Dazzled and frazzled

A new school term has begun. I just started my research assistantship in earnest today, and will be starting the ethics review process for my own research project next week. Both of my studies are supervised by the most brilliant, caring professor. I've discovered that it's not uncommon for professors at the graduate level to have it all: passion, brilliance, infinite wisdom and knowledge, matched with motherly nurturing instincts regardless of the gender of the professor.

I love the lab that I'm working in. I love the gleaming floor, the shelves of stuffed animals, the cupboards full of audio and video tapes and CD's -- important data from various studies -- and the bank of computers. I'll be researching the effects of a particular voice treatment program on the voice quality and speech intelligibility of children with Down's Syndrome and cerebral palsy. It's all way beyond my current scope of expertise, but I'm loving the potential impact of the research. I can't wait to dive deeper into it.

In the midst of all this, this building of new dreams and the welcome productivity, I'm frazzled. I don't feel lost any more, but am overwhelmed by a new type of worry. I just put in a scholarship application yesterday, but was informed that due to university cut-backs, my certainty of receiving funding was no longer a sure thing. I had never counted on receiving scholarships when I initially applied for grad school, but now that I'm living without a job and with all the expenses of being in school and being in a new city, the security I had felt in the savings I had accrued as a teacher has now crumbled.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm here for the right reasons. Then, when I'm reading my textbooks or working in the research lab, and my mind's eye can see me working with children with speech or language issues, my heart skips a beat. If that feeling is not the indication of the right reasons, then I don't know what is. But, I'm scared. I'm terrified that I'll never know enough, that school will wear me down, that jumping through these hoops will make me jaded.

In times like these, I cast my books aside and decide to just live. Over the weekend, I went down to the Ice on Whyte Festival, an annual ice-sculpture competition. The artists were frantically putting the finishing touches on their creations, getting ready for next morning's judging. If they could put their hearts and souls into something so transitory, so ephemeral as ice, I can surely plug away at my studies and research. Because, ultimately, it all matters -- all of it, the dreaming, the imagining, the chipping away, the stepping back, the re-evaluating, the worrying, the creating.... All of it, whether it's for the few days when an ice-sculpture stands glistening under the winter skies before the sun melts it away, or for the graduate degree and the potential decades of a satisfying career, it starts with the dreaming. And if the worrying is part of the process, I guess I'll just have to live with it.

Let the holidays begin!

The setting: A deserted university computer lab. Four days after the last class of the term. One day before the first final.

The city had its first real dump of snow. Cars all over the city wouldn't start; those that did inched their way along on unplowed streets. The temperature dropped drastically one night, to an astounding -46 degrees Celsius. It was a record-breaking sort of day.

I was there, from eight in the morning till after five in the evening. My nose was buried in articles, ones I should have read since my midterms two months ago, but somehow had never gotten around to. Life had happened, and schoolwork had taken a backseat.

One or two other lonely and desperate souls wandered in and out, ghosts lacking in holiday cheer. But none was as desperate as I, the one who lingered steadily on, pausing only occasionally to look out the windows and marvel that the world outside hadn't vanished completely.

Fast forward to a week and a half later, and I'm done! For better or for worse, my finals are all over. All five exams, the children of my newly-gathered knowledge, have been sent off to fend for themselves, imperfect though they might be. After the soul-crushing first, the rest just seemed to have whisked by all too soon.

Happy Holidays! May cookie-baking, joyful carolling, merry-making begin now! 

Amidst the throng

Summertime in Vancouver means fireworks. Several hundred thousand people swarmed to the beaches to take in the Celebration of Lights, an annual international pyrotechnic competition. That's several hundred thousand each night of the competition. Estimates were that over the four nights of the event, approximately 1.4 million people went to root for the pyrotechnic teams from Canada, the UK, South Africa, and China this year.

My father is of the ilk that says a fireworks competition is a waste of money, akin to burning paper bills. I, however, am a believer in the transitory magic, the beauty that passes in the blink of an eye. Through the years, I have become more familiar with the jargon used to describe the various kinds of rockets and bombs. I've been told that red and green fireworks are common, but that blue displays are rare.

Part of me has lost that naive wonderment. I wait and watch for the blue stars and fountains. When I see them spin and whirl, I tell myself that I'm witnessing a "girandole." I have to work to suppress that part of my brain that analyzes the colour schemes and arrangements in order to just ooooh and aaaah whole-heartedly.

But, when the shells and rockets and mines and roman candles all explode together in their grand symphonic finale, my brain effectively shuts off and my heart takes over. I gaze up over the tops of heads, not wanting to blink for fear of missing something. The small child in me surfaces, straining to catch the fairy pyrotechnic dust that falls from above. And when it's over, a trace of that small child remains, pulsates, walks along the sidewalk with a lilt in her step, amidst the throng of several thousand people on a warm summer night.

The music, the rain, and the fly with the prettiest eyes

I spent this last weekend with a couple of good friends (from Inuvik!). We were at the Islands Folk Festival in Duncan, BC, and took in three days of folksy, bluesy, funky, eclectic music.

On Saturday, the day started off scorching and blue, but in the late afternoon, the clouds loomed in. While the optimistic audience sat unmoving in their lawn-chairs and blankets, the skies opened up and the steady drip-dripping grew more intense. Then, the raindrops eased as dusk fell, and our faces were lit in a surreal orange glow.

We turned our eyes and camera lenses skyward, marvelling at the rainbow that seemed to have sprouted from the treetops. And we swayed along with the masses to the beat from the main stage, the rain and the dusk and the rainbow turning us all into innocent little children once more.

As darkness covered us, the lights on the stage grew brighter, casting their own technicolor rainbow upon the performers. The sky above echoed once again, in lightning flashes against the deepening burgundy. As the audience stood and cheered and waved their arms high into the air, the torrents began. And the rain turned the dancing and the waving into electricity, into a youthful, ceaseless energy. Not only did the storm not dampen spirits, it left a magical sheen on everyone's skin. Toe-tapping became more frantic; cheers grew louder; the gyrating, buzzing bodies radiated an un-self-conscious abandonment.

On Sunday, blue skies and sunshine returned, along with the heatwave. My friend and I took cover as the last performer graced the main stage. We sat along a long wooden table in the shade, and allowed refreshingly cool beer to trickle down our throats. A fly carefully alighted on my friend's arm. With a cocked head and an intensity normally reserved for the hours after more drinks than we had had, my friend stared at the speck on her upper arm. "This fly has the prettiest eyes," she remarked. I stared at the blue-green iridescent insect eyes for only a second before the creature took off. I laughed as I realized how funny and how true it was.

This past weekend was the blue of the sky, the orange of the dusk, the wispy swirl of a rainbow, the greens and yellows and pinks of spotlights, the burgundy of the night sky, the white-gold flashes of lightning, and the silvery blue-green of one itinerant fly's eyes. It was that, and the beat of the drums, the strum of guitars, the babble of sun-kissed children, the rising of voices in song and in cheer. And in praise of a collective experience. In praise of feeling something, of our pulses beating in time, of our bodies moving in sync and out of sync, but moving, moving, our hearts growing stronger and our souls freer.

Culling

I'm slowly culling through the boxes in the basement, boxes that I had shipped back from Inuvik a year ago. Instead of having them take up precious storage space at my parents', I've decided to dig through everything, and slate the items either for shipment to Edmonton, or else for donation.

So far, I've created more of a mess than anything else. I've kept less than half of the clothing items. Next come the books; that'll be the tough part. I hate parting with any books, but I know that aside from my few favourites, most of the others really should have been gone long ago.

The one good thing about rummaging around in the basement is the reprieve from the midday heat. Not a drop of rain has fallen since my arrival back in Vancouver, and the forecast predicts at least five more days of the same sunny, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky weather.

The evenings are the only times I feel comfortable venturing outside. Last night, we took a nice stroll in Queen Elizabeth Park, and I took numerous photos of the blossoms and the panoramic views of the city and the mountains.

And it's back to the basement I go....

Beach days

The temperature has soared to 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit). The general masses gather on the beaches around the city, hoping to catch a breeze off the ocean. Joggers take to the trails in their shades, tanks, and shorts, impervious to the heat. Parents chase after their toddlers, who instinctively make a mad dash toward the waves. The sand surface is abuzz with chatter, the rise and lull of human voices -- excited voices, in-love voices, the end-of-another-workday voices....

An amateur musician performs a rap for all passersby. Some stop to listen; others move on squintingly toward the evening sun far in the horizon. Couples swing-dance to an imaginary tune, barefoot on the grass, spinning each other self-absorbedly. The world of sand and water -- of youth playing volleyball, and of the lone man gently propelling himself on a surfboard on the soft-lapping waves -- spins by, till the sun sets and night falls and the crowd disperses. And all that remains are the lights of the high-rises reflecting off the water, and the north shore mountains looming like silent giants guarding our slumber.

Ode to summer

Oh, the lazy days of summer are finally here! Time for sand scorching, toe-dipping, twirling, whirling, laid-back lounging days.... Squinting, sunshiney, watermelon seed-spitting days.... Evening strolling, magazine-flipping, lemonade-sipping days.... Piano-tinkering, cat-napping, shadow-catching days....

A bridge

This is a trestled railroad bridge that runs over the highway between Whitecourt and Edmonton. I've come to know it well. We drive under it every time we go down to Edmonton for a weekend getaway / shopping trip. 

However, the picture was taken three summers ago, when I was driving from the North toward Saskatchewan during a strange roadtrip, an opportunity to have an extended farewell to a friend who was moving there from Inuvik. Little did I know then that I would become familiar with this stretch of highway just a few years later, and that I would no longer be in the North.

In another month, I'll pass under this bridge once more, toward another phase in my life, toward growing more fully into myself and who I will become.

Makeover

I've decided it's time this blog got a makeover. I was beginning to be annoyed that the column for blog posts was too narrow for most widescreen computer monitors, so I tinkered with the template a bit this evening. The photos on previous posts now look out of proportion (too small). I think I'll start posting bigger pics from now on.

No special trip for me this weekend, so I will post more Jasper photos from some weeks ago to test this out:

One of those days

Today was just one of those days, when laziness settled over everyone like a fog, and the hours stretched out. It was one of those days when we all found ourselves glancing at the clock too often, counting the minutes until the school bell would ring to signal the end of the day. About half of the high school was missing, off to Valleyview for a track-meet. The half that remained either stayed in bed, knowing full-well the futility of trying to do schoolwork, or else showed up at school with droopy eyes, with heavy feet that dragged along the empty hallways.

I ended up sitting in my classes and chatting with the few students who had come. In between our disjointed conversations, I managed to read a novel from cover to cover. It had been recommended to me by my Grade 10 English student, a boy who did not like reading much. When I see him next week, after he's back from his track-meet, I'll discuss Tex with him, and tell him what my favourite parts of the book are. And, perhaps, I'll recommend a book for him to read.

I'll leave you with some photos of two weekends ago, of beautiful, glorious Jasper. As we drove down the Icefield Parkway, I could feel a sense of wonderment welling up from inside of me. I'd love to live with those snowy mountains surrounding me, enveloping me with their majestic peaks.

Homesick

I've been back from spring break for a week and a half, and already, I'm homesick. This is a strange sensation for me, as I have a hard time defining where "home" is anymore. Am I missing the North, the days that stretch increasingly longer, into the snow-blinding golden world that soon melts and bursts into lushness? Or am I missing the cherry blossoms of Vancouver, the crisp, fragrant, silky air? Mostly, I think I miss the feeling of home, the feeling that emanates from the core, from my heart, stomach, liver, and lungs. I miss the feeling that tells me the air I breathe smells of belonging, that my blood pumps vigorously of a "comfortableness."

Here are some pictures from my spring break in Vancouver. How I yearn to walk along the Fraser River now....

Breathing in the spring

I love Hallmark's Smilebox application, which allows me to create photo slideshows and send them to friends easily. This evening, I went out into the garden to snap some photos of the flowers, and then sauntered to the nearby lake for a leisurely after-supper stroll. The light-pink cherry blossoms are already out; now, if only the darker pink ones will show their stuff....

Movie meme

I've been watching quite a few movies in the past couple of weeks. My good friend in Inuvik sent me a flash-drive with scanned pages of a Social Studies textbook that I needed for my students. He also managed to fill up the remaining memory on the flash-drive with assorted movies, which I've been enjoying during the dull evenings here in Fox Creek.

I must say that my life here is too humdrum to blog about, so I'm resorting to a meme about movies that my friend A had tagged me for:

1. Name a movie that you have seen more than 10 times. Bridget Jones's Diary, The Hours -- two movies that I always dig up when I have the blues.

2. Name a movie that you've seen multiple times in the theater. Contact

3. Name an actor/actress that would make you more inclined to see a movie. Cate Blanchett, Johnny Depp, Kate Winslet, Sean Penn

4. Name an actor/actress that would make you less likely to see a movie. Adam Sandler, Will Farrell

5. Name a movie that you can quote from. Little Women

6. Name a movie musical that you know all of the lyrics to all of the songs. Moulin Rouge

7. Name a movie that you have been known to sing along with. The Sound of Music

8. Name a movie that you would recommend everyone see. Me and You and Everyone We Know (It's not a movie for kids though.)

9. Name a movie that you own. I own waaaaay too many to name just one!

10. Name an actor that launched his/her entertainment career in another medium but who has surprised you with his/her acting chops.  Queen Latifah

11. Have you ever seen a movie in a drive-in? If so, what? No, I've never been to a drive-in....

12. Name a movie that you keep meaning to see but just haven't yet gotten around to it. The Reader -- but this will soon be remedied.

13. Ever walked out of a movie?  Almost walked out of The Butterfly Effect, and was so glad I didn't.

14. Name a movie that made you cry in the theater. The Secret Lives of Bees -- I sobbed pretty nearly all the way through.

15. Popcorn?  No, I'm not fond of the way it sticks to my teeth.

16. How often do you go to the movies (as opposed to renting them or watching them at home)? I used to go at least once a week, but living in small towns without movie theatres has made it immeasurably more difficult.

17. What's the last movie you saw in the theater? New In Town -- despite what the critics said, I found it sweet and charming, albeit fluffy and predictable.

18. What's your favorite/preferred genre of movie? Drama for sure

19. What's the first movie you remember seeing in the theater? Snow White

20. What movie do you wish you had never seen? My Winnipeg

21. What is the weirdest movie you enjoyed? I love all of Charlie Kaufman's movies, and they're pretty weird.

22. What is the scariest movie you've seen? Silence of the Lambs -- saw it when I was ten and it traumatized me.

23. What is the funniest movie you've seen? Bridget Jones's Diary -- both the movie (the first one) and the book were hilarious.

We just came back from another weekend in Edmonton.  Here are a couple of photos, one of the wide prairie skies along the highway, and one of the provincial legislative building at night, courtesy of my dinky cellphone camera:

To sum it up

Low energy at home, no energy to blog, conserving it all for my day-job....

I'm slowly getting my Media classes into the swing of things. I'm still trying to balance what to do with senior high students for eighty minutes every day, versus forty minutes with junior high students every other day.... Too much time to fill with one group, not enough time to get stuff done with the other.

I had forgotten how much of "teaching" actually involves other things, such as phone calls home, paperwork, late-night research, etc..  Being in the classroom with students is the breezy part, and the part I enjoy most. Wish I could hire someone else to do all the other stuff.

Last weekend, we went to Edmonton, and this weekend, we went to Whitecourt. Here are the windswept, crystalline trees along the highway. There is a slight possibility that it was me in the car, toting my cellphone-camera, that was slanted, and not the trees themselves. Yes, slight possibility.

I finally put together the table that we had bought in Edmonton. We had a corner in the condo that just seemed like a waste of space, so we decided to turn it into a sewing corner. Twelve little washers remained after I had put the table together with the nuts and bolts and screws. How crucial could twelve little washers be? (And by the way, I don't sew.... The sewing machine terrifies me, actually.)

And, last but not least, here's a photo of my Duncan. She's at my parents' in Vancouver these few months while I'm here in Fox Creek, and I miss her fuzzy little face nuzzled next to my not-so-fuzzy one at night. Here she is in her Vancouver home, catching some rays on the window sill.

I believe in karma, and in old frog princes

I'm a firm believer in the Golden Rule, and in karma. This morning, everything just seemed to work out beautifully, as though the universe was rewarding me for the little things I'd been doing, but rewarding me all in one go at that.

A couple of days ago, I received a call from a third-year English student at UBC. She was fundraising for the university, and we had fallen into an extended conversation about my favourite professor, Dr. B.  It turned out that this student had Dr. B for two of her courses. There I was, waxing poetic about how brilliant Dr. B was, how I loved her class, her insight, her willingness to debate and to flesh out every detail of a character or a text. After talking to the young student for about fifteen minutes, I just had to make a donation. Although I have next to no income right now, I just had to. When I hung up, part of me felt that I had been suckered into something that I hadn't prepared for. Yet, another part of me was glad that my donation perhaps made the evening a little brighter for the young student. I could hear my former self in her. She was struggling with what to pursue after finishing up her English degree, and was contemplating going into Education and becoming a teacher. She was exactly where I was eight years ago, full of enthusiasm, not yet jaded by experience, with the world seemingly at her feet.

This morning, I opened up my e-mail inbox to discover that WestJet had awarded me a travel credit toward a future plane ticket because they had cancelled my flight over Christmas, leading me to have to wait for five hours in the Vancouver airport. This unexpected surprise more than compensated me for that donation that I thought I couldn't really afford. I hadn't even complained at the airline counter that day when I arrived to the news that my flight had been cancelled. I took it all in stride, when other customers were fuming and screaming at the ticket agent. I received a meal voucher that day, and managed to have a marvellous breakfast while I waited and started my new vacation novel. This proves that sometimes, it's not the dog that barks the loudest that gets the most treats. Kindness and positivity go a long way.

What's more, I received confirmation from both grad schools this morning that my applications were complete. This meant that Dr. S had managed to save me by writing another letter in Brazil and sending it to Edmonton; this meant that the documents that I had feared would never make it to Halifax had somehow managed to make it after all.

I found a gift today too. I was searching for some important documents that I needed, and was slightly disgruntled at having to move boxes around and dig for the papers (I have yet to unpack my boxes from Inuvik). In the same box as the one where my important files were was a poetry book that my friend E had sent me last May. She had serendipitously found the book during a foray in an antique shop, and had thought of me. While perusing the volume in a small coffee shop, she had written me a letter, detailing her thoughts, her humdrum happenings, and what was restless and at ease in her heart. This was the perfect day to have found this most cherished gift once more, to sit and contemplate, to savour some poetry, the words of a stranger and their connection with my own soul, and the words of a friend and their gentle influence.

A quote from E, from that beautiful letter: You will find your prince charming some day V. You know the old saying -- you just have to kiss a few frogs along the way. Last May, I was still reeling from heartbreak, and was not truly believing those words, not truly believing that there's such a thing as healing. Now, I can smile and appreciate that wise advice with a different sentiment. As I had mentioned in my last post, I'm not searching frantically anymore, and am not waiting desperately to be found anymore.

And E's words were in turn inspired by a poem, from page seventy-three of the volume by Marnie Duff that she had sent me. I love this enough to type it all below:

That Old Subtle Affair

I've forgotten the code words
we used to kiss into the receiver,
to catch that one moment, or this other,
for our later touch to recall.

Let's tuck this one away, too,
with the others, 'til some soft future
night, when forgotten words will recollect
our memories. New again.

Someday, my old Frog-Prince, I'll roll
this gold ball over the mossy lip
of your well. Our old game.
And you, my love, will dive for it.

There's snow on the ground still, after the gigantic snowfall over the holidays. And there was a small sprinkling of fresh crystals from yesterday. It is, indeed, a most perfect day. After the initial excitement from those e-mails this morning, I settled into a quiet, deep, peaceful calm. It is where I am now. I am grateful for this state, and for this day, and for not just believing, but knowing that the universe is in balance after all.

The photo below is of the snow that had accumulated earlier in the month, that had turned the world into a sepia wonderland:

Check, check, and check

I had run out of books to read again, and had started to catch myself having negative thoughts again. But today, I did something about it.

Took a long walk, enjoyed the crisp air, the slippery frost on the sidewalk, and some excellent tuneage on my iPod. I smiled at passersby, and was warmed to discover that people do indeed smile back in this cold cold city. (I'm talking mostly about an emotional coldness.) Went to the library and read newspapers and magazines, caught up on all the latest world events and felt in some way a part of the wide world again. Browsed all the classics on the shelves, and decided it was time I read some of them -- well, more of them. Borrowed Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano to start, something I was ashamed to have never read before.

Then, I did the unthinkable.... I went and bought myself a pool and gym pass. I've paid for a month's membership so far, and vow to start tomorrow. I want to get into shape before ultimate frisbee season begins in the spring. Theoretically, there's still one day left before registration for the winter league closes, but I won't push it.

I've basically given up on one of my grad school applications due to multiple complications, but the application for the school in Edmonton, the one I'm putting all my hopes on, will probably work out fine. The only thing left is a reference letter that seems to have gotten lost somewhere between Burnaby and Edmonton. It might now have to be written up again and sent from Brazil, since that's where my professor is currently. Let me live in hope that optimism and positive thinking are not overrated....

Checklist for the day:

1) Dispel negative thinking by consciously seeing the good around me -- check!

2) Take the first step toward having a regular exercise regimen -- check!

3) Find some new brain food (i.e. reading material) -- check!

4) Learn a few new tricks on PhotoShop -- check check!

5) Vow to take care of myself better -- a big check!

Yesterday, I wanted to go to the beach for a walk; however, as I drove west, the clear sunny day became shrouded in fog, so I detoured to Granville Island instead. Here's a picture of the kite store -- oh the marvellous kite store, I sing praises to thee! For because of you, I can envision bright gentle days on wide open fields, my face turned upward, my spirits soaring.

Steve

Meet Steve. He's lovingly made by the Monster Factory Studio in Toronto, and came to me for Christmas. According to his bio, he doesn't like to spend time in front of the mirror, hence the wild hair. My kind of guy....

* I've been experimenting with my camera, and am trying to learn a few new things. Also want to teach myself Photoshop.

Paradise

I should be typing up my "Statement of Interests" for my grad school applications, but instead, I'd like to recap my lovely winter vacation.

We landed in Puerto Plata about nine hours after taking off from Edmonton. We had to deplane in Punta Cana, and were herded through security before we were allowed to continue to our destination. It seemed like a rather pointless exercise, since most of us set off the metal detector, but were neither scanned with a wand nor patted down, and were allowed to just walk on ahead.

Our resort was about ten minutes away from the airport in Puerto Plata, in the town of Sosua. It was nighttime when we landed, and the bus wound through the narrow streets lined with bars and souvenir shops. The resort, although facing a busy main street, was remarkably quiet and serene. There had been a storm brewing for most of the day, and the waves were thunderous and enormous, crashing against the coral rock cliffs and sending white sprays skyward.

On the Saturday after we arrived, we took a day-trip to Paradise Island. First, we had to take a tour bus to the boat-dock. Halfway there, the paved highways turned into narrower gravel roads, and at one point, downed trees blocked our passage. Hennie, the tour-guide, nonchalantly remarked that we were nearing the Dominican/Haitian border, and that we did not have to worry unless there were fires set along and in the middle of the road. My travel companions eyed each other, did not say a word, each of us thinking that it was probably not what we had thought when we signed up for this trip.

We made it to the boat-dock without further incident, and were ushered into a small open speedboat. The ride was choppy, and those of us seated near the front were tossed up and down, smacking our butts against the hard wooden seats with each jolt. My white-knuckled hands gripped the side of the boat as I seemed to be flung about like a ragdoll and I was afraid of being tossed overboard. After what seemed like an eternity, Hennie gestured to our right, and the boat slowed down. "You may take your cameras out for some pictures," he said.

Looking over to the right, I saw what appeared to be a pile of sand in the middle of the ocean, with seven little shacks built on it. I took a few photos, and thought that the boat would speed up again to bring us to Paradise Island. Little did I know that that was Paradise Island! I had envisioned an expansive white beach, with palm trees and lush greenery further inland.  As we got out of of the boat and surveyed our surroundings, I was a bit crushed that I had paid over a hundred dollars to stand on a few square-feet of imported sand. (I have no proof that the fine sugary sand was indeed imported, but the entire island screamed cheesy tourist trap to me.)

We were treated to a meal of Spam sandwiches (It was either that or neon-orange cheese sandwiches.), and had a couple of hours to snorkel and wade around in the water. There were schools of silvery blue fish that swam right to the shore, as well as several yellow and black ones. All in all, after I looked beyond my first impressions, I had a wonderful time.

On Boxing Day, two of my friends and I went into Puerto Plata. After the twenty-minute cab ride, we found ourselves standing in the town square. Not a second after we set foot outside the taxi, a young man appeared out of nowhere, flashing his wares of pirated CD's. My friend ended up buying three CD's, after Antonio grabbed my friend T to show her how to merengue and do the bachata. Meanwhile, I hid behind my friend P to avoid the dance lesson. Antonio then showed us the inside of the church, which had been restored after being destroyed by an earthquake some years back. After that, we decided to venture on our own. The town of Puerto Plata has a population of about 300,000, and was colourful and vibrant. However, because it was obvious that we were foreigners, we could not really wander on our own without being pressured to either buy something or to have an impromptu local guide wanting to show us around.

The taxi ride back to the resort was what clinched the experience as something unforgettable. Pablo, the man who designated himself as our guide when he found us perusing a vendor's watercolours, hailed us a cab. T, P, and I were jammed into a taxi that already had a mother and two children in the back, and the driver and another man in the front. P was squeezed in the front between the driver and the other man, while I sat on T's lap in the back, next to the woman and her two children. The kids were eating popcorn, and one would occasionally tinker with an electronic toy that made screeching noises reminiscent of a car alarm. The man in the front next to P had a gun sticking out of his pocket, and was dozing for the twenty-minute ride back to Sosua.

The rest of the vacation was spent on the beach, swimming in the wide open Atlantic or reading in a lounge-chair. There were also countless rounds of dominoes, along with what seemed like endless indulgence in food and drinks. In other words, it was the perfect vacation.

And now, the photos: