On Coffee, and other addictions

Often, I have reflected on the nature of addictions, especially those to myriad substances and activities which are apparently devoid of inherent addictivity. Television, internet, sugar, bad 80s music. Chocolate might fit on this list, but for its loose (real or imagined) association with a certain, incriminating white powder. We all know the truth about cacao-milk (choco + lait = chocolate). But we also know the DEA would sooner ban tobacco or risk another alcohol prohibition than face the approximate wrath of cacao-addicted women everywhere. ('Approximate,' of course, because it would be subtle and almost undetectable, and because the men responsible would have few allies indeed who might venture the risk of recording the brutality to history.) It would simply never happen -- even if it did.

And coffee? What of the strange tea we brew from the tarry remains of this roasted tropical bean? It doesn't seem to have quite the same inescapable (let us say) 'attraction' as chocolate or Blondie songs. (Perhaps 'gravity' would be the better word, thereby emphasizing that you can't get bad 80s music out of your head any more than you can jump away from Earth's pull, despite the lack of strength of either.) Neither does it yield the same hours of fruitless distraction as TV or the internet. Like most narcotics, though, coffee can be found in almost any part of the world, and with striking consistency. As such, coffee fiends can transplant to almost any continent and still find the means to legally subject themselves to shaking limbs, disfocused sight, decreased perception of time, increased heart-rates, scalded throats, unbridlable trains of thought, and a general up-beat good time.

We admirably pitiable coffee drunks, we all start out the same. We ponder the scent while walking down grocery aisle 13 with mom, or as we pass the forbidden teacher's lounge in third grade. The sweet scent deceives us into dreaming of an innocuous drink that is inexplicably off-limits, thanks to the contorted, authoritarian rules of our parents. Those of us who know the taste today usually owe that first sip to a period of rebellion -- a variable span of time often also responsible for increased social aptitude and decreased lung-capacity. (It is worth noting that many people, not only coffee drinkers, will never leave this persistent 'period.') Due to the general poor quality of barristas and bean roasters worldwide, that first sip of drip or espresso is usually as bitter as a laid-off postal worker. Perhaps more so. However, the foul taste is often overlooked in favor of the tingling burst of energy that ensues. It is often because of the memory of these first few sips that most of us seem to continue the habit, as that burst of energy becomes almost extinct with regular consumption, replaced instead by a sort of partial-shivering and erratic imagination.

After the initial breaking-in period, coffee drinking habits become quite varied from person to person. Some people merely dabble, while others dive head-first into the deep end of their oversized, bottomless coffee mugs. I try to maintain anti-addiction patterns in my intake by drinking my coffee in small, controlled bursts: five or six cups in a single evening, and then nothing for a week or more. Actually, I just don't have very good access to coffee in my town, so I generally only drink coffee when I travel to larger cities. I'm far too lazy/distractable to make my own coffee, at home.

For those of you who are considering starting a coffee habit (a nice word for addiction), keep in mind that too much coffee can lead to death, as caffeine has a short-term hardening affect of artery walls. If your intake levels are approaching 80 to 100 cups of drip in a single sitting, you may be at risk for extreme overdose. ^{[Read more here]}

Laziness of the Sun

Just over a week until solstice, and the blinding, nearly-horizontal rays of the noon Sun impress upon me one simple and immutable fact: Seasonal Affective Disorder (cleverly and suggestively acronymized as "SAD") has an effect exponentially proportional to the degree of latitude. Having lived in the Pacific Northwest of the United States for most of my life means that I am no stranger to low-hanging winter Suns, but never before have I found myself appreciating the early stages of sunset at 12:15 in the afternoon.

I try not to rest on my laurels by blaming SAD for my occasional downturns of mood, a reasonable excuse though it may be. Whatever the causes, I find that the best remedy is usually a temporary change in scenery and a bout of wild smiling, if not outright laughter. In the past, I have transferred the darkened skies and cold air of winter into poetic meanderings of various tones, and thus converted my damp moods into semi-productive literary exercise. Recently, however, either I have found the Sun too low in the sky for safe literary transference, or I have simply lost touch with my muse. I have been forced to seek other forms of enlightening, such as wistful sketches of various architectural daydreams, or internal quasiemperical studies of the nature of various small pieces of the universe (exampli gratia: what in the world would cause all of the continents on Earth to ever be clustered, pangea-style?), or fleeting visits to places that are not my home-away-from-home.

I plan on taking a picture of the noon Sun at this, the highest latitude in which I have lived, on solstice. Part of this will be to record a Sun too lazy to climb to an appropriate height in the sky. Part of it, however, will be to mark the moment when I can start to justifiably look forward to new leaves on the trees, new blades of grass, warm and long days, and a general return of happiness to the Northern Hemisphere.

To that, I say, "Noroc!"

On Connectivity

What does it mean to be connected? Is it requisite, or luxury? How does it affect our experience, our quality of life?

One of the reasons I took this mostly-temporary leave of the States is to disconnect, to remove myself from the web of support that I felt was making me lazy and apathetic. Part of this was the need to see whether I could achieve something without the comfortable familiarities of home. But more than that was the desire to break free from the incessant connection to media of communication and information. No matter where I went in the States, there was a cell phone, internet, billboards and advertisements, and a million different ways to feel connected to uncounted people and bits of information.

In these intentions, I seem to have failed. Or perhaps I haven't failed, but rather have discovered that it was not my location but my choices which demanded the connectivity. Here, a third of the way around this rocky globe, my pocket still holds a cell phone, my fingers are still leashed to the threshold of the internet, and I can't break from the desire to seek contact among my friends, my family, and in hundreds of websites, the sources of empty entertainment and counter-productive distractions.

But if the distressing attachment and exposure to such distraction is the price of saying the occasional 'hello' to those close to me, I'll gladly pay it ten-fold.

PS-- apologies for the delayed post, again. Internet was down, and has finally come back up.

Thanksgiving in Non-USA

[Note: Apologies for the delayed post. My internet was down, and I had to go to Chisinau to post, this week.]

The deconstructionist in me takes every opportunity to cast doubt on the significance of anything by examining the value of everything in every way. The romantic in me wants to feel, and in doing so works in perfect counter to my deconstructionist side. My approach to holidays is therefore torn, and end up valuing my holidays substantially, but not usually for the common reasons.

I'm sure we can all identify holidays that are important to us. Among international (not to say 'global') holidays, I'm sure the Christian flagship celebration of a certain individual's birth jumps out to a lot of people. Somehow, the 'secular' though historically-Christian-based American culture has managed to give their Christmas to non-believers by turning it into a celebration of both miraculous birth and incomprehensible consumption. Hence, Christmas isn't really my favorite time of year. I enjoy the opportunity to connect with family and friends, though. Giving gifts is a great concept, too, but I appreciate that my family doesn't go over the top on the commercial side of this holiday.

I identify Independence Day (4 July) and Thanksgiving as the two most significant American holidays. All the others are either relatively minor religious holidays or little more than weak excuses to have a day off of work or get drunk or both. The Fourth of July is a blast, and I have a fondness for the fire-risk. But ultimately, I'd have to say that Thanksgiving is my favorite, among holidays.

Whether I'm studying at university or living in downtown Portland, I see little of my family. Thanksgiving is one of the only times of the year that I get to catch up with those most important to me. We gather at the house with the largest table, labor over amazingly simple traditional family dishes (made complex only by their vast quantity), and rediscover all the qualities we love and hate about each other.

This year, I'm volunteering half-way around the world in a country which either doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, or celebrates it so frequently that it no longer considers the feast a holiday. Because it is not a holiday in Moldova, we volunteers do not get the time off. Nonetheless, several of us have banded together to create a belated feast this Saturday. There was turkey, stuffing, huge mounds of mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce (if you're into that sort of thing), warm rolls, pies, and all the trappings of a standard Thanksgiving dinner. We connected with each other like some sort of family: dysfunctional and slightly estranged, but generally happy to be in good company.

In all, it was great success -- I now feel tired and weighed down by the excess of food I consumed. Look for pictures, to come.

P.S. -- my contribution was a Zundel family drink recipe: Orange Slush. It was a great hit, and I have been asked to pass the compliments along to those who shared it with me. Thanks dad!

On height and width

Tall, thin, blue eyes, blond hair, primarily English heritage (meaning "white, for the most part"), casual. These are the basics of my physical appearances, and thus the most common bases of how others identify me. In Moldova, the colors of my eyes, hair, and skin don't give people much to think about as they shamelessly stare at me while I walk by. And, to my reasoning and observation (yah, I'm covering a priori and a posteriori here), neither should my height and width -- or, rather, the plenitude (not overabundance) of the one, and the deficiencies of the other. There are plenty of men and women all over this country who are both taller and thinner than myself. Whether those tall, thin Moldovans receive the same 'care' and 'attention' as I, a foreigner, I cannot say.

Let me preface by noting: one of the most common questions any young person in Moldova (whether a citizen or a foreigner) is asked is, "are you married?" If your answer to this questions should, unfortunately, be "no," then the next question is usually something like "why not?" or "let me introduce you to my [son/daughter/niece/nephew/sister/brother]." In some parts of the world, the frequency of such interrogation would be border-line harassment, but I have been assured by many that the incessant inquiry into my marital status is intended entirely for my own benefit, and I do not doubt it. I'm glad to know that so many people (who I've usually only just met) have such an interest in my well-being.

Moving on...

I am the humble inhabitant of a body that has an unchecked and out-of-control metabolism, which burns through anything I ingest as fast as it can, and then waits hungrily for the next meal. You may think this is a blessing or a curse, but for me it is just a fact of life. I've gone seven years without gaining (and keeping) a single pound. After about the fifth, I stopped caring. But the rest of the world didn't. If the most common question I am asked by Moldovans I have just met is, "are you married?," the most common question asked by Moldovans who know me is, without a doubt, "why have you lost weight? Have you been eating?"

Yes. In fact, I eat about as much as I can, but after seven years of trying to gain weight and failing, believe me: I've forfeited the struggle, and now wait for my metabolism to find a more profound preoccupation in life than burning through everything I throw at it. For now, I'm pretty content with my weight. Now I just need to learn how to say that in conversational Romanian.

My height not only compounds the 'problem' of my weight. Measuring in at a few fingers over six feet, I am taller than most of the people in the world, but by no means am I in the top fifth percentile. Those three fingers (meaning about an inch and change, for those of you who don't have normal-sized fingers) give me a real edge in life, and especially in Moldova. I catch the edges of door frames, low-hanging ceilings, and tree branches hanging over pathways. Usually I catch these with the sensitive spot right on the top of the head, but sometimes I also catch them with the forehead or even the brow. It stings for about an hour, and sometimes it leaves traces of blood or even scars.

...Oh, did you think I meant 'edge' like 'advantage'? No, no. I don't even like basketball. And I wouldn't mind having to climb on a chair to access tall cupboards, if it meant fewer headaches.

Solutions? I've taken to slouching and puffing out my cheeks when I leave the house. If I don't gain some weight by Spring, when my many layers of warm cloths will start to melt away, I may have to find additional solutions. If not, I may face enough (albeit well-intentioned) interrogation about my weight to finally break me down and give me body image problems. Potatoes soaked in butter and then fried with all manner of tasty meat? Bring it on!

To experience...

Adapting to a new community is difficult, no matter where in the world you find yourself. Something makes you different, and that difference is often more of a hindrance than a help, when it comes to integrating into a new neighborhood or city. For me, that something is that I am American, and that I'm just not from around here.

What does that mean? It means that I don't fluently speak Romanian or Russian, and that no significant proportion of the families in town share my surname. It means that the closest thing I have to friends in town are the 10-year-younger students who attend my English classes. It means that I can't drink the well water, because I didn't develop a resistance to Giardia when I was a young child. It means that I drink my wine occasionally, and generally only in sips. And sometimes, it means that I spend a lot of time in my room, reading or typing emails or blog posts, because "becoming a part of the community" is going to have to wait until either the temperature goes back up, or my metabolism slows down enough to allow a protective layer of sub-dermal fat to develop so I don't chill to the bone when I decide to go say "buna ziua" to random people on the streets.

But I find that the town I'm in has a way of infiltrating me, making me feel warm and fuzzy, despite the frozen water-vapor that appears before me at each exhale. Sounds wash over me as I walk to school or the community center: the sounds of bells and chants spilling out of the church, like fog, slowly filling the valley; the muffled accordion playing cheerful melodies for the children inside the gradiniţa; the clicking of scoundrel dogs scampering across the pavement behind me. Autumn, come almost to a close, still strikes me with colorful, impromptu art installations -- sometimes at the tops of trees, sometimes at their feet.

Am I still happy here? I have to ask myself this question a lot, especially after a bad day in the classroom or unprompted social drama from my fellow volunteers. I came here for change, and to do something meaningful (again... for a change). While my happiness fluctuates pretty wildly, and the challenges are often frustratingly insurmountable (can I use an adverbial modifier on this absolute adjective? Why not.), I have to admit that I am still happy. The preconceptions I had before coming over were all completely overturned, but I'm still experiencing change. And with that, hopefully growth, as well.

Weekly Posts

I had a request to start posting more regularly, and more frequently. Fair enough. Fridays, being my least busy day of the working week, will be my goal. (Even nominally attempting to post regularly to weekend days is a joke, as they are, consistently, up in the air.)

I'm going to shoot for a post every Friday. I'll set a loose deadline for about 2:00pm, my time, but I am not going to be as strict about the time. I have a lot of ideas for posts just sitting in my head, collecting dust with all the other unexpressed musings. Keep your eyes open for Friday posts.