Welcome to my writing blog! Enjoy!

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Food Adventure

My most memorable time with food was a marathon of discovering, cooking and eating that ensued during my visit to Spain last semester to see my friend Kristin over half-term break. We are hometown friends that share a mutual passion for food. I landed in Madrid at 8pm. We began our search for munchies at 8:01.

It started as a simple bag of jamon flavored chips and turned into an entire late night meal. We fumbled together a delicious Spanish omelet with the leftover eggs from the carton we accidentally spilled upon the floor. Crackling oil, simmering the garlic and onions was soon joined by thinly sliced potatoes and a healthy mashing later the eggs were added. The was the first of three Spanish omelets we made over a five day period. Not only did the meal fill me up, but it spawned a several hour discussion late into the night.

Although the rest of my visit was supposed to show me the various places in Madrid and immerse me in the Spanish culture, it truly focused on the varied nosh the city offered. Kabop sandwiches, tapas, paella, churros, pastries, empandas. The list was endless. We ate at every meal. We ate when there was no meal and we ate to pass the time. When most girls would find pleasure in clothes shopping, my friend and I went shopping for food. Scanning aisles, trying samples, reading labels. We put together our meals more than we ate out. It had a homey feel even though most of the eats were foreign to me. My favorite was our tapas night with sangria. We enjoyed it so much, the pair of us replicated it this summer for the rest of our friends. Furthermore, I made it for my family and my friends here at URI.

The time we spent eating in Madrid was unlike any other experience I've had. After most trips I remember people, what they said and where we went. Photos from my sightseeing. Funny moments frozen in time. But from this excursion, I recall the sweet tang of sangria; the chewy churros drenched in thick chocolate; the smooth texture of the tortilla; the sounds of cooking and the laughter during each of our meals. It is truly a palpable memory, encoded on my tongue and flooding my nostrils to this day.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Tube at Congestion Time

Last semester, while I was studying abroad in London, my British friends told me that I couldn't consider myself to have had a real London experience until I had traveled on the tube during congestion time (think rush hour). This seemed like such a frivolous suggestion. Surely the experience would be made by seeing a play or catching a glimpse of the queen (both things I actually did do), but they were insistent that I had to take the congestion tube. For my first six weeks, I had no reason to go into central (the heart of the city) at 7am or return at 4pm. But it just so happened that one frozen Monday morning in February, my London History class took our usual trip into the city that required more transfers and a longer time on the underground.

I ventured out with my flatmates, Kevin, Simon (from the US), Stina and Becca (from Norway) in order to get to our class meeting place (Baker Street...think Sherlock Holmes) on time. This meant we had to leave the campus at 7am. Luckily, our overground station was just a few hundred yards away, across the bustling street of tiny cars and massive trucks, a red-double-decker whizzing by every few minutes and through the tiresome beeping of the crosswalk sign. Since we all had a long way to go and it was during congestion time (traveling is more expensive then), we needed to top up (top off) our oyster cards (think easy-pass) before we departed. Once our charges were settled, we checked in at the swipe-points. The ride of a lifetime had begun. I had taken the overground many times before, sometimes with these same people and we had never seen such a dense congregation of travelers on the platform. Our little borough was south-east of central and I had no idea such copious amounts of people lived in our area, all ages and races, shivering in the bitter cold. There were so many people, bundled in pea coats and scarves that when the train to London Bridge arrived, eight cars long, we had to wait ten extra minutes for the next train to arrive.

At that time, we boarded the overground and chugged off to the next check-point. In a compartment that usually comfortably seats everyone, we had to cram into the entrance-exit area along with people reading newspapers, listening to their ipods or feeding their infants in bulky carriages. The rickety journey to London Bridge took the usual eight minutes; tall flats blurring by the windows, the city streets becoming more convoluted and the tourists more numerous. After we disembarked and checked into the Underground, we hit a deadlock of travelers on the several flights of escalators down. We decided to take the faster route, and stepped to the left to descend the electric stairs at a swift pace. The only means of avoiding the mob was to run. However we weren't alone in this idea. Rushing through the Central (Red) Line entry corridor, the five of us came to the embarking platform where a horde of commuters waited for the tube to arrive. A moment later it did. Mind the gap, was announced.

A mad dash ensued. Kevin practically piledrived himself through the crowd, forcing the rest of us to follow and in doing so, we managed to squish ourselves into the back of the car. We were elbow-to-elbow, pressed against the grip poles, the windows or other passengers. I, personally, was between a tall man, Stina and another few university students, with not even an inch of clearance between us. Everyone looked to the floor or the advertisements along the car wall. Anything to avoid each other. It was then we realized Simon was left on the platform and Becca had entered a separate car. The doors were shut, the tube was leaving the platform. Simon would have to get the next train. Squeals, shrieks and squeaks. Our following transfer station arrived and even though we were closest to the doors, it was a struggle to exit. Stina's bag was stuck between a woman and the wall, my foot was tangled with the tall man's shoes and Kevin tripped on his way out.

Upon our exit, a stampede of humans rushed through the corridor options, connecting them with other underground lines. We took the Jubilee (Gray) Line north to Baker Street, which sent us down a spiraling stairwell. Hundreds behind us and hundreds in front, each step seemingly took us closer to Hell, heat swelling through the stairs and a stench much like wet dogs and gym socks filled the air. This trip was not unlike our experience on the Central Line, however we waited for Becca and Simon to rejoin us before we set off once more. This sardine experience was worse. I was closer in height with the young man I squished into and was forced to engage in small-talk in order to avoid an uncomfortable ride. His name was Roger and he was connecting to the Bakerloo (Brown) Line so he could meet an inbound frie
nd at Paddington Station. He was kind and his content expression said that he'd dealt with this madness before. Me and my companions however crinkled our noses and glared in every direction, fully fed up with the overcrowded car. We were all more than pleased to hear our station called so we could disembark.

Exiting the tube and riding up the escalator into the fresh air was such a relief. I could see the sun peaking through London fog and it began to smell like a lemony-fresh cleaning solution that had become synonymous with the Underground. Although the aggravated mumble of commuters continued to the street, our tensions melted when we spotted the rest of the class and our Professor waiting atop the stairs in a bright atrium. I would love to say that was the last time I traveled on the congestion time tube. Or the last time I made idle conversation with another passenger. Unfortunately, it happened several other times. But this initial jarring experience was the smelliest, most uncomfortably crowded traveling I ever did.  

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Night Hike

As the sunset, I excitedly ventured to the Norfolk audubon society of Massachusetts to work a night-time program for eagerly awaiting boy scouts and girls scouts. I had previously worked to inform young minds about the wonders of the night on several occassions, but they could not compare to the experience I had last night. As I arrived, I discovered the activities my boss required were different than before, and far more hands-on than usual. Assumingly, this would create for a fun atmosphere and a better program for the children. However, as soon as I recieved my group of young cub scouts, I knew the night would be long, tiresome and emotionally exhausting. Some acitvities were way over their heads and others didn't capture their interest whatsoever.

We set off on our hike. In the distance, the glow of the sun barely stretched across the horizon as I introduced myself and met the young boys who would be with me for the next couple of hours. It was a small, tight-knit pack with several parents tagging along. And each of the boys had a specific quality that added to the uniqueness of this journey. One insisted he knew all of the animals we might see and listed various species that didn't even inhabit our area. Another had something to say about every comment I made. There was one boy who eventually thought he was my best friend, reminding me at every turn. Even the parents added a stressful element by falsely correcting my facts or interjecting their opinions or personal stories. It didn't aleviate the situation that all light had faded from the area and we were deep in the woods, barely able to see the hand in front of our faces.

At one point, I was convinced someone would fall into the pond we had walked by just after some scouts fell victim to the many roots on the trail. My directions about how to safely navigate terrain at night were completely ignored, evident by the subsequent incident: a parent walked directly into a tree. Thankfully, there were no injuries but we were only half-way through the program. I calmly inhaled and led us onward. The boys grew anxious and decided to run on the trail in order to scare another group we spotted around the bend. The last thing I needed was for the objects we saw to turn out to be coyotes or some other startled creature. But it did provide me with some entertainment to find the "group" we saw was actually just a cluster of trees. Passing by the waterfall and back up to the nature center, I was not only tired from the hike but tired of the complaints and corrections I recieved from the troop. A bright light burning our night-eyes was the welcome back to safety. The kids were exhausted and collapsed onto the floor as soon as they were inside. Although it was a fun time, and could easily have been worse, I was happy for the program to come to an end.

Friday, October 1, 2010


This week was the first time I used the ripta to travel from my home in Naragansett to URI and back. My first obsticale came in the form of the admission charge: two dollars. A previous trip from campus to Providence only cost me $1.25, but I guess the two years of inflation makes a difference. I fumbled through my change purse for exact coins since the bus driver warned me the machine was not giving back tickets. Decently filled, I scanned for an open seat. The other passangers were going about their business, listening to music, reading the newspaper or daydreaming while I anxiously took my seat next to a window. Stuffing in my ear buds, I swirled the volume on my ipod and settled in for the journey.

Initially, I was nervous because I was not familiar with the route and didn't understand why the bus would take random roads and then u-turn back around. Since no one else was bothered by these occurances, I did my best to calm my nerves and trust I would make it to my destination. By taking the road less traveled, I saw the quaint areas of Wakefield and Peacedale, towns I haven't visited since joining the ram population. My favorite shop to see was the Purple Cow, it looks like an interesting place and I hope to visit it soon. As the bus continued on, we finally turned onto a road I recognized and knew for certain I had taken the correct bus. Even with my volume up, I could hear other conversations and the hum of the engine. Not long after, I arrived at my final stop forty-five minutes after leaving. It certainly takes longer than a car-ride, but it got me where I needed to go. Now I have the confidence to be able to take the route again and this time without worry.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

From Home and Back

For the earliest part of my life, my family and I frequently traveled between Massachusetts and Florida to visit one set of grandparents in each state. We lived miles from any other family members in Mass and I had a better relationship with my Floridian grandparents on the phone than I did in person. Eventually, my grandfather in Florida became terminally ill and as a result, we uprooted ourselves from Massachusetts to relocate to Florida. Although I was very young, I can still recall feeling strongly attached to the bay state and nearly heartbroken about the move. I considered the entire clawed-state my home: from the berkshires to Boston. The radically changing weather was my favorite game of hide and seek, the autumn leaves painted the surroundings with such vibrant colors no fingerpainting could compare to and the Boston Red Sox were undoubtedly superior to any fishy sports team Florida might have.

The move itself was trying, and even once we had settled into the quaint house in the newest neighborhood development, I missed Massachusetts with every fiber of my little heart. Year-round greenery, however beautiful, did not tempt me with its accompanying fair weather; no, I longed for snow days during school and an every-changing, undulating landscape. People were pleasant, but they had passions completely divergant from my own. Every weekend was beach day when I wanted seasons. Fast food was abudant on the commercialized stretch of land just beyond our property, but I preferred my northern grandmother's home cooking. And as the months passed by, I could only dream of my Massachusetts home among the hills, or trips down to the breezy cape in place of the identical houses and constant sun that left my appetite for New England unsatisfied.

Although my return to the land of big hills came on the somber passing of my grandfather, the smell of crisp northern air was exactly what I needed. We moved away from our western-mass home and settled far closer to the patchwork of towns where the remainder of my family resided, just south west of Boston. Witnessing a sudden summer shower or an abrupt blizzard awakened the pitter-patter in my chest and in a wave of seafood dinners and Patriot games; I knew I was back where I belonged. Nestled within a hilly community where yellow buses picked me up at my door for the start of school and returned me during the blossoming of late-spring flowers, announcing the soon-to-be arrival of summer. From then on, I knew there wasn't a single thing about my Massachusetts home I could ever live without.