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!

We are infinite.

I know, it's been a while. And by "a while" I mean almost a year. I would try to come up with an excuse like, "I've just been too busy" or "Nothing interesting has happened since then," but those are both lies.

I have been busy, yes. But not TOO busy. In fact, when I got home from school this summer, I had an entire month of doing absolutely nothing until my job started in June. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had so few obligations. That month felt like one very long Saturday afternoon where all you do is sit in bed and read. I did other things, too, but I did manage to read the entire Percy Jackson series and most of The Chronicles of Narnia and even the beginning of "Pride & Prejudice" in Portuguese. Let me repeat that: PRIDE AND PREJUDICE IN PORTUGUESE. I am bragging about that and will continue to do so until I feel satisfied. 

What else did I do during that month? I spent a lot of time with my little brothers. Here's a picture of them playing with some baby gators.

I also went on a little trip to New Orleans and spent some time on the Bayou and Lake Ponchartrain. (Hence, the baby gators)

Here's some pictures of the "camp," though I'm still not sure why it's called that because it was one of the quaintest and most comfortable cabins I have ever stayed in.

We also visited an old plantation called Oak Alley and went into the city to be obnoxious tourists and eat powered-sugar-drenched beignets. Here's some pictures of that. 

We're so cool. Okay, enough pictures.

Oh wait, one more. I got my wisdom teeth pulled out shortly after the New Orleans trip. This is what I looked like: 

So embarrassing. 

This summer I was a day camp counselor. My group of kids were 7-8 years old, and they were the best group in the whole camp, hands down. I loved them so much, and--bragging again--they loved me. At the end of the summer two of them even asked if they could come home and live with me. 

When it wasn't 108 degrees and 100% humidity, camp was bearable. We went to the pool every Tuesday and Thursday and I got a pretty intense tan line (for the first time in 5 years maybe?). Probably my favorite quote from the whole summer:

ME: Everyone get in a line behind Jacob, please! (I'm so polite, I know)

JACOB: Aw, man.

ME: Jacob, what's wrong?

JACOB: I don't like my name. I really wish my name was Mr. Fluffy Pants. (He also had a lisp and had a hard time saying his L's too)

Speaking of names... A little boy named Josh who wasn't in my group because he was only 5 years old came up to me on the first day of camp and said, "Hi, I'm Josh. I'm going to be your special buddy!" About a week before camp ended...

JOSH: Did you know that Aubrey is a good name?

ME: Uh, I didn't. Thanks. Why?

JOSH: It's just that... whenever someone's named Aubrey it's always a really pretty girl.

Boys, that is how it's done. But seriously, when I wasn't dying of thirst and exhaustion or crying my eyes out driving home because of things the kids told me about their lives, camp was great.

Next up: SCHOOL.

I declared my major last week--Actuarial Science. It's good to finally feel like I'm heading somewhere with my schooling. I was in a ballet class at the beginning of the semester, but I only made it one week. On the second day of class, our teacher said she was going to take roll a new way. "When I call your name, please do the splits," she said. That was my cue to leave, permanently.

What I felt like doing after watching the Summer Olympics...

What I look like trying to be flexible...

Yeah. Anyway, I switched into a basketball class instead. There's only one other girl, and most of the guys are at least 6 ft. tall, but I'd take elbows to the face and getting shoved halfway across the court over pliés any day. 

For my birthday (I'm finally not a teenager anymore!) I went to the Utah State Fair. My cousin won me a fish, who we named Jeff. Here's a picture of me with Jeff.

Side note--I chopped off my hair.Unfortunately, Jeff died last week. It was the closest my roommate has gotten to crying in... well, a very very very long time.

Speaking of crying, we went to the movie The Perks of Being a Wallflower this weekend. Please go see it. Please. If for nothing else, at least to see Hermione Granger and Percy Jackson acting side by side. 

I hope to write a little more consistently, and maybe even take a few pictures in the near future. Until then, know this: "We are infinite."

Dumb things that make me cry...

As of late I have become increasingly aware of how much I cry. And it's not about big or important things. No, I cry over really insignificant and stupid things. For example...

Bears

It started when I watched a movie with my family about eight years ago. In the first ten minutes a bear was shot, and I burst into tears. For some reason, it was just too sad for my eleven-year-old heart. And it hasn't gotten better. Last year for my English class I had to watch a documentary called Grizzly Man about a man who lived with and studied bears in the wild until one killed him. I wasn't upset when he died (kind of saw that coming). But when two of the bears got in a fight and started ripping each other apart, I started crying again. 

Old People

I'm not sure when this one started, but it's pretty serious. When I watched The Notebook for the first time I didn't cry when Allie left Noah (twice) or when they finally got back together. But I bawled during the last few scenes of the old couple in the nursing home. 


I also sobbed after the first ten minutes of the movie UP. I thought the whole movie was going to be about Ellie and Carl and their life together exploring the world. I was sorely disappointed when--after a montage of picnics and jars of change and colorfully painted houses and old armchairs--Ellie died. I couldn't handle the fact that Carl was going to be so alone(until he met a boy scout and a talking dog, I guess).


This summer I worked (briefly) at the local grocery store. I saw a lot of people wandering in and out of the cluttered aisles. One day I was kneeling putting away lightbulbs on the shelves directly across from the juice refrigerator. I saw an old couple hobbling around, checking things off their small grocery list. At one point the woman left the cart to grab something she had forgotten in another aisle. I watched the old man as he looked up and down the drinks, picked up a carton of pulp-less orange juice, and smiled excitedly and contently as he placed it delicately in the cart. And, yes, I started crying. I have no idea why.

Pollution

A few weeks ago, BYU started construction on the entrance to the SWKT (for those of you who don't know what that is, it doesn't really matter--it's just the tallest building on campus). I walk by it almost every day: on my way to Physics in the morning; between my Book of Mormon, Humanities, and Portuguese classes; and again on my way home at the end of the day. And every time I walked by I got a whiff of the sweet aroma of construction. I don't know what it actually was that made the air smell that particular way, but whatever it was, it reminded me of São Paulo. I've heard that smell is one of the most memory-stimulating senses. And now I believe it, because the first time that poignant and almost sickening scent reached my nose, I was immediately taken back to my childhood and the pollution over that great and chaotic city. And I cried a little bit.

Era Uma Vez

This semester I am taking an intermediate level Portuguese class. As part of the curriculum, we were required to watch a couple Brazilian movies to work on our aural skills and comprehension. One of the movies was called Era Uma Vez. The English title is Once Upon a Time in Rio. Basically, it is a Romeo and Juliet story wherein a rich girl from Ipanema falls in love with a poverty-stricken young man who lives in the morro (slum) on the other side of the city. As they battle social norms, disapproving fathers, drug trafficking, and the heartache of forbidden love, these two young people act as a lens through which you get a glimpse of a tragic aspect of Brazilian culture: the favelas. At the end of the film, pretty much every main character dies (... like in Romeo and Juliet). The final shot pans over the dead lovers lying on the black and white mosaic sidewalks of Rio and ends framing a stunning, but slightly melancholy, ocean view. When I finished watching the movie, I was so angry. I started ranting to my roommates, and then all of a sudden I shouted, furiously, "Guys, I'm crying!' They didn't really believe me (understandably), but then I started sobbing and couldn't stop the rest of night. I went to bed sniveling, holding back the incessant flow of tears. 

Katy Perry

I don't even like Katy Perry. BUT one day I decided to watch her music video Thinking of You. I have no idea what prompted me to do so, but the 1940's setting, lovely cinematography, and absolutely gorgeous co-star got me hooked. As the video went on, I started falling more and more in love with the fetching young soldier. And then, at the end, Katy Perry receives a telegram, and I started crying so hard I was excruciatingly embarrassed. Watch it and you'll understand.


And last, but not least...

Pumpkins

This is by far the worst. When my parents came to visit in October, they took my roommates and I to the grocery store and bought us three beautiful pumpkins to put on our doorstep. They were some of the most perfect (and the heaviest) pumpkins I've ever seen. I loved them. And then one day I looked out the window and saw the maintenance workers hauling our pumpkins away. I ran out (dramatically) and asked why they were taking them. After a long conversation (...argument) about the difference between carved and uncarved pumpkins, apartment regulations, fines, and other boring but traumatic things, I finally got them to agree to leave the pumpkins. As soon as I walked in the door, I started bawling because I was afraid of losing my festive squash.