Talking Backwards

Real Estate

I don't know if I've mentioned it, but this past academic year I was the recipient of a FLAS fellowship for Portuguese. "FLAS" stands for "Foreign Language and Area Studies." That probably doesn't help. Basically, I got a lovely scholarship for adding Portuguese language and area studies classes to my curriculum.

This also entailed taking an OPI (Oral Proficiency Interview, I believe) at the beginning and end of the year. My first interview went decently well. However, the one I took a few weeks ago did not. I realized it was going downhill because my brain was dead from finals and packing, but when the interviewer asked me to explain my Statistics research, I knew I was doomed. In trying to talk around phrases like "excitation-emission matrices" and "Hotelling's T-squared test statistic" that I did not know in Portuguese, I felt like I was talking backwards.

I will say that the other aspects of this fellowship were extremely gratifying. I ended up taking twice as many Portuguese classes as I originally planned, and I am so glad my original plans were foiled. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up.

When I was five years old, my mom and dad pulled me and my little brother Mitch aside to tell us we were moving. It was a muggy afternoon in early summer, and we sat on our back porch in Fairview Park, Ohio. I remember looking out at the drizzling rain as it danced down the window panes and stuck in the notches of the screen door. "We're moving to Brazil!" my dad said, his voice fluttering with excitement. I remember feeling angry and scared, but mostly sad. I cried and cried and cried.

My temper, fears, and sorrow were extinguished soon after our arrival in São Paulo on September 13th, 1998. The city fascinated me: the flickering of its lights, the rush of traffic and rain, the inexplicable pattern of its chaotic streets, the clashing scents of its tropical vegetation and irritating pollution. I loved that city. I love it still.

The fam (minus Mitch) hanging out in Rio

The fam 15 years later in Rio

Seven and a half years later, on December 14th, 2005, I found myself moving to a new--much smaller--city. I have to be honest; I had no idea where in the country St. Louis was, just that it was somewhere in the middle. I guess my international education may have been a little flawed. Maybe not.

Garrett's Brazil-themed birthday party in STL

I have come to love this city as well. It took much longer, but it happened nonetheless. As high school passed and college approached, I began feeling the pressure of an overwhelming and omnipresent question: What am I going to do next? It echoed in my ears, ricocheting off the walls of my high school and inside my head.

One college and one year later, I found myself transferring to Brigham Young University as a sophomore. I started taking Portuguese classes as soon as I could, but I was terrified that I had forgotten everything. It came back, slowly at first, then more quickly. By the time this year rolled around I was consistently taking one class per semester, hoping to squeeze in a minor by the time I graduated.

When I received the FLAS fellowship, I realized that this neat and calculated plan would have to be rethought. I took two classes each semester, including a grammar class, a Portuguese history class, a linguistics class, and a contemporary afro-luso-Brazilian literature class.

My favorite book this year

Words cannot describe, even in clichés, the joy these classes brought me. I may have complained about my research papers and memorizing innumerable dates for my tests, but more than anything these classes made my studies more bearable and more enjoyable. I even had the opportunity to be on the founding council of the Portuguese National Honor Society at BYU, called Phi Lambda Beta.

I truly love this language. To quote one of the best films of 2003, "I'm in love, I'm in love, and I don't care who knows it!"

The fam (plus Janelle) at our favorite restaurant in SP

Back at the restaurant

Buona Sera

Dean Martin

This is one of my favorite songs. Especially the part:

"In the morning signorina we'll go walking
Where the mountains help the moon come into sight,
And by the little jewelry shop we'll stop and linger
While I buy a wedding ring for your finger.
In the meantime let me tell you that I love you;
Buona sera signorina kiss me goodnight."

Yes, this post is about weddings. 

Last weekend, I got to attend my cousin Alexander's wedding. The drive down to Las Vegas was not the most comfortable ride I have experienced. Here's why. Five tired college students. One small Jetta. Numb legs. Too many peanut butter M&M's. No air-conditioning. Road construction.

But it was all worth it. For one thing, we had an accidental rendezvous with some family at a gas station in Beaver, UT. I don't think I have ever seen such unrestrained jubilation as when we found each other in the parking lot. 

(Photo credit: Weston)

Also, Mitch and Giselle look really tan in this photo.

What really made the drive worth it, though, was the actual wedding. The venue was beautiful: a ranch with a courtyard for the ceremony and a huge white tent for the reception. For some unfathomable reason, I didn't think I was going to cry during the ceremony. I was very, very wrong. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. The vows were perfect. The bridesmaids and groomsmen were perfect. Alex and Courtney were perfect. 

(Photo credit: Stephanie Heimer)

The reception was lovely. And so fun. My whole family hit the dance floor and didn't stop dancing the rest of the night. Even--well, especially--my grandma couldn't wait until the music started and was one of the last to leave the reception. I honestly can't remember the last time I danced that hard. 

My favorite events: Courtney and Alex dancing with their mothers, their first dance as a couple, and my grandparents' dance. Allow me to explain the last one. The MC had all the married couples get on the dance floor and asked them to move to the other side if they had been married less than 4 hours, 1 year, 5 years, 10 years, etc. The last couple standing was my grandparents, who have been married for 51 years. Then the MC said, "We are now going to play the song that played during this lovely couple's first dance at their wedding, over 50 years ago."

That's when I lost it. As the first chords of the classic song "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina" trilled across the dance floor alongside my grandparents' waltz, my throat caught and everything started to look sparkly through the tears in my eyes. 

I'm not one of those girls who has been planning her wedding since the age of six. But I have a confession: I have a secret wedding board on Pinterest. Shocking, I know. Here's a sneak peek.

Basically, you'd better come to my wedding whenever it is, because it will be spectacular.

Strawberries Are Growing in My Garden (And It's Wintertime)

The Dentists

I actually don't have a garden. I had a basil plant once, and it lasted almost a year in my cramped, lightless college apartment before it died. Unfortunately, I do not have a green thumb. 

I learned the most fascinating tidbit in my Portuguese class yesterday. My class is called "Survey of Luso-Brazilian Linguistics," and so far we have been exploring the nitty-gritty details of phonetics, phonology, and--most recently--morphology. Our latest venture has been to create these lovely tree charts that plot out the structure of different words, starting with the root of the word. 

Long story short, we ended up discussing the roots of different berry words. Allow me to explain.

blueberry=a berry that is blue
blackberry=a berry that is black

But what about strawberry? Raspberry? Boysenberry?

We learned that historically (and continuing into the modern day), farmers would cover their fields in straw so the birds could not see or get to the ripe fruit huddled beneath. And so, the word:

strawberry=a berry picked through straw

We also learned that a rasp is a tool used in woodworking to scrape off layers of wood. Some plants have protective thorns that, when breached, scrape off layers of the picker's skin. And so, the word:

raspberry=a berry with rasp-like thorns

Lastly, we learned that a man named Rudolph Boysen created a hybrid between blackberries and raspberries in the 1920's. The result:

boysenberry=a berry created by a man named Boysen

Cool stuff, yeah?

A Hazy Shade of Winter

Simon and Garfunkel

It's been a long week. Even though we had a three-day weekend. How does that work? 

I had a test in one of my upper-level statistics classes today, and after I finished it I had this overwhelming feeling of paralysis. Given, I was in shock about how poorly I think I did. But it was more than that--it was a feeling of being in a winter wanderland. And no, I did not just misspell "wonderland." 

winter wanderland \'win-ter 'wän-der-land\ noun
: a place of hazy daydreams of summer, frost-bitten hands, and muddled minds resulting from the February drag of winter

Basically, I am ready for winter to be over. It has been raining quite a bit in Provo lately, and I have taken advantage of the melting snow by embarking on afternoon drives up the canyon. I go about four times a week, first making a stop at a local eatery for driving sustenance, and then taking the winding road up, up, up into the throat of the Rockies. If you plan on a similar adventure, I would recommend listening to your favorite book on tape. Mine has been Jim Dale's reading of "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." Give it a listen; Dale's performance is a fantastical masterpiece. And no, I did not just misspell "fantastic."

Some things I actually appreciate about winter:
1. The mountains in the morning when the clouds are thin and the air is cool and every crack and cliff is crisp and clear.
2. The quiet of the library when everything is silent, but the silence is full of deep breaths and deep thoughts and deep snores.
3. The sweet, biting taste of cilantro that seems to intensify exponentially the further along in winter it gets.
4. The last remains of fall--crisped brown and gold leaves that scatter the ground and peek out through the snow like confetti from a party the night before. 

Of Birthdays and New Years

Monday was Wesley's birthday. Not just any birthday, but his sixteenth birthday. The big 1-6. He can date and drive! Well, I'm not so sure about the former, but the latter is guaranteed because he got a 90 on his driving test. This was quite surprising. I take that back; this was positively shocking. Wesley doesn't know how to drive. I'm pretty sure the DMV was just trying to get as many tests done as quickly as possible because it was New Year's Eve. 

Speaking of which, Wesley hates his birthday because of its unfortunate coincidence (pronounced co-in-ci-dence)with the turning of the new year. Ever since he was a little kid, he has struggled with the fact that he only gets presents one month per year and that, while everyone else gets their own day all to themselves, the celebration of his birthday is consumed by the chaos of December 31st. This year we tried to make his 16th something special. But to me he will always be a little 6-year-old smush with a raspy voice and a ravenous appetite. 

We spent New Year's at a family friend's house, partying and eating and doing Just Dance and eating and playing cards and eating. I also took a nap because of the virulent cold I caught last week. In fact, every time I come home I end up getting sick and spending a good 5 days ill in bed. 

So on Monday night I ended up leaving the party around 10:30pm. I went home and listened to Ella Fitzgerald and read my book and watched fireworks out my window and went to bed at 12:15am. If I were sentimental, I would feel some sort of remorse for not bringing in 2013 with a bang. Okay, let's face it--I am extremely sentimental. But I really actually don't regret not watching the midnight countdown or getting completely wasted or sneaking in a New Year's kiss.

Well, maybe that last one was a lie ;)

Forts, Finals, Flights, & Freedom

To set the mood, a little Sufjan Stevens Christmas music here. And yes, I know it is slightly strange and excruciatingly ambiguous. But that's kind of how this Christmas has felt... in a good way. 

The strangeness started one crisp afternoon when my roommate Kristen informed me that we were building a fort for finals week. It was such a simple statement, but it marinated in my mind for days until it became more than just idea--it became the incarnation of every childhood fantasy I'd ever imagined, every guileless daydream I'd ever dreamt, every creative endeavor I'd ever pursued. 

And so, a masterpiece was born.

Okay, so it wasn't actually incredible, but to me it was a palace, a safe haven, a piece of architectural genius, a manifestation of my innovative power. I loved it with all my heart. We even slept in it one night.

Over the last week of school I often took refuge in the fort. Most of the time it was when I was on the brink of a complete meltdown and needed a quiet place to sort my thoughts and face my fears. 

And my biggest fear? ECON 110. My grades haven't all been posted yet, so this may be premature, but I'm pretty sure I failed my Econ class this semester. How it happened, I do not know. What I do know is that I am surprised I'm taking it this well. I've never failed anything. Ever. 

The day after I finished my last exam, I flew home to the good ole 3-1-4. St. Louis, that is. But I almost didn't make it. My flight to Denver was scheduled to depart at 6:05am. I got through Security at 5:57am. I have never sprinted harder in my life. Somehow, Kristen got to the gate about 7 minutes earlier than I did (yeah yeah, we all know Kristen's a better runner than I am). The kid behind me in line pulled a skateboard out of his backpack and wheeled his way through the terminal at the speed of light. I don't know how, but I somehow crossed the entire airport, boarded the plane, found a seat, and caught my breath before take-off. 

I can't even begin to describe the relief that surged through my body (and my soul) when I stepped off the plane in STL and realized I was home. All my anxiety and angst and anxiousness from the week before melted away as I walked into our sweet-smelling, tinsel-decorated, Christmas-ready house. I love being home. 

On My Mind

Here's what's been on my mind lately... besides Adele's song One and Only that starts with the phrase, "You've been on my mind." Because, let's face it, Adele is always on my mind. #girlcrush


First: snow. More specifically, the first snow (ha, see what I did there?). Winter has swept across this valley fast and furiously. Just last week people were wearing shorts and flip flops, and now they're bundled up to their ears in coats and scarves and hats and mittens. And boots. I love boots. I have quite a few pairs myself, but usually one pair monopolizes my wardrobe. In the autumn it's my brown leather boots that I wear with pretty much everything: dresses, skirts, jeans, leggings (yes, I know they're not pants), etc. When the snow rolls around, I switch over to my waterproof, coldproof (not a word), cuddly winter boots. In fact, my freshman year, I wore them for 3 months straight until my friend Mer had to instigate an intervention and insist that I not wear them more than 2 days in a row. I'm pretty sure I went through withdrawal. 
Here's a video I found of a snowfall in Gambier: 

A little boring, I know. 

And here's a picture of the mountains in Provo:

Second: house keys. Last year, we had a key pad on our door that made coming home with groceries or pumpkins (or whatever you care to bring home) much much easier. Sometimes the keypad would freeze up, and lock you out, but if you waited a few minutes it would go back to normal. I still remember the code: 50546. Now we don't have a nifty keypad. Instead we have regular old-fashioned keys. Mine got bent, and I'm pretty sure I lost it. It's become a real issue for our apartment--we always forget to bring a key when we go to class or running or to work or whatever, so we get locked out quite frequently. When my cousin was visiting BYU we got locked out and had to climb through Kristen's window. Not fun. 

Third: Bedtimes. On Saturday, I stayed up until 4am for the first time in... well, ever. Bad idea. Terrible idea. I'm still recovering. It messed me up so badly, I even set the kitchen on fire the other night. 

Fourth: Christmas. I know, I know, it's still November. Thanksgiving hasn't even passed--BUT they decorated the Bookstore with Christmas trees and garlands and red satin bows, and it might just be me but I'm pretty sure it smells like cinnamon and pine in there now. In celebration, my roommate and I put up lights around our room. They looked amazing until they burned out. But, I'm already starting to feel that little tingling sensation that means Christmas is near!