45 minutes to Bristol, you can easily get to a bigger city quickly if the small town feel of Cardiff starts to get to you.
Things I love about Cardiff:
The size–For a capital city, Cardiff is small. And that makes it easy to navigate. And that makes me happy.
It’s location–Cardiff is perched on a river, quite close to the Atlantic Ocean, and on the Wales Coast Path. Coastal Welsh weather is unpredictable, but on nice days, Cardiff is close enough to the beach to make an afternoon of it.
The Language–Welsh is a language I’ll probably never master, but I love that every single sign is in both Welsh and English. The history and architecture are pretty great too.
It’s no secret that I prefer small cities to large ones, but this list is a good mix of both large cities and small villages.
2020 Michelle here: This museum I found in Zagreb, Croatia is perhaps one of the more interesting museums I’ve ever been in [The Sex Museum in Naples is another]. While Zagreb is no uber charming city, this museum had me enthralled. The end of a relationship is always a trying time for everyone involved even if it’s just a ‘whew, I dodged that bullet’ thought. But I’ve never thought of putting my relationship detritus in a museum for others to look at. Let this be a reminder that atypical museums can be some of the more educational, informative, pleasurable. museums out there.
A break-up is like a broken mirror: it’s better to leave it alone than to hurt yourself picking up the pieces.
His name was Michael. Today is his birthday. I shouldn’t remember that, but I do. When we met he was 32, and I was 24. We met at work. I loved his sense of humour and he loved my adventurous spirit. We were friends first. Nearly a year, before anything more than friendly happened. But as is often the case between men and women, something did happen. I practically dared him to kiss me, and when he did, it was as if time stood still. July 19, 2004 –after lunch. The kiss lasted exactly 42 seconds. I know because I had a digital atomic clock on the wall in my office. The kiss touched every neuron in my body, and for the first time in my life, I felt alive.
I named him “Nobody” and he called me “Girl. ” If people asked me who I was dating, and they did because people love to meddle in the affairs of others, I’d say “Nobody.” If people asked him who he was seeing, he’d say “Just some girl.” It was our secret, and it was exciting.
We carried on our secret affair for 18 months –until I moved away… co-workers weren’t supposed to date. And even after moving to a different state, the thought of him was like a drug. We were like addicts addicted to each other; couldn’t stay away, yet couldn’t get enough.
The first step in recovering from an addiction is admitting that there is a problem, and oh boy, there was. Michael was as strong as any drug I’d ever encountered, and willpower alone wasn’t enough to make me quit him. Over time I came to rely on a power greater than myself and contact with Michael became more and more sparse. Withdrawal is a painful master. There was physical pain. There was emotional pain. There were tears.
There were no stuffed worms. No legs were broken in this break-up.
The last conversation I had with him was right before I left for Moscow. He said “you always did want to go places.” and I said “I will always love you, but this will be the last time I tell you that.” And I haven’t had contact with him since. After returning from Moscow, I wanted to call him. I wanted to tell him all the amazing adventures I had. Instead, I got a cat. I named her Lily. She was a sweet cat.
Lily helped me heal.
I still have a post card he gave me. And ticket stubs for various events. And a necklace. And various little notes. What can I say, I’m a sentimental soul.
I knew before I went to Zagreb that I wanted to go to the museum of broken relationships. I find it fascinating to see what people keep as mementos from relationships. Not every relationship ends on a sour note. Some have other obstacles that time just could not overcome. Some just aren’t meant to be. Some exist solely to prepare you for the future. Michael was not my first boyfriend, but he was my first love, and without that relationship, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
I’ve held on to the mementos of the relationship with Michael for 10+ years, and karma, good energy, and such being what it is, it’s time to release that energy into the universe. Good bye Michael, and with that I turned my items over to the museum of broken relationships
PS...I have a slight confession to make. Once upon a time I was dating this guy, James. Now I knew the relationship with James was never going to be long-term, but he was ummm, fun, and I had recently broken up with a cheating bastard I caught with another woman. I made James brownies for his birthday. I left them on the kitchen table with a ‘Happy Birthday’ note. I came over the next day to find everything in the trash. I was pissed to say the least. Livid. Irate. Incensed. A seething cauldron of raging fumes; you get the idea. He was being such an ass. I went to the local World Market, bought a bottle of cheap $7 Il Bastardo wine, and switched it out for his fancy $200 bottle of French Bordeaux. My friend and I drank the rich, velvet wine while sitting in her hot tub cursing all the shallow men in the world. I still feel no shame in taking Il Bastardo’s prized bottle of red wine.
In retrospect, the Il Bastardo was still probably pretty tasty. After all it comes from Tuscany and is a Sangiovese so probably still good. I really would have like to have smashed Il Bastardo over the bastard’s head, but I got my revenge in other ways that even though the statute of limitations has passed, I’ll still keep my mouth shut because some things are just better left unsaid [or in this case… things are better left un-typed].
at least no axes were ever involved in any of my break-ups although a knife was involved in one very traumatic incident.
PPS…Names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent…Except Il Bastardo. His name really was James.
PPPS...If I dated women, I’d totally give every.single.one I ever broke up with this bar of chocolate. Because I am a petty mistress.
I have lived most of my life in South Carolina [other states include North Carolina, Virginia, and Tennessee] — a state with roughly 5 million people in it, and just prior to departure, I moved back to the area I grew up in. The town I currently reside in has approximately 800 people in it, and yet I still have my anonymity.
I blend in mostly due to my race [it’s all either black or white] or my speech [I do have quite the southern accent when I let my guard down]. I’ve been putting purple streaks in my hair for a few years, but it’s so subtle that no one hardly notices until I am in the sun or under a light. I enjoy my peace and quiet–I have three sets of neighbors within a mile radius and a hay field across the street. It’s a quiet, somewhat predictable life.
Even with brightly colored hair, I blend in whilst in London.
Living in a small town creates lots of privacy, but little anonymity. If you’re not careful, everyone will know your business. You can’t cry in public or curse at anyone because chances are, you’ll see these people again. Even if you don’t want to.
There’s no clubs for dancing or bars for drinking in my little town, and only two of what we call restaurants. Being seen at one of these becomes fodder for gossip especially if anything untoward happens.
Despite all that, I blended in. Mostly.
I blend in at work–even whilst wearing my pediatric-centric tops.
Village Life
I’ve spent the past year [plus] living in a village even smaller than my town, speaking a language that I’ll never speak again once I leave the country. Despite knowing all about small town life, in this village, I am the other. I’m different because of my skin tone, much, much lighter than anyone else’s. I’m different because of my accent–my tendency to speak Spanish not French when I can’t think of a word in Kinyarwanda. Traveling to other countries also makes me different. My American passport makes me different. I’m different because I’m unmarried and childless. Most of my village peers are both married and are mothers. I’m different because I have no real desire ever have kids. My short, but fast growing, soft hair makes me different.
Even among my fellow Peace Corps volunteers, I’m different because I’m older than most, but not yet at that “I’m retired; I think I’ll go join the Peace Corps stage.” I’m at an age where friends are having babies left and right. Some are getting divorced and some are getting married. Again.
Any of these would have set me apart. In combination, they ensured I would never be completely able to blend in… never enjoy the anonymity I love. It’s not the first time I’ve been a visible minority, but it was the first time I’d been one for such an extended period [and it gave me newfound respect for people who are “The Other” for their entire lives].
Even before I landed in Rwanda, I suspected that would have to change something, but I don’t think I fully anticipated the degree to which it would. I went from a mostly anonymous local to instant celebrity in a matter of days. It was strange, and I hated it. I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to blend in with the crowd, and here I was–on display for everyone to see. I felt eyes on me all of the time. I carefully considered every word that dropped from my mouth. Actions required thoughts before I did them.
Escaping to Huye was a welcome respite from village life
Rwanda village life
I learned that in Rwanda people will frankly comment on your physical appearance as a matter of course, and for me, that was a constant reminder of my paleness, my size, the strangeness of my straight, short [mostly] brown hair, my lack of makeup, my choice of dress.
To integrate into my community, I had to eschew anonymity. Ihid certain parts of myself.I hid the me that sometimes liked to dye my hair strange colors. The IDGAF vibe I sometime give off–put away–for now. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was always myself, just a different version of myself from before. In my village, I will always be Mishel. Mishel never wore anything cut higher than her knees. More often Mishel wore pants. Every woman wears skirts in the village. Mishel never, not once, drank alcohol, despite its availability. She always waved, smiled, and greeted people appropriately according to the time of day. Mishel never flirted with men. Rejected those who flirted with her, never cursed, and never went out after dark.
I might be making this sound like play-acting, and it was and it wasn’t. We all play roles over the course of our lives. Mine was true to myself and consciously chosen. I realized that one of the deepest impacts I could make in my community was to be a role model to young people who needed one desperately. At times it felt exhausting and overwhelming, a weight of watchfulness and potential gossip I shouldered daily.
I am back in the USA for now, most likely for good. I am back to blending in when I want to, and being noticed when I want as well. It’s one of the odd parts of service that people do not talk about too much–the readjustment period. To be honest, it hasn’t been that difficult. I have adjusted well to flushing toilets, comfortable beds, and running, potable water. Driving myself around to wherever I need to be is a lot easier than waiting for a Moto. I’ve adjusted well to having indoor kitty cats again. I’ve adjusted well to not haggling over every little thing I want to buy. The grocery store is still a bit intimidating. But in all fairness, it was intimidating before I moved to rural Rwanda.
Did I really just go to good ole ‘Murica? Only a few days back in Rwanda, and the entire trip back to South Carolina feels like a dream. I left Rwanda on a Saturday night and was in my own bed by Monday. Lucy and Molly inspected me with above normal curiosity… Maybe they know I’ve been cheating on them with Sadie Mae. Thanks to the generous soul who came to fetch me, my first America meal was a home cooked feast complete with time spent with some of my favorite people. The combination of a full belly and a little more than 24 hours worth of travel had me collapsing into bed around 10p despite the party that was still going on downstairs.
My nearly one month back in ‘Murica had me meeting my new niece [born November 14 ], seeing friends and family, visiting the DMV [in person!], checking out Christmas lights at America’s largest house, dealing with the state nursing board [on-line], making doctor’s appointments, doing some light decorating to my house, and eating pizza! and salads. I weeded through piles of clothing for clothes that fit [I lost 35 pounds while in Rwanda], donated two large tubs of clothing to charity [maybe I can buy them again in Rwanda], ate out with friends, sat in hot tub, and just enjoyed America’s luxuries in general.
Here’s some general observations I have about going back to America after living 7 months in the rural Rwandan countryside:
America is rich. Excessively so. Even though I stayed in my own house [modest by American standards], I was amazed at the luxury I have. 2 acres of land. 3 TVs. Running water that you can drink straight from the faucet. Toilet. Washing Machine and Dryer. A car.
American bureaucracy sucks just as much as Rwandan bureaucracy–I just understand the language better. #governmentshutdown
Americans eat so much. My Burrito Bowl? Easily 3 Rwandan meals; it lasted for two in America. Nearly every meal I had in America was easily 2-3 Rwandan meals.
Small towns are the same wherever you are. Even though my American neighbors don’t call me ‘muzungu’, they were definitely aware and curious about the fact that I was home.
I got off the plane and went through a fancy customs kiosk. But it literally stunned me, how professional the airport security was. They called me “ma’am” and said “please move this way”. Did you know there is no Rwandan word for please? Professionalism is something we DEFINITELY take for granted in America. It’s expected that you will be treated with respect and courtesy when you enter a service situation where money changes hands. Professionalism in Rwanda? Definitely not what Americans are accustomed to. People are late, answer their phones in meetings, sometimes even drink beer during training. Professionalism is not a value in this culture. As Rwanda tried to increase it’s service sector and therefore its economic position in the world, its people could learn a thing or two about professionalism, courtesy, and manners.
It was nice to be back in an area that is diverse–even if only somewhat. Rwanda, of course, has foreign visitors. And even refugees from Congo and Burundi, but Rwandas are just Rwandan. They have made a concentrated effort to stamp out any ethnic diversity in part due to their history. I love diversity. I love seeing different races and nationalities in the same place at the same time. I love hearing multiple foreign languages spoken at one time.
I haven’t been back in rural Rwanda long enough to assess my feelings. I had to go back to America; I didn’t have to come back to Rwanda. Appointments to manage, licenses to renew, certifications to maintain, and medical appointment to see about. These are things I could not do from Rwanda, and these licenses weren’t something I was willing to let lapse. I also took the GRE, and while I could have done that in Rwanda, it was just easier to do from America. I wanted to see my people, and despite all the rumors you hear about Reverse Culture Shock, being back home felt ‘right.’ Oh sure, some things felt foreign, but overall, it felt comfortable, and I ‘adjusted’ real quick.
There are decisions to be made for sure, but none of that has to happen right now. And for now, I can enjoy my remaining time in Rwanda whether it be weeks, months, or two years, hang out with friends, and enjoy exploring this tiny, yet incredibly diverse country.
I even managed to get in the woods during my return to Murica
Happy Labor Day. These random holidays like Labor Day and 4th of July and Memorial Day has never really meant too much to me. Working in health care, days like these are really just regular days. There’s no such thing as ‘holidays’, or at least not in the traditional sense where I’d get the same days off as everyone else and get do things like hang out at the lake with friends or enjoy cook-outs for the holiday. So in that sense joining the Peace Corps has been interesting. At one point or another I’ve celebrated every American holiday outside America, and some countries’ holidays inside that country. But nothing can replace celebrating the holiday in its original form… And while I’ve only been gone from the USA for a few months, there are still things I miss. This post is from my previous travel blog from when I spent 16 months traveling around South America (with some updates from what I’m missing now… Some things change; some never will… like my love for good pizza).
Pizza Pizza is probably my favorite food on the planet. Back home, I probably ate pizza 3-4 times a month. Not always the same kind or from the same place, but pizza (and a salad when I’m feeling healthy) has been a staple in my diet since the early years and I don’t suspect it leaving any time soon. I did find pizza goodness in Buenos Aires and Mendoza; however most of South America and all of Rwanda has been a huge disappointment in terms of pizza. Bad crust, bad sauce, strange ingredients. I can’t wait to hit up Barley’s Taproom or Sidewall’s or the Mellow Mushroom for some good pizza with olives, feta cheese, spinach, and tomatoes.
One of my Peace Corps goals is to make a pizza… a delicious pizza like the one pictured below.
Watching American sports. I am a huge sports junkie and I miss meeting up with friends to watch March Madness, college bowl games, or stressing over Tennessee football. Fall is always the hardest because college football in nearly a religion in the south, and I am a follower of the sacred University of Tennessee. Watching my favorite teams at odd hours via slow internet streams just didn’t cut it, and while going to sporting events where I am is a small comfort, I am never going to follow Mexican bullfighting, Venezuelan baseball, Peruvian football, Rwandan basketball, or Buenos Aires polo when I am at home. [Although I happily watched Super Bowl XLV live.]
I am grateful that I was in a country that was a soccer loving one with time time zones close to the original for some of the world cup matches. Before joining the Peace Corps, I had hoped to score tickets to World Cup|Russia, but watching the games in this tiny corner of the world where soccer rules, is great for international bonding.
Food variety. If I ever eat white rice again, it will be too soon. Seriously, that seemed to be the hallmark of almost every single meal I’ve eaten over the few months. I wasn’t a big fan to begin with, but having it on the plate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner got old. Fast!
One of the staples of Rwandan cuisine is–you guessed it–white rice. It’s no wonder I never eat this in America.
Free, non-carbonated water in restaurants. Again, this should be self-explanatory. Plenty of places offered free snacks, but free water? Not a chance.
Public transportation. Even though back home I do not live in an area with good public transportation, I like going to places where it’s accessible and easy to use. MARTA in Atlanta has gotten me where I needed to be on more than one occasion. Subways in Rome, New York, London, Moscow and Buenos Aires are amazing. If I didn’t live in a rural area, I’d be all about using light rail (like Seattle’s metro link that whisks me to and from the airport to the center of town without issue) or whatever was available. Motor bike taxis, bicycle taxis, mini buses, cars nearly falling apart, and cabs—not so much to my liking.
Bogota’s TransMileno is surprisingly efficient, and while crowded at times, it is a much better option than loading up a minibus to maximum capacity +1 and having people yell ‘stop’ when they want to get off the bus.
Knowing where to find things. Again, yes, you can buy just about everything you need on the road even in tiny remote villages in the middle of nowhere. But finding those things can be a challenge. In most of the places I visited (and Madagascar is no exception), daily essentials were spread out among many smaller stores and it took me days (or weeks) to figure out where to go for what I needed.
OH, how I love Target. I spent part of my last visit to Seattle walking around this three story gem located right in the middle of the city. They had everything…
Not paying to use the toilet. Or even finding a toilet when needed. I think this one is self-explanatory. Fun fact: did you know that, according to The Guardian, the top 10 worst places in the world to find a toilet are in Africa. One is Madagascar [4th worst place in the world to find a toilet] and two of Rwanda’s neighbors also make the list [Tanzania and Congo] and there is a World Toilet Day (it is November 19th if you’re curious), dedicated to keeping everyone’s shit corralled so that fecal contamination of the water supply as well as diseases transmitted via the fecal-oral route are diminished.
Another Peace Corps’ goal: to make myself a luxurious toilet where my knees don’t creak every time I must use it or in emergency situations, shit does not splash on my shoes/feet.
Respect for people’s time. Even though I am not a scheduler by nature, I do appreciate time. At home, when someone says “let’s meet at 8:00,” they generally mean “let’s meet at 8:00.” If they are running late, they will call or text you to let you know. We have a basic appreciation for people’s time and not wasting it. Such was not the case while I was traveling. Nothing seemed to start on time and someone saying they would meet you at 8:00 meant hopefully they would be there by 9:00 – likely with no contact whatsoever to indicate they may be late. When we were planning anything that include non-Americans we always gave a fake time. 7:00 meant 8:00 or so. Indeed, most people didn’t arrive until closer to 8:30. I think this just reflects a more laid back attitude, but as someone who hates waiting around for no good reason, I will take the American way every day.
German trains and s-bahns are always so punctual. If I lived in Germany, I’d never be late anywhere.
Alexanderplatz
I have found a general lack of respect for time in nearly every corner of the globe… except Germany and Switzerland… oh how I love that place; they are so punctual.
American men. I know many women love over foreign men. Heck, I have even dated foreign men [One abroad, one who had moved to USA], but overwhelmingly, the foreign men I have met [mostly Italians and Hispanics] are overbearing, controlling, condescending, and overprotective. I do not like being yelled at or whistled to in the street. I do not like being asked if I ‘want to fuck’ because those are the only English words they know. For me, that machismo attitude is such a turn off! Give me a good old American guy who can see a woman as his equal and appreciate her independence. A guy that smells clean, wears cologne sparingly, and bathes regularly. A guy who wears baseball hats and khakis rather than skinny jeans, and who is at least my height (5’9). If he has green eyes and curly hair, well, I’m a smitten kitten.
Free wi-fi: Wi-fiis slowly making its way down south, but it is not always free, nor is it always reliable. It brings me back to the Ethernet cords I had in college. Or dial-up. Both make me appreciate how prevalent wi-fi is in the USA. [and Canada and Europe]. 2018 hasn’t brought many upgrades to the poorer corners of the world.
But what I miss most about being away from the USA, is people and kitty cats …co-workers, friends, and family + Lucy and Molly.
2018 Michelle checking in here: The electric shower is a scary occurrence in several areas of central/south America. One one hand, I’m grateful for hot, flowing water; on the other hand, I was seriously scared for my life. BUT figuring out how to work this calamity was one of my greater travel achievements. I don’t think there will be electric showers in Rwanda, but if there are, it’s OK. I’ve figured that out once before.
The shower in my hostel in Bogotá. It’s a toss-up: You may get clean; you may die
Either this was such a traumatic experience for me before that I’ve put it out of my memory or this is some Colombian designed torture device; this is what greeted me the morning after my arrival to Bogotá.
It’s a large electrical time bomb hanging above my head; luckily all the ends of the electrical wires were covered in electrical tape. I have since found out that this is not always true nor is this device confined to Colombia.
5 steps to surviving an electric shower
Is it high enough so that you will not hit your head? I’ve had problems with showers before that were mounted for people no taller than 5 feet tall. Luckily, all the electrical showers I’ve encountered are way up there out of the way of an errant splash.
Are there any bare wires that could come in contact with water? Did you bring electrical tape? If not, a wash cloth and the sink might be the best option.
Get naked. Do your thing, and get out. If you have rubber soled sandals, wear them. This is not the time to reminisce about the day. Chances are the water won’t be at optimum temperature anyway. The only way I’ve found to control the temperature of the water is to control the flow of the water. There’s a science-y explanation for this but essentially the water needs time to roll through the metal plumbing to heat it up before it before comes out. So you can have warm water flowing like maple syrup in winter or cold water flowing like a fire hydrant. But not both. Your choice.
If the pop off valve does indeed pop off– DO. NOT. SCREAM. Like I did the first time this happened to me. Uninvited visitors will show up and cause some slight embarrassment. It is supposed to keep water from spraying up into the wires which could save your life,. However, I have found that they just pop off whenever they feel like it.
Yay! You are clean, but also soaking wet. How to turn off the faucet? You will only reach for the metal knobs once before muscle memory kicks in and you will remember why you never want to do in again. Nobody in these parts have ever heard of grounding wires. My suggestion is to have a small towel–hand towel sized–that you use for turning off the knobs.
No need to fear the electrical, non-grounded shower. I, like several before me have survived; you can survive it too.
When I was a little kid, I used to love to play make believe, and play in the creek behind my house. I’m sure that I wasn’t the only kid in the world who liked to play make-believe or play in creeks, but being as how I was an only child who lived out in the country far away from other kids, playing make-believe was a great source of entertainment for me. I loved to pretend that I was either invisible sea monster or a witch or better yet, an invisible sea monster-witch. Skye would have been a great place to grow up.
Swimming with fairies
Just imagine being an invisible fairy with eternal life and the power to enthrall people.. it’d make sense to live here, bewitching visitors to take off all their clothes [because now I’m a bawdy wench]. The spell of the Fairy Pools is that they look as if they must be warm…
I mean with that kind of vivid blue water it must be like the Caribbean Sea, but having come straight down from the Black Cuillins, they are anything but warm. The saying goes: temperatures in Scotland are either cold, bastard cold, or damn freezing cold. And checking in at a balmy 43F, I say these swimming holes are bastard cold.
Perhaps it is the fairy mischief that makes me want to jump into this amzing clear blue water. Water that is face-smackingly, lung-contractingly cold… wet-suit be damned… I jump in… ohmygod thisissofuckingcold… I clamber back out to catch my breath. Fairy magic… I haul my carcass out of the swimming hole, warm up, and dive in again and again. This is river swimming at its most magical.
Isle of Skye
The Isle of Skye is the largest of the Hebridean islands. It is easy to navigate, easily reached from the mainlaind village of Kyleakin, and has a huge variety of landscapes packed into a relatively small space. Scottish Gaelic is the predominate language of this part of the country , and in this area of around 10,000 people spread out over the islands, is raw wilderness. Each sight is slightly more awe inspiring than the previous.
Leaving Skye, I passed probably the most famous castle in Scotland. In my less than humble opinion, Eilean Donan Castle is the most beautiful castle in Scotland. It’s even movie famous. Chances are you recognize it from a film or two. Eilean Donan starred in Highlander, served as Sean Connery’s home in Entrapment, and was the Scottish Headquarters of MI6 in The World Is Not Enough. Anything related to the world’s most famous spy has my stamp of approval.
