Goodwill pile

When I was young, I used to apologize to my journal for not writing everyday. I would literally start a sentence with "sorry it's been awhile..." as if the journal could sense my absence and may feel neglected. As with all forms of stress relief, the need for writing tends to ebb and flow in my life. During the past year I have experienced change that's only equivalent is found in my childhood. I have been in a constant state of flux regarding familial, romantic and platonic relationships, my work situation has proven to be anything but boring and I have rarely slept on the same pillow long enough to a call a place home.

As a child, I reacted to change as a negative thing, because it normally was. Change usually meant that something was being taken from me and I would consequently go without. With good reason, my nine year old eyes saw a scary, confusing and unfair world and anxiety and fear were allowed to reign supreme in my life. "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child..."

At some point during the last tumultuous year, I became an adult. Every morning I have woken up to discover a new version of myself in the mirror and every evening I take a load of the old Kyla to Goodwill (just in case someone else needs that baggage). Don't worry, I'm keeping the essentials and some of my favorite pieces, it's just that I realized how much unnecessary crap I had lying around.

So journal, sorry I have been neglecting you, but I've been busy cleaning out my closet: tossing out the bad, rediscovering what is beautiful and embracing the new. I've got a long way to go, but it's a start.

The Hills are Alive...and they are scary as hell.

Why don't I own the "Sound of Music" soundtrack? Off all the music required to spend a week in the Austrian countryside, that is the most obvious choice. I've already had two Fraulein Maria moments. The first occurred at last night's festival concert where the Van Trapp family singers performed just before rushing off to the hills- spotlight on Maria and all! Not really, but the performance was still reminiscent of the famous film and begged for someone in the audience to burst into "Edelweiss." The other moment occurred on Monday's hike down the mountain when the countryside, fresh air and rolling hills forced me to burst into "The Hills are Alive" roughly seven times.

Today's hike held the same magical promise. I was prepared to be overwhelmed by the serenity and beauty of Northern Austria. And I was, at least for the first hour. Practicing solitude and silence has never been my strong point but I managed to leave the ipod behind and to simply enjoy the sounds of nature. Birds chirping, cows mooing, deer bounding away and not a car or human in sight; the first hour was breathtaking and unbelievably peaceful. I romanticized life in the country and all the advantages of spending time away from the hustle and bustle of the modern world.

My descent into paranoia began as the first idyllic hour came to a close. The cows' moos turned from calm to menacing, almost as if they could sense I unapologetically eat their brethren. Suddenly aware that a thin fence was all that separated me from discovering what was behind the maniacal eyes of the bull, I kicked up my speed. This wasn't enough for the dogs though. They decided I was actually a threat to their delicious friends and barked at me until I created enough space between us.

My afternoon switched from the "Sound of Music" to "Twilight" as I went further into the woods. Confusing signs, the ominous cool of the forest and the realization that I could be mauled by a bear and never found caused me to rethink the solo hike. According to my understanding of the world, the best case scenario was a fight to the death between Edward and Jacob to decide who would have my heart. This seemed as likely as following my bread crumbs back to the witch and nearly being thrown in an oven, but I didn't want to take my chances. As a city dweller, I still have the gut instinct that when no other humans can be found the place must be dangerous. Yeah, I didn't grow up camping.

Lessons learned from today's excursion:
Kids should be brought into the forest and forced to survive at a young age.
I watch too much TV.
In a fight to the death between Edward and Jacob, Jacob would totally win.
I can't spend more than one hour apart from civilization without descending into madness and paranoia.
Someday cows will rise up and make us pay for McDonald's. But it is still worth it.

You know it's bad when...

Let's look at a few signs that a concert is failing:

1) It involves jazz
2) People are leaving and not returning
3) You have an intense case of the giggles
4) Even the guy next to you with no musical talent thinks this is a waste of time
5) You are counting lights on the ceiling

I can sit through most concerts that last less than two hours, but I am not perfect. When I attended Blue Lake Fine Arts camp as a child, sitting through a two hour concert every evening was a bit much for me. My giggling fits and inability to stop commenting on the night's performers meant that I endured a lot of scowls and firm warnings from camp counselors over the years. When I couldn't distract others, I was forced to count the tiles on the ceiling and find flaws in the performer's outfits. Since middle school I have developed a real live attention span which can be prolonged if I have play-doh, candy or some other way to occupy my hands or mouth (let's not go there).

Last night was a challenge; Chanda and I attended a concert in conjunction with Freistadt's summer music festival. Truthfully the concert never had a chance with us. It was a German "liederkreis" or "song cycle" with 24 songs that focused on the theme of romantic love, rivers and eventual suicide. Upbeat to say the least. Instead of a traditional take on the liederkreis, last night's performers combined it with Austrian jazz. Austrian jazz is interesting mostly because it's not. Instead of improvisational jazz, Austrian jazz is completely prepared and leaves no room for artistry during the performance. Already with two strikes against it, this performance was sunk because of the soloists' crazy bug eyes which maintained an unusually high level of discomfort within the auditorium. Five minutes into the first song my eyes started to glaze over and I could feel the drool preparing to decorate my shirt at a moment's notice.

Chanda was the real problem. Three straight weeks of piano masterclasses with minimal sleep meant that she had the tolerance of a small child. We started with small, knowing glances, but within twenty minutes the mocking and unnecessary comments began. When I leaned over for my 10th petty comment of the evening, Chanda did the same and I ended up actually biting her ear. That was the beginning of the end. The giggling fit was underway and eventually we both got up to "use the bathroom" for the next hour.

No one was seemed surprised. An hour into the concert I had already seen about twenty people excuse themselves, counted the ceiling light multiple times and mapped out the rest of my week. My gum was tasteless from excessive boredom chewing and without other toys, the concert was officially over. After re-grouping in a nearby room, Chanda and I decided to spend way too much money to take a taxi home and forget the concert ever happened.

Tonight we are attending another concert at the festival. Regardless of how horrible it could be, there is always a chance this will be the best concert of the year, right?! Maybe I will bring my doodle pad with me, just in case.

Weddings + Kyla = disaster.

I don't know why I bother going to weddings anymore. Sure sure, I know it's because you love the people who are getting married, or they are family, but every time I attend a wedding I walk away with a story. Here is another for the books.

I was recently asked to babysit four children at a wedding two hours outside Vienna. Everything seemed to be properly arranged, I knew a few people in attendance and I thought it would be a quick and easy way to make money over a weekend. It is just never that simple. Getting lost on the way there should have been a sign, or even the pouring rain, but I was still naively optimistic.

The wedding reception took place inside a renovated barn and I was somewhat conveniently located directly across from the barn in the "kids area." The first few hours went by without any serious problems apart from the parents' incessant need to check on their offspring every ten minutes. In case you are a parent, this actually makes it harder for the babysitter. Every time you walk out of the room, the otherwise content child screams bloody murder for 5 minutes. I know it's hard to believe your child isn't miserable without you, but maybe you should be thrilled your kid isn't an anti-social disaster. Count your blessings and leave the babysitter in peace.

The situation started to go downhill around 8pm. Three of the toddlers were supposed to fall asleep around this time, however, thanks to the stimulation of the wedding, not a single one responded to my desperate plea for rest. Eating dinner at the kid's table with a screaming child on your lap is not what it is cracked up to be. For the next four hours it was my unhappy job to quiet three screaming, exhausted babies and run back and forth in the pouring rain to the kid's area (goodbye dry feet). During this time I was accused of not feeding a child, preparing their formula incorrectly and when I made a simple inquiry to one of the fathers he responded, "you are the babysitter, aren't you?" Around 12:30am, the toddlers started to pass out and I was permitted to have a drink and enjoy the rest of the wedding. Or so I thought.

First I made the poor choice of sitting by the bride's 70 year-old Swedish father. His drunken ramblings about Americans being the center of the universe were made even less pleasant as he repeatedly invaded my personal space. Soon we were ballroom dancing to Rick James' "Superfreak" where he nearly broke my wrist while trying to turn me. After three kisses on the cheek and an enthused profession of his love, I ran away to find other company.

Luckily a few of Chanda's friends were in attendance and despite their excessive drug and alcohol use, they made for a few good hours of dancing. Somewhere in the middle of my goulash and vodka I realized my ride was nowhere to be seen. After repeated unanswered phone calls I came to the conclusion that I had no bed and I should just dance to ABBA until dawn. I was saved by a 40-something man who drove me back to his guesthouse, asked about the appropriateness of a kiss (declined)and eventually let me sleep in his bed with one of Chanda's older female friends while he graciously took the floor.

After sneaking in and out of breakfast the next morning, I began to long for whatever bed I was intended to occupy the previous evening. I later discovered that there had been a hotel booked for me, but the parents incorrectly assumed that I knew where it was located, the name of the reservation, how to get there and that I had managed to check in. Keep in mind that I was in middle of a million apple fields, had no vehicle, and didn't even know the name of the bride and groom, let alone where my magical hotel may be located. This is a good working definition of miscommunication. The parents in charge apologized for the complication, but weren't overly worried that I had been abandoned after taking care of their kids for 12 hours.

This exciting wedding ended with an Austrian brunch (sauer kraut, sausage, potatoes) where I conversed with a few of the hungover guests. Several of the guests kindly inquired whether or not that I had managed to find a bed while the children's parents ignored me during the entire meal. Did I sleep well? Thanks so much for taking care of my child all day, I really appreciate it! Not so much. I felt a little used and abused and was excited for my after return to sanity. At 4pm I finally arrived back in Vienna a little less poor and in need of a drink and a big sigh. Weddings and babysitting should not mix.

Adventures in Jet Lag

I remember visiting Chanda for the first time when I was 13, mostly because I was SO confused about the everything. The feeling of waking up in a hotel room with blaring sunlight in my eyes at 11am was too much for me. The whole week was overshadowed by this feeling that my body was too heavy to carry around and the only remedy was to give in to the fatigue and sleep for the rest of my life. My flair for the dramatic began at an early age.

Despite my early intolerance for changes in time, a transatlantic flight doesn't get to me anymore. Depending on my arrival time, I am usually functional within a day thanks to sleeping drugs, red wine and practice. But mostly the drugs. My latest flying adventure through me for a spin; flying from Zambia to MI and then MI to Austria with a week of "rest" in between. As usual, the first flight barely registered on my radar. Sure I stayed up unnecessarily late playing on facebook a few nights and woke up feeling a little tired, but nothing I couldn't handle.

Traveling to Vienna a week later, I found that my body was slightly more overwhelmed by the change. On the third night of my sojourn, I randomly woke at 2am to discover that I was no longer tired. Far from counting sheep, I decided a bowl of cereal and four episodes of "The Office" was the only way to pass my time. Two hours later, I finally fell back asleep.

On night number four I managed to sleep soundly. Well, that is until the honking outside wouldn't stop. I eventually climbed out of bed to discover a small accident and domestic dispute occurring on the closest street corner. Awesome! Thanks to the damage on one of the vehicles, every time the driver started the car the entire neighborhood enjoyed a prolonged honking (and not one of those pleasant horns either). My enthusiasm for the situation was heightened as three police cars and two firetrucks arrived at the scene. Soon all my neighbors were staring from their windows and enjoying the 3am entertainment. The combination of the young Turkish couple's domestic dispute and my neighbors yelling at them made me desperately want to understand German. There is a first time for everything. Eventually I fell back asleep, hoping the next night would bring a juicier episode on the Viennese streets.

My jet lag subsided by night number five, which is great and all, but I do miss my nocturnal TV. Maybe after my next flight across the Atlantic? Here's hoping!

The Calm After the Storm

2 weeks ago, I was just leaving Lusaka. In a weird way, it feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. I've been on three continents and in three different cultures in the past two weeks. My head is spinning...for more reasons than one. Let's just say it was a busy Spring.

The end of my time in Zambia came abruptly due to some health issues. I decided to head home on my original plane ticket of June 3 instead of extending my stay through August, as originally planned. I was disappointed, but also felt like it was time to go for my emotional and physical well-being.

The last few weeks brought an amazing trip through Tanzania and Zanzibar with my flatmate Michelle (check out my face book pictures!) In addition, I was able to say goodbye to my co-workers through a number of final celebrations and my friends with a Korean karaoke night. In my last few days, I packed up, left an entire suitcase of personal items at the flat, and departed from Lusaka with two (overweight) suitcases, a heavy bottle of Amaruela and a heavier heart.

Back in Michigan, I chowed down at the first fast food restaurant I could find (thank God for Wendy's) and immediately began to see everyone I had ever met from 6am to midnight. I started by causing inordinate amounts of trouble with my friends at a weekend wedding and the fun never ended. It felt so good to be surrounded by comfort, predictability and people who loved me. I drove fast, delighted in food samples and drinking fountains, and went shopping nearly every day. It was a necessary week of indulgence and love.

Just a few days ago, I boarded the plane for Vienna. After the shortest and most WONDERFUL flight of all time, (thank you very much, Olivier) I arrived to my sister's empty flat and the decompression began. I've spent most of my time running through the Belvedere gardens, watching TV, journaling, reading and taking care of myself. Am I bored? Not at all. It's been ages since I have been alone in a safe space and I've got loads of things to work through.

It's been one year since I was in Vienna for Chanda and Olivier's wedding and I can't believe how much things have changed, how much I've changed. Sometimes that is scary, at others it is invigorating. And that is exactly why I am back here, spending my summer doing basically nothing. I desperately need SPACE. Space to breathe, think, and process what went wrong. Space to forgive myself for mistakes that I made. Space to figure out what the next step is in my career and in relationships. Space to reconnect to the person I am and to discover the person that I want to be. It's a lofty goal for the summer, but I need to start the journey somewhere. The storm ended; time to pick up the pieces, salvage what I can and start new.

Politness and Peace at all Costs

Zambians are the nicest people you will ever meet. Generally speaking they will drop everything to give you directions, go out of their way to chat with strangers and are good-hearted and genuine people. Despite my obvious foreignness, I feel oddly comfortable at work and even walking down the street. This overwhelming sense of “niceness” forces the mind to wonder if the polite words are a mere guise for secret gossip when you turn the corner. While this can be the case, I have found that Zambians genuinely want to know why you are here, how you like their country and how you left Obama.

A paralegal workshop in Kabwe in late March alerted me to a potential problem with the societal urge to be nice and polite. I consistently struggled with how to address the group because of the wide-range of educational levels and comfort with English. I got the sense that the trainees were nodding their heads because they should and not necessarily because they comprehended what I was saying. My co-worker, Chrispine indicated to me that my hunch was correct during the workshop. On a walk back from town, Chrispine remarked that when I end prayers no one else says “Amen.” Apparently this is because the participants had no idea that I had stopped praying. And why didn’t they laugh at my jokes (a greater concern for me); obviously they didn’t catch a thing that I was saying. In fact, Chrispine was sent by one of participants to ask what perfume I was wearing. She was too scared to ask me herself.

I am aware that I speak quickly, and am told often. At times I do a great job of slowing down my speech, but it seems I have a ways to go based on my rapid-fire remarks at the workshop. While I feel terrible that the participants couldn’t understand me, I have a stronger sense of frustration that no one told me. If one brave participant raised their hand or pulled me aside and gently said “Kyla, you are speaking 100km per minute and we don’t get a thing you are saying,” I would have repeated everything and slowed down! When I questioned Chrispine about this, he said simply “they didn’t want to offend you.” Of course. But when I think about how much the participants missed because they were concerned about my feelings, wouldn’t it be better to risk it in case I was saying something that mattered?

Since Zambians don’t make waves, it’s not surprising they are one of the few countries in Africa that attained independence without much violence. More importantly, there has been almost no violence to speak of since the British were sent home. Zambia was once a shining light in Southern Africa; however, things have been going slowly downhill for years. Money invested by foreign nations and donors goes mysteriously missing and the infrastructure continues to crumble. Lusaka streets that were vibrant, clean, and lined with Jacaranda trees now have a depressing look of something that “used to be great.”

I’ve often heard the phrase “peace at all costs” when it comes to the Zambian’s attitude towards their government. They put up with corruption, mudslinging, excessive wastefulness and monopolies because they fear what causing a stir may do. It’s difficult to blame them; looking at the civil wars and genocide that took place in Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Angola, Rwanda and most depressingly, the DRC, I would prefer peace as well.

The recent financial crisis put a strain on the deteriorating conditions and minimal resources within Zambia and estimates are that things will only get worse for the struggling South African country. It’s not surprising that Zambia was ranked number 7 on the list of countries likely to fall into civil unrest in the next year. One hopes and prays that peaceful change will come to Zambia and development will be allowed to continue. However, in a country where “peace at all costs” and has reigned supreme for years, you have to wonder if there isn’t something boiling behind all the smiling faces.

Things Fall Apart

The washing machine, the kitchen sink (both faucets), the table, two dining room chairs, all hooks and sticky things, the toilet (three times), the kitchen and bathroom drains, all the sockets in my room (twice), and my overhead light. This is a short list of the things that have needed immediate attention since I arrived in Lusaka five months ago. This does not include the items that were fixed by various family members to prevent catastrophe. Despite our insanely high rent, the flat is literally falling apart.

Sure we can’t depend on anything purchased here, but surely the water and electricity should be fool-proof…wrong again. As already noted, the water comes and goes as often as my emotions and the electricity has proved to be a further challenge. This month, Sara and I got a lesson in monopolies, inefficiency and superbly bad property management.

All electricity in Zambia is operated through “ZESCO,” a government-owned monopoly. In typical African fashion, you pre-pay for the units using a card with a unique account and meter number before entering the purchased units into your ZESCO meter. Our flat has been buying electricity in this fashion for years, but in early March, ZESCO decided to throw us for a loop.

Our units were running rather low (about 40) when we finally headed to ZESCO to purchase our units for the next month; however, upon our arrival we were informed that our account had been blocked because there was no official account number. We quickly learned that this was a problem between ZESCO and homenet (our delightful property managers). Despite the fact that we were not responsible for the problem, a 5-day process began where Sara spent her mornings trying to urge homenet to help us while I spent my afternoons talking with ZESCO. During this time, our units were running low, forcing us to stop using electricity in the hope that the refrigerator wouldn’t run out before the problem was resolved.

ZESCO maintained that it was homenet’s responsibility to find the old account number and homenet insisted they didn’t have the information but no one was interested in providing a temporary solution for the flat. After a number of heated phone calls, confrontations, and long days away from work, our account was magically “unblocked” only 8 hours after we lost all electricity. We still have no idea how they “fixed” the problem, or if it will be an issue in the future. Plus homenet sincerely expected a fruit basket for all their hard work (a.k.a doing their job in a slow manner).

While the situation was beyond irritating, it did shine some light on the lack of customer service provided by companies with zero competition. Both ZESCO and homenet are monopolies, so threats of switching companies or moving flats are ineffectual and toothless. For me this is a short term frustration, but I do have a lingering feeling of “what am I paying you people for?!”

Mazabuka Sweets: Zambian Trainings and Lent

My first mistake was thinking that giving up sweets was a good idea. Always a poor choice. In any city, in any corner of the world, this is just torture (note that I am writing this 6 days into my Lent). In Zambia, this is basically impossible. Am I sick? Am I on a diet? First no soft drinks, now no sweets? I must be out of my mind! Denying anything at a Zambian training is relatively impossible since eating is often considered the point of the event (learning is secondary). Let’s look at the schedule/eating program for my paralegal training (this is not abnormal):

Breakfast 7:30am (corn flakes, eggs, sausage, beans, two pieces of toast, tea)
Class 8:30-10:30am
Morning Tea Break 10:30-11am (tea/coffee, soft drinks, large plate of cookies/biscuits)
Class 11-1pm
Lunch 1-2pm (nshima/rice, three portions of meat, two side dishes, macaroni, soft drinks, dessert)
Class 2-3:30pm
Afternoon Tea Break 3:30-4pm (tea/coffee, soft drinks and cake)
Class 4-5pm
Dinner around 6pm (another meal roughly the size of lunch)

Since I don’t drink soda and am observing lent, this means that I have to explain that I don’t want a delicious treat to the wonderful Zambian host at least FIVE times per day. First I need to be concerned about being culturally insensitive, since not taking food is not that simple. Second, this goes against the entire mindset of workshops in Zambia. I will elaborate…

There is an interesting sense of entitlement when a Zambian sits at a workshop; instead of understanding that you are only there to learn, most Zambians have a completely separate list of material expectations. This includes a sitting allowance (payment for attendance, thank you affluent non-profits coaxing Africans into workshops), t-shirts, excessive amounts of food and drink, certificates to prove they completed the training and a full set of worksheets/materials. The WORST sin at any workshop is to run out of food. This has only happened to me once, and I will just say it was one of my worst days at IJM. If you lack other materials, don’t expect trainees to share. Every participant must have their own copy of every single handout, or else you will be the subject of gossip and will be considered “poor organizers.”

All this to say, a trainee turning down any item offered to them is unheard at a workshop. I now not only stand out at as the random muzungu at the table but I have added to my list of the bizarre characteristics that I don’t take what is rightfully mine. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Turning down a delicious cupcake Sara made is one thing, but it’s much harder to turn down a sweet concocted by the Zambian woman offering it to me on her knees.

Let’s Talk about Fraud (and other things you learn at devotions)

Devotions are generally seen as a time for prayer, thanksgiving and focusing your energy on God; however, when placed in a corporate setting, I have discovered the added elements of awkwardness and inappropriate comments. In my field office, a different member of staff leads devotions every day. This basically means that I get to learn a LOT about every one of my co-workers each month. Some choose to get personal and discuss personal struggles while others bring up a controversial passage and lead a heated thirty minute debate. The majority of Zambians belong to the Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) or Pentecostal church and my views as a non-denom raised CRC Christian tend to clash with theirs. Therefore, I have learned to choose my battles around the devotion table. Sure they may think I am crazy for drinking alcohol and eating pork, but is that something that will keep me up at night? Not really.

There is a certain co-worker (let’s call him Julius for fun) that always leads the most interesting devotions. And by interesting, I of course mean beyond uncomfortable and outlandish. Thus far he has taught the office the biblical teaching on how to rear children (although he has none of his own), accused the U.S. government of creating HIV/AIDS to control the population of Africa, and informed us that praying to trees will make the rains come. The majority of the time during his devotions I feel like I must be staring in a ZNBC version of “The Office;” this time playing the role of Jim, gently rolling my eyes to the camera and quietly screaming, “are you seeing this?!” Despite my desire to crawl under the table and die during these moments, I have actually started to look forward to Julius’ morning at the devotional table. Without a TV in my flat, it is by far the best entertainment I get all day!

On Wednesdays, IJM takes a break from its exhilarating devotional table and heads over to Northmead Pentecostal for devotions with World Vision, another international non-profit organization serving in Lusaka. World Vision devotions generally fail to keep my attention because I don’t worship well while being yelled at. After 30 minutes of a short Zambian male calling for my repentance, the real fun begins! World Vision takes advantage of this captive audience to give its weekly organizational announcements. This may include introducing a new regional director, encouraging the staff to take a survey, or if we are really lucky, an in-depth talk on fraud and its consequences. One Wednesday members of the IJM and World Vision staff were imparted with the knowledge of the laws of fraud, forgery and how to report these crimes. Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore…

Despite my seemingly critical attitude about devotions in Zambia, it has been fascinating to see where the Zambian church focuses its energy. There is a greater emphasis on following God’s law instead of grace, a belief that time management is next to godliness, that good deeds will bring about financial prosperity, and a focus on salvation above simply walking in Christ’s footsteps. Whether or not I can worship during organizational devotions is a matter of debate, but it is always an educational experience.

Water Water...nowhere?

I tend to take access to water for granted, don’t all Americans? You turn on the faucet and BAM there it is. Right when you want it, the right temperature, the right amount, starting and stopping exactly when you command it. I have tried to become more aware of this privilege in the past year or so, even engaging in Mars Hill’s “Walk for Water;” a fund-raiser that also serves to increase West Michigan’s awareness about the complexity of access to water around the world. I have a friend who simulated not having immediate access to water for lent last year, committing herself to six weeks of walking back and forth to a local lake to retrieve all her water. At the end of the day though, if she really needed it, she could always turn on the faucet. Similarly, the Walk for Water serves an important purpose, but how many of the participants had already forgotten about that walk by the following Saturday? I am not saying that it is impossible to empathize with others because they are across an ocean, or that Christians should stop trying to do so, only that I have been blessed with a number of recent experiences which have finally brought the “Walk for Water” closer to home.

My flat has consistent access to water (normally), but it is often the pressure and temperature that vary greatly. This is most evident in the dreaded shower. When I first arrived, I was pleased to find that while I had to squat in the shower (a great thigh workout!) I could depend on a relatively warm and enjoyable shower. Not so in December. Maybe it was the last bit of the dry season finally making its way to our pipes, but the water just could not be bothered to be warm or even there. About 75% of the time I would literally have to pump myself up to get into the bath, reminding myself that yes, three days is too long to go without, and yes, someone will eventually notice that stench. The double whammy of NOT going home for Christmas and the sub-zero showers were almost too much for my mind to handle. At times I was pleasantly surprised by warm water, but inevitably, those were the days that the pressure got me. Two minutes into the shower, lathered up in shampoo and body wash, the water would just stop. Most times it turned back on almost immediately, but sometimes it would take over a minute. These were the days I ended up almost sprinting to the kitchen and splashing water over my body; those several minutes of standing naked and lathered in the shower seemed to go on for a lifetime.

My favourite experience with water thus far has got to be the first weekend of December; the water turned off early Friday morning and didn’t return until late Monday afternoon, with some intermittent problems persisting even after its return. For our flat, this meant our only “shower” of the weekend was taken in a pool on Saturday afternoon plus we got to lug ever litre of water up three flights of stairs in order to have something to drink or flush the toilet. We discontinued washing our dishes for the weekend, and given our small supply of actual cutlery, this meant we were very creative with how we ate various dishes. Can that wine glass be used for pasta? Sure! How about those tiny tea spoons for cutting red meat? Perfect! To top it all off, after the water returned, the dirty, thirsty residents of the Rectory Court Flats received a letter berating us for complaining about the lack of water (how dare we) and stating with surprise that no one had even called and thanked the agency for turning the water back on! What a scandal! Should we be calling this agency everyday to thank them for graciously providing the services we pay them for? Perhaps a lovely fruit basket because our water has not been randomly turned off every weekend in November? I know customer service is not a universally accepted norm, but we are certainly not in Kansas anymore.

Nothing has really changed in the past month, the shower still tries to freeze me out and the faucets test me daily. I guess that sometimes it has more to do with your attitude. A weekend without any water can make those cold showers bearable and gives you a bit more patience when the water explodes out of the faucet for the thirtieth time. I am just thankful that I have exploding cold water instead of having to walk to retrieve it every day. Sure I miss my consistent, reliable North American water, but I suppose it is all about your perspective.