Laura and I arrived late last night at the Airport in Leon, and took a cab to Guanajuato.
The more I walk around the city, the happier I am with my decision to come down this Summer. Until now my undergraduate degree in Spanish has always been almost a party trick for me, something that I could use if I wanted to but always with the option to return to English. Now I hear people in the streets speaking in Spanish, see signs in Spanish, and I am reminded that this was what I worked so hard for!
I cannot believe how beautiful the city is. The buildings wind around the hilly landscape in organized chaos, with streets snaking this way and that. The town was built before a time when builders would simply level a large mountain that was undesirable; the architects of Guanajuato needed to work with the hilly terrain, and the effect is remarkable. I will write again soon, as we are in the process of finding an apartment and a language school for Laura.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
My last 10 days as a 1L.
It's 5:40 AM.
I'm sitting on the trunk of my car, gazing East. It's 67 degrees in Las Vegas; it will reach 91 by the heat of the day. I spent another sleepless night tweaking and rewriting my take-home Contracts Final Exam, and now I'm basking in the reward.
My favorite part of 1L is the sunrises. I've seen my fair share this year; probably more than every other year of my life combined. Each sunrise is another badge of honor, an affirmation that once again I, piddly Trevor, have overcome the darkness and the bitter cold. I've endured once more. I will fight another day, and another night if need be.
"Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai decouvert en moi un invincible été."
Roughly translated, Camus said "In the depths of winter, I discovered within myself an unconquerable summer." This year has proven beyond all doubt that no matter how difficult or insurmountable a challenge may appear, its completion or even sufferance will bring a renewed appreciation for everything that I forget to give thanks for.
I love my hardships. I love my bruises, and my scratches, and my fatigue. I might not appreciate them at the time, but these emblems give me the strength to suffer greater hardships, bigger bruises, deeper scratches, and more profound fatigue.
The darkest nights and the harshest winters instill the brightest sunrises and the pleasantest summers within me. I'll finish up this year. Boyd, I'll see you in August for round two.
I'm sitting on the trunk of my car, gazing East. It's 67 degrees in Las Vegas; it will reach 91 by the heat of the day. I spent another sleepless night tweaking and rewriting my take-home Contracts Final Exam, and now I'm basking in the reward.
My favorite part of 1L is the sunrises. I've seen my fair share this year; probably more than every other year of my life combined. Each sunrise is another badge of honor, an affirmation that once again I, piddly Trevor, have overcome the darkness and the bitter cold. I've endured once more. I will fight another day, and another night if need be.
"Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai decouvert en moi un invincible été."
Roughly translated, Camus said "In the depths of winter, I discovered within myself an unconquerable summer." This year has proven beyond all doubt that no matter how difficult or insurmountable a challenge may appear, its completion or even sufferance will bring a renewed appreciation for everything that I forget to give thanks for.
I love my hardships. I love my bruises, and my scratches, and my fatigue. I might not appreciate them at the time, but these emblems give me the strength to suffer greater hardships, bigger bruises, deeper scratches, and more profound fatigue.
The darkest nights and the harshest winters instill the brightest sunrises and the pleasantest summers within me. I'll finish up this year. Boyd, I'll see you in August for round two.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Three Hours Ahead and Decades Away
Grandma Hartzell’s Christmas gift from my Dad was flying Emma and me to Erie to visit for a few days. If you are thinking to yourself that this is a paramount example of “a gift and a curse” for my poor Grandma Lorraine, I couldn’t agree more; but like it or not, she is stuck with us!
Although half of my family originated in Erie and many are still living here, Emma and I seldom have the opportunity to visit because of the tremendous distance. It is always a strange experience to escape neon, 24-hour Nevada to fall into a slower, calmer existence back East, but once my anxious nerves adjust to a change that is much more dramatic than the three time zones we have to cross to get here, there is an indescribable calmness that consumes me.
Emma loves the houses in Erie, which she cheerily describes as “little Pi-Phis.” Brick-and-mortar houses are rare in Reno, and the few that do exist in our hometown seem somewhat out of place, as if someone dropped them into the unforgiving desert to fend for themselves. They cluster together near the university and tend not to stray out into the uniform suburbs that dominate more and more of the Truckee Meadows.
Among my many criticisms of Las Vegas, the most poignant is of the stucco wasteland that sprawls out in every direction from the notorious “Strip.” As my Dad put it, Las Vegas is the result of putting fortune first. I couldn’t agree more. At the risk of generalizing, the people that tend to inhabit and visit Las Vegas are often made of stucco as well. There are some people, like the Reno’s misplaced brick homes, that seem to have been dropped into Las Vegas by accident: people of character and strong moral fiber, people made of something other than a flaky paint that could never withstand a hard winter or genuine hardship. But these people are the anomalies, the outsiders.
At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I must make perfectly clear that I’m a stucco person too. I’m even perversely proud of it. Nevada does it differently, bottom line: just as the intense heat thins the blood of long term Las Vegans, so too does the environment become a part of its inhabitants, for better or worse.
Just as Emma appreciates the architecture, I have a certain indescribable fondness for Lake Erie. At least once a day I like to bundle up under what feels like eleven layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts to make my way down to the golf course originally created by General Electric for employees, no more than a mile from my Grandmother’s house. Barges float with painstaking patience across the icy waters, with bright running lights clashing against gloomy Erie’s perpetual dusk.
I didn’t know Grandpa Ed too well before he passed away. I only have one memory of being with him, a nighttime sledding adventure down the golf course hill. Even that memory is abstract and patchy. All of the information I have about him comes to me second hand, but I do know with relative certainty that he loved that golf course at least as much as I do.
He played golf nearly every day after retiring. He played through the winter, which is no small feat in these temperatures: I doubt that I could swing a club under my bundled clothing, which no doubt reminds passing cars of Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” as I waddle down the main road towards the course.
I know that course is man-made, but there is something savagely peaceful about it during these winter months when no golfers walk the course and the hills bend gently under a uniform blanket of snow. A man can really think out there, trudging down the fairways and surveying the lake that crests the horizon. The air is crisp and clean as it blows inland over the waves. I may not remember my young conversations with Grandpa Ed, but when I walk his course I feel like I understand what he was about as a man, and I understand what was important to him. I like to think that is more significant.
If anyone was a brick-and-mortar type of man, I think Ed was. Never have I heard an ill word spoken of him. He realized the few things that were important to him, and indeed the few things that are important in life, and lived by them. It was in large part in his memory that I joined the Knights of Columbus this past semester. I can’t help but think of him every time I see a Knight serving breakfast to the community, or ringing a bell in the frigid cold outside of a store at Christmas time to raise money for those less fortunate. My New Year’s Resolution, and indeed my life goal, is to be more like Grandpa Ed.
Although half of my family originated in Erie and many are still living here, Emma and I seldom have the opportunity to visit because of the tremendous distance. It is always a strange experience to escape neon, 24-hour Nevada to fall into a slower, calmer existence back East, but once my anxious nerves adjust to a change that is much more dramatic than the three time zones we have to cross to get here, there is an indescribable calmness that consumes me.
Emma loves the houses in Erie, which she cheerily describes as “little Pi-Phis.” Brick-and-mortar houses are rare in Reno, and the few that do exist in our hometown seem somewhat out of place, as if someone dropped them into the unforgiving desert to fend for themselves. They cluster together near the university and tend not to stray out into the uniform suburbs that dominate more and more of the Truckee Meadows.
Among my many criticisms of Las Vegas, the most poignant is of the stucco wasteland that sprawls out in every direction from the notorious “Strip.” As my Dad put it, Las Vegas is the result of putting fortune first. I couldn’t agree more. At the risk of generalizing, the people that tend to inhabit and visit Las Vegas are often made of stucco as well. There are some people, like the Reno’s misplaced brick homes, that seem to have been dropped into Las Vegas by accident: people of character and strong moral fiber, people made of something other than a flaky paint that could never withstand a hard winter or genuine hardship. But these people are the anomalies, the outsiders.
At the risk of sounding self-righteous, I must make perfectly clear that I’m a stucco person too. I’m even perversely proud of it. Nevada does it differently, bottom line: just as the intense heat thins the blood of long term Las Vegans, so too does the environment become a part of its inhabitants, for better or worse.
Just as Emma appreciates the architecture, I have a certain indescribable fondness for Lake Erie. At least once a day I like to bundle up under what feels like eleven layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts to make my way down to the golf course originally created by General Electric for employees, no more than a mile from my Grandmother’s house. Barges float with painstaking patience across the icy waters, with bright running lights clashing against gloomy Erie’s perpetual dusk.
I didn’t know Grandpa Ed too well before he passed away. I only have one memory of being with him, a nighttime sledding adventure down the golf course hill. Even that memory is abstract and patchy. All of the information I have about him comes to me second hand, but I do know with relative certainty that he loved that golf course at least as much as I do.
He played golf nearly every day after retiring. He played through the winter, which is no small feat in these temperatures: I doubt that I could swing a club under my bundled clothing, which no doubt reminds passing cars of Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” as I waddle down the main road towards the course.
I know that course is man-made, but there is something savagely peaceful about it during these winter months when no golfers walk the course and the hills bend gently under a uniform blanket of snow. A man can really think out there, trudging down the fairways and surveying the lake that crests the horizon. The air is crisp and clean as it blows inland over the waves. I may not remember my young conversations with Grandpa Ed, but when I walk his course I feel like I understand what he was about as a man, and I understand what was important to him. I like to think that is more significant.
If anyone was a brick-and-mortar type of man, I think Ed was. Never have I heard an ill word spoken of him. He realized the few things that were important to him, and indeed the few things that are important in life, and lived by them. It was in large part in his memory that I joined the Knights of Columbus this past semester. I can’t help but think of him every time I see a Knight serving breakfast to the community, or ringing a bell in the frigid cold outside of a store at Christmas time to raise money for those less fortunate. My New Year’s Resolution, and indeed my life goal, is to be more like Grandpa Ed.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Driving the California Coast with Laura: Days 3, 4, and 5
_______
We slept very little and none too well. Brandyn, DJ, Laura and I managed to fall into some sort of Del Mar/Hot Tub/Coors Light time warp beginning at about 11:30 AM, and by the time we fell out of the warp it had somehow become midnight without anyone’s permission. I ate a whole chicken and went to bed, waking up the next morning with a particularly sore head. Nonetheless Laura and I had vowed to see Tijuana, and nothing could stand in our way.
Tijuana was just as I remembered it. I liken Tijuana to the naughty-boy theme park "Pleasure Island" that Pinocchio visited in the Disney movie: where the youth do whatever they want and transform, to their dismay, into donkeys. For anyone who has ever been to Tijuana or is aware of its notorious reputation, any double entendre with this comparison is purely coincidental.
________________
Laura and I parked her car at the last stop in the United States and walked across the border. I was nervous to have her with me, especially as we walked across the no-man’s-land bridge that spans a dirty, rubbished-filled cesspool that defines the border in that area. We were eyed and sized up by teenagers that, despite being about seven years my junior, terrified me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that, just as with a bear, I would only have to outrun Laura to ensure my safety.
Nothing bad happened as we ventured around, and it was actually very enjoyable. We ate lunch in a small, dingy basement that made us uncomfortable at first, but by the end of the meal we had befriended the patron of the restaurant: a short old man with a duckbill haircut straight out of a 1930s gangster movie, a tattered zoot-suit to match his hair, and a crooked smile that made us laugh whether or not we understood the joke he was telling.
Laura found a beautiful coat in a small curbside stand. The coat is yellow and black, double-breasted, and best of all cost her only fifteen dollars (though, like most things on the Avenida, probably cost the vendor about two dollars). It was our greatest find of the trip, in my opinion, and her appreciation of the item is surpassed only by how beautiful she looks wearing it.
We ate freshly fried churros from street vendors whenever we happened upon them, and wandered the streets for most of the day. I bought a switchblade knife that Brandyn had asked for, and a San Diego Chargers poncho for DJ. I was unaware at the time that I would have to hide the knife in my inner coat pocket as we crossed back into the United States because apparently the US border patrol is a little more strict upon re-entry then the Mexican border patrol; there is, literally, nothing more than an unguarded revolving door as you enter on the Mexican side.
Brandyn’s cousin Jessica celebrated her 21st Birthday in the gas lamp district of San Diego that night and we joined the festivities. The nightlife in San Diego is incredible, and I highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys the nightlife/club scene. DJ continued to be nothing less than perfectly generous and hospitable the entire evening, and we spent one last night in his home before heading back to Reno for Christmas the following day.
Before we left San Diego, Laura and I went to my Grandma Ringler’s house. We had tea and lunch, which made me very happy. We were on a tight schedule to get back for Christmas Eve, but as luck would have it we met up with my Aunt Ann and my cousin’s girlfriend while we were out for lunch! The drive back was a straight shot up Highway 395, with only a brief stop at sunset in the desert to fire off the .38 special into the nothingness of Death Valley.
___________
We slept very little and none too well. Brandyn, DJ, Laura and I managed to fall into some sort of Del Mar/Hot Tub/Coors Light time warp beginning at about 11:30 AM, and by the time we fell out of the warp it had somehow become midnight without anyone’s permission. I ate a whole chicken and went to bed, waking up the next morning with a particularly sore head. Nonetheless Laura and I had vowed to see Tijuana, and nothing could stand in our way.
Tijuana was just as I remembered it. I liken Tijuana to the naughty-boy theme park "Pleasure Island" that Pinocchio visited in the Disney movie: where the youth do whatever they want and transform, to their dismay, into donkeys. For anyone who has ever been to Tijuana or is aware of its notorious reputation, any double entendre with this comparison is purely coincidental.
________________
Laura and I parked her car at the last stop in the United States and walked across the border. I was nervous to have her with me, especially as we walked across the no-man’s-land bridge that spans a dirty, rubbished-filled cesspool that defines the border in that area. We were eyed and sized up by teenagers that, despite being about seven years my junior, terrified me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that, just as with a bear, I would only have to outrun Laura to ensure my safety.
Nothing bad happened as we ventured around, and it was actually very enjoyable. We ate lunch in a small, dingy basement that made us uncomfortable at first, but by the end of the meal we had befriended the patron of the restaurant: a short old man with a duckbill haircut straight out of a 1930s gangster movie, a tattered zoot-suit to match his hair, and a crooked smile that made us laugh whether or not we understood the joke he was telling.
Laura found a beautiful coat in a small curbside stand. The coat is yellow and black, double-breasted, and best of all cost her only fifteen dollars (though, like most things on the Avenida, probably cost the vendor about two dollars). It was our greatest find of the trip, in my opinion, and her appreciation of the item is surpassed only by how beautiful she looks wearing it.
We ate freshly fried churros from street vendors whenever we happened upon them, and wandered the streets for most of the day. I bought a switchblade knife that Brandyn had asked for, and a San Diego Chargers poncho for DJ. I was unaware at the time that I would have to hide the knife in my inner coat pocket as we crossed back into the United States because apparently the US border patrol is a little more strict upon re-entry then the Mexican border patrol; there is, literally, nothing more than an unguarded revolving door as you enter on the Mexican side.
Brandyn’s cousin Jessica celebrated her 21st Birthday in the gas lamp district of San Diego that night and we joined the festivities. The nightlife in San Diego is incredible, and I highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys the nightlife/club scene. DJ continued to be nothing less than perfectly generous and hospitable the entire evening, and we spent one last night in his home before heading back to Reno for Christmas the following day.
Before we left San Diego, Laura and I went to my Grandma Ringler’s house. We had tea and lunch, which made me very happy. We were on a tight schedule to get back for Christmas Eve, but as luck would have it we met up with my Aunt Ann and my cousin’s girlfriend while we were out for lunch! The drive back was a straight shot up Highway 395, with only a brief stop at sunset in the desert to fire off the .38 special into the nothingness of Death Valley.
___________
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