This morning on NPR they were discussing how one of the unforeseen negative consequences of Superstorm Sandy could be that a lot of toxic substances like cancer-causing dioxins and other nasty chemicals could have been washed into people's homes and gardens with the storm surge. There's been a scramble to test soil samples and floodwater for these chemicals, and the EPA (Environmental Protection Agency) has decided to clean up at least one site.
One irate New Yorker said she hopes that the next time something like Sandy happens, the government will say what it knows straight away, implying that the government didn't want to reveal the extent of the problem out of fear of bad publicity. However, André, who works at the National Centers for Environmental Prediction, noted that the government does not currently have any models to model the distribution of toxic chemicals in case of flooding; in fact, due to current budget cuts (quite apart from any sequestration), they have had to close down the department that was responsible for modeling air quality, i.e., if there is an explosion in a chemical plant, they have no way of knowing where the pollutants go.
André commented that it's interesting to hear people demand certain services from the government while people like him on the inside know that this is incompatible with the popular call for smaller government and fewer taxes. I am afraid a lot of harm will be done before people realize the consequences of this harmful political dogma, and that a well-functioning "big government" is not necessarily the interfering, style-cramping menace that many on the right paint it as, but actually offers protection from harm.
This comes at a price, however: higher taxes.
Perhaps the cut-price trade with China of the past decade has fooled people into thinking that it is possible for things to get cheaper and cheaper and cheaper. Government services cannot be outsourced to places where labor is cheap, however. (Besides the fact that rising wages in China mean that manufacturing is starting to seep off toward cheaper economies like Cambodia and Vietnam). I think politicians on the left have a responsibility to educate people on the true cost of the services that they expect from government. If people realize what they're getting in return for their money, perhaps they would be less reluctant to pay for it.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Thursday, September 6, 2012
On the ethics of depression
A little light reading ;-)
It's been more than a year now: more than a year since I plunged back into the deep, dark hole of depression. It crept up on me: just a lack of motivation, you could say, a difficulty in disciplining myself; a growing despondency. There were external factors: the daunting task of finding a job in a foreign country where I realized my qualifications didn't get me very far at all; A's increasing frustration with my inaction turning into hostility and contempt; pain, humiliation, my pride being crushed and the very foundation on which I built my life crumbling under my feet.
What A was confronting me with was the fact that people judge character by actions. I had always seen character as something inate, something you are born with. Because I used to be a certain way, I thought that defined my essence. If my actions deviated from that or contradicted that it was always a temporary glitch, and aberration. What I was confronted with, to my horror, was that A was applying labels to me that were very much at odds with my view of myself: lazy, selfish, irresponsible, negligent, careless, indifferent. Some were justified: I do tend to be headstrong, for instance - that has always been a feature, alas - but the rest felt grossly cruel and unjust. Didn't he know that I was kind, and loving, and that I wanted his good? Why was he accusing me of sabotaging his life?
Since accepting that I have been suffering from depression last May through the diagnosis of a psychologist, I have found myself tugged between two very conflicting views of what has been happening over the last two years. On the one hand, I have had A telling me that I am lazy, undisciplined, etc., with no allowances made whatsoever, and on the other I've heard from the psychologist that the fact that I have been suffering from depression exempts me from all responsibility for my actions/inaction. While I felt A's assesment of me to be a terrible injustice and devastatingly unfair attack on my self-worth, the psychologist's assessment - as welcome as it was - didn't quite sit right with me either.
I had been complacent; I had used the idea that I had 3 years to find a job as an excuse to put off doing something I was scared of; I had responded angrily and defensively when A asked me how the job hunt was going; I did take too long to find something. Besides, I know that I am a sinner, and that I have monumentous pride issues. In the Bible we are told that the heart is deceitful above all things, and I had deceived myself into believing that my external actions didn't matter. True, my external actions as a depression sufferer weren't an accurate reflection of my desires and intentions - this is the agony of depression, that there is a disconnect between what we will and the extent to which we can actually translate that into action - but it wasn't enough to just feel love for A: I needed to also demonstrate it in my actions (as far as this was possible for me).
The thing is this: actions can be judged as sinful apart from our justifications for them. If my action (or inaction) is in my interest to the detriment of someone else, it remains selfish. As depression sufferers, we need to be careful to walk the fine line between using our depression to justify our action/inaction and falling into the trap of judging our worth by what we are (in)capable of doing in our impaired state. At the same time, we cannot disregard the ethical implications of how we live, not least of which is the effect on those closest to us. The idea here is not to stoke guilt feelings (because, after all, guilt is one of the markers of depression!), but to say: as Christians who love Jesus and want to serve Jesus, we need to rest in Him and the knowledge that we receive grace from Him, even when we aren't receiving it from those close to us, and draw strength in Him to act in love and give of ourselves at a time when this act of self-sacrifice costs us the most.
This is the product of months of thinking and praying and wrestling this down. I'm still struggling, in the thick of the haze of depression, but I have this hope and this joy inside me that just will not die!
It's been more than a year now: more than a year since I plunged back into the deep, dark hole of depression. It crept up on me: just a lack of motivation, you could say, a difficulty in disciplining myself; a growing despondency. There were external factors: the daunting task of finding a job in a foreign country where I realized my qualifications didn't get me very far at all; A's increasing frustration with my inaction turning into hostility and contempt; pain, humiliation, my pride being crushed and the very foundation on which I built my life crumbling under my feet.
What A was confronting me with was the fact that people judge character by actions. I had always seen character as something inate, something you are born with. Because I used to be a certain way, I thought that defined my essence. If my actions deviated from that or contradicted that it was always a temporary glitch, and aberration. What I was confronted with, to my horror, was that A was applying labels to me that were very much at odds with my view of myself: lazy, selfish, irresponsible, negligent, careless, indifferent. Some were justified: I do tend to be headstrong, for instance - that has always been a feature, alas - but the rest felt grossly cruel and unjust. Didn't he know that I was kind, and loving, and that I wanted his good? Why was he accusing me of sabotaging his life?
Since accepting that I have been suffering from depression last May through the diagnosis of a psychologist, I have found myself tugged between two very conflicting views of what has been happening over the last two years. On the one hand, I have had A telling me that I am lazy, undisciplined, etc., with no allowances made whatsoever, and on the other I've heard from the psychologist that the fact that I have been suffering from depression exempts me from all responsibility for my actions/inaction. While I felt A's assesment of me to be a terrible injustice and devastatingly unfair attack on my self-worth, the psychologist's assessment - as welcome as it was - didn't quite sit right with me either.
I had been complacent; I had used the idea that I had 3 years to find a job as an excuse to put off doing something I was scared of; I had responded angrily and defensively when A asked me how the job hunt was going; I did take too long to find something. Besides, I know that I am a sinner, and that I have monumentous pride issues. In the Bible we are told that the heart is deceitful above all things, and I had deceived myself into believing that my external actions didn't matter. True, my external actions as a depression sufferer weren't an accurate reflection of my desires and intentions - this is the agony of depression, that there is a disconnect between what we will and the extent to which we can actually translate that into action - but it wasn't enough to just feel love for A: I needed to also demonstrate it in my actions (as far as this was possible for me).
The thing is this: actions can be judged as sinful apart from our justifications for them. If my action (or inaction) is in my interest to the detriment of someone else, it remains selfish. As depression sufferers, we need to be careful to walk the fine line between using our depression to justify our action/inaction and falling into the trap of judging our worth by what we are (in)capable of doing in our impaired state. At the same time, we cannot disregard the ethical implications of how we live, not least of which is the effect on those closest to us. The idea here is not to stoke guilt feelings (because, after all, guilt is one of the markers of depression!), but to say: as Christians who love Jesus and want to serve Jesus, we need to rest in Him and the knowledge that we receive grace from Him, even when we aren't receiving it from those close to us, and draw strength in Him to act in love and give of ourselves at a time when this act of self-sacrifice costs us the most.
This is the product of months of thinking and praying and wrestling this down. I'm still struggling, in the thick of the haze of depression, but I have this hope and this joy inside me that just will not die!
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Glossaries and cruise control
Yesterday, I learned to do two things that will revolutionize my life:
1) I learned to turn a four-column Excel file of acronyms and abbreviations into a Trados termbase
2) I learned to use cruise control on the car
Now you may not quite understand what the first one is about, so let me explain a bit. Trados is this fantastic software for translators that basic makes our job easier. One of its functions is anh add-on program called Multiterm that allows you to create glossaries. As you are translating, it recognizes terms in the glossary you have open, and tells you how to translate them. For a simple bilingual glossary, this is relatively easy, but for a list of acronyms and abbreviations, where you have not just the actual abbreviations, but also information on what they stand for, it becomes really complicated to import them into Multiterm. Trados is a notoriously un-userfriendly program, and I managed to figure it out without having to wade through its opaque manual. I think I'm going to do a separate blog entry on this, because I can't find clear instructions for it anywhere on the web, and I see it as a service to my fellow translators. You, however, will not be bored by it!
The second thing is the cruise control. The Volvo S40 we bought for my commute is a fantastic car for all sorts of reasons. It isn't the most luxurious model: it doesn't have leather seats or a sun roof or automatic climate control. However, it does have heated seats (man, those things are da bomb in winter!), and it has cruise control. What this effectively means is that a computer automatically keeps the car traveling at the same speed. You can take your foot off the accelerator, and it automatically gives more on the uphills and less on the downhills. This has a number of advantages: 1) You don't have to keep glancing at the speedometer, so you can give all your attention to what is going on around you on the road; this makes driving a lot less tiring. 2) It actually increases your average speed, and hence reduces the commute time. I tested this this morning on a hunch, and it really works! I shaved about 10 minutes off my commute. The reason for this is that I found I would often lose speed on an uphill without realizing it. With cruise control, the car just powers up the hills at the same speed.
It's absolutely safe, because at any time you can brake or accelerate, and hence override it. Once you're back in a place where you can keep a constant speed again, you can turn it back on.
Today is Valentine's Day, and I have a lot to be thankful for. I was a bit disappointed that André didn't buy me anything, but hey, I forgot his birthday last year, so I reckon he's got some credit! He got a card and some caramel chocolates with sea salt. I suppose the contrast with his birthday last September is what makes me grateful. That was such a terrible time, with me very, very sick with depression and him at the end of his tether with the situation, and that was the utter low-point. But he didn't give up and stuck around, even when he felt he least had reason to. And that's what I'm grateful for: that we've both reached those points where we've realized that the things we hoped for in marriage were not materializing the way we envisioned - back in NL I realized that we would probably never have a lot of free time to spend together, and he was disappointed that I had dropped the ball on what he felt was one of the most fundamental benefits of being in a relationship (that someone remembers your birthday) - but we've stuck it out through sickness and in health, and I'm so very, very glad.
1) I learned to turn a four-column Excel file of acronyms and abbreviations into a Trados termbase
2) I learned to use cruise control on the car
Now you may not quite understand what the first one is about, so let me explain a bit. Trados is this fantastic software for translators that basic makes our job easier. One of its functions is anh add-on program called Multiterm that allows you to create glossaries. As you are translating, it recognizes terms in the glossary you have open, and tells you how to translate them. For a simple bilingual glossary, this is relatively easy, but for a list of acronyms and abbreviations, where you have not just the actual abbreviations, but also information on what they stand for, it becomes really complicated to import them into Multiterm. Trados is a notoriously un-userfriendly program, and I managed to figure it out without having to wade through its opaque manual. I think I'm going to do a separate blog entry on this, because I can't find clear instructions for it anywhere on the web, and I see it as a service to my fellow translators. You, however, will not be bored by it!
The second thing is the cruise control. The Volvo S40 we bought for my commute is a fantastic car for all sorts of reasons. It isn't the most luxurious model: it doesn't have leather seats or a sun roof or automatic climate control. However, it does have heated seats (man, those things are da bomb in winter!), and it has cruise control. What this effectively means is that a computer automatically keeps the car traveling at the same speed. You can take your foot off the accelerator, and it automatically gives more on the uphills and less on the downhills. This has a number of advantages: 1) You don't have to keep glancing at the speedometer, so you can give all your attention to what is going on around you on the road; this makes driving a lot less tiring. 2) It actually increases your average speed, and hence reduces the commute time. I tested this this morning on a hunch, and it really works! I shaved about 10 minutes off my commute. The reason for this is that I found I would often lose speed on an uphill without realizing it. With cruise control, the car just powers up the hills at the same speed.
It's absolutely safe, because at any time you can brake or accelerate, and hence override it. Once you're back in a place where you can keep a constant speed again, you can turn it back on.
Today is Valentine's Day, and I have a lot to be thankful for. I was a bit disappointed that André didn't buy me anything, but hey, I forgot his birthday last year, so I reckon he's got some credit! He got a card and some caramel chocolates with sea salt. I suppose the contrast with his birthday last September is what makes me grateful. That was such a terrible time, with me very, very sick with depression and him at the end of his tether with the situation, and that was the utter low-point. But he didn't give up and stuck around, even when he felt he least had reason to. And that's what I'm grateful for: that we've both reached those points where we've realized that the things we hoped for in marriage were not materializing the way we envisioned - back in NL I realized that we would probably never have a lot of free time to spend together, and he was disappointed that I had dropped the ball on what he felt was one of the most fundamental benefits of being in a relationship (that someone remembers your birthday) - but we've stuck it out through sickness and in health, and I'm so very, very glad.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Milktart and muscular mayhem
On Thursday, after weeks of absence from the gym, I decided to head on down there and get some natural endorphins and some relief from my lower backpain - the product of too much time behind a computer. The gym is a small gym on the basement level of our apartment, so one generally tends to run into the same people there quite often. One of these people is my good friend Rahaan. In the first few weeks that we lived in the building, he and I kept bumping into each other in the elevator, and eventually got chatting. He looks as if he could be Indian, but it turns out he's African American, and was born and grew up in Southeast Washington. He has done just about everything: he trained as a chef, does gigs as a magician, has skiied, played in a marching band and does personal training, and currently works at the concierge desk of a very smart hotel in downtown DC. And those are probably just the things I know about. He overcame some pretty rough socio-economic circumstances to get where he is today, and I love his 'can-do entrepreneurialism'. He's started offering me free personal training sessions whenever I bump into him at the gym (usually 10 or 15 minutes before a client is due to arrive), and, being as polite as I am, I usually allow him to crack the whip as I do exercises with heavy balls and dumbells. He told me I could have 'cuts' - I suppose muscle definition - within a few weeks, and I suppose I was flattered. But here's the thing: I don't do exercise for the aesthetic results (although they are welcome too): I exercise to relax, loosen my stiff back from sitting all day, and get some natural endorphins. While I welcome some strength training, I am in no hurry to do 100 push-ups, and I think the fact that he doesn't train with me regularly means that he doesn't realise exactly how dire my fitness levels are. The result is that every time I train with him, I end up with severe muscle stiffness for 2-3 days afterwards, which is misery. It leaves me with a bit of a dilemma, though: I want to keep up the friendship, and I realise what he is offering me for free is very valuable (worth $45 an hour, in fact), but I just don't feel it's worth the pain.
And this time it's really bad.
On Thursday, he tried to get me to do push-ups. I can't do a single 'regular' push-up. I can barely manage 2 'lady push-ups' with fresh arms. On Thursday, I had already been doing some heavy-ball exercises (and doing very well, thank you very much), when I was told I should do 20 push-ups. Oh heaven help me. He might as well have told me I should do 200 with one arm. I couldn't do any - not in the regular position, not in 'lady' position and not off the bench. Eventually, he had me pushing off from the wall. This was still ample to make life an utter misery for the past 3 days, causing grunting and puffing at the slightest movement. Today at least I can raise my arms above my shoulders without accute pain. In addition, all the squatting and jumping left me with bands of pain around my legs.
And in the midst of this, I helped a friend to move. I felt it shouldn't be her problem that I had overdone it at the gym, so I gamely turned up for the move yesterday morning, dosed up on ibuprofen. She is moving into an apartment in a very large house in Mount Pleasant, about 20 minutes' walk up the road from us. She (and, after the wedding, her future husband) will be living on the top floor - up 5 flights of stairs, to be precise. So I helped carry the light to moderately heavy things upstairs. The things we do for friends!
On Friday, I baked my first milk tart. I used a recipe from a South African magazine that a friend lent me, and it was a moderate success at best. After egg-separating drama (I dropped some yolk in the whites and had to go to the supermarket to buy more eggs), the tarts (because there was enough filling not for one, but for two tarts) came out extremely runny, with a golden crust on top. Oh well, I thought, at least it will make a tasty pudding. The occasion was that we were going to have dinner with a Mexican colleague of A's and his family out in Northern Virginia, so I packed the runny tart into a cake carrier and set off to take the metro down to L'Enfant Plaza to meet André. While waiting for him on the metro platform, I thought I might as well take out my Kindle and read a bit, and in wrestling with my rucksack and the cake carrier, I tilted the carrier too far and to my dismay felt warm milky stuff dripping down my leg. The tart had overflowed, and I did not have a single tissue with me. Fortunately, you can count on the kindness of strangers here, and the packet of tissues was accepted gratefully and used to clean up as much of the mess as possible. As I as doing so, someone actually asked me if I was ok. Flustered, I explained that the tart had overflowed onto me, but thank you for asking. It then occured to me that not only did it look as if a baby had spat up on me, it looked as if I had just been sick on the platform. Grand. By the time A arrived, I was not in the best of spirits.
When we got to Roberto and Liliana's house, I asked if I could put the tart back in the oven for a while (fortunately only a bit of the filling seems to have escaped), and that seems to have remedied the runnyness for a large part. We had a wonderful time with them and their three children. They have also lived all over: in Delft, in Leuven, in Canada, back in Mexico, and now here in the US - so we have this international experience in common. It was a joy to compare notes on cultural differences between South Africa/the US/Europe and Mexico.
The other milk tart came out even better after a lengthy return to the oven at a low temperature here at home, so that seems to be the answer: cook them for a long time at a low temperature until the eggs can work their magic.
I'm signing off now - I'm playing in the band at church tonight, and my sore shoulders have to carry my cello up the hill ;-)
And this time it's really bad.
On Thursday, he tried to get me to do push-ups. I can't do a single 'regular' push-up. I can barely manage 2 'lady push-ups' with fresh arms. On Thursday, I had already been doing some heavy-ball exercises (and doing very well, thank you very much), when I was told I should do 20 push-ups. Oh heaven help me. He might as well have told me I should do 200 with one arm. I couldn't do any - not in the regular position, not in 'lady' position and not off the bench. Eventually, he had me pushing off from the wall. This was still ample to make life an utter misery for the past 3 days, causing grunting and puffing at the slightest movement. Today at least I can raise my arms above my shoulders without accute pain. In addition, all the squatting and jumping left me with bands of pain around my legs.
And in the midst of this, I helped a friend to move. I felt it shouldn't be her problem that I had overdone it at the gym, so I gamely turned up for the move yesterday morning, dosed up on ibuprofen. She is moving into an apartment in a very large house in Mount Pleasant, about 20 minutes' walk up the road from us. She (and, after the wedding, her future husband) will be living on the top floor - up 5 flights of stairs, to be precise. So I helped carry the light to moderately heavy things upstairs. The things we do for friends!
On Friday, I baked my first milk tart. I used a recipe from a South African magazine that a friend lent me, and it was a moderate success at best. After egg-separating drama (I dropped some yolk in the whites and had to go to the supermarket to buy more eggs), the tarts (because there was enough filling not for one, but for two tarts) came out extremely runny, with a golden crust on top. Oh well, I thought, at least it will make a tasty pudding. The occasion was that we were going to have dinner with a Mexican colleague of A's and his family out in Northern Virginia, so I packed the runny tart into a cake carrier and set off to take the metro down to L'Enfant Plaza to meet André. While waiting for him on the metro platform, I thought I might as well take out my Kindle and read a bit, and in wrestling with my rucksack and the cake carrier, I tilted the carrier too far and to my dismay felt warm milky stuff dripping down my leg. The tart had overflowed, and I did not have a single tissue with me. Fortunately, you can count on the kindness of strangers here, and the packet of tissues was accepted gratefully and used to clean up as much of the mess as possible. As I as doing so, someone actually asked me if I was ok. Flustered, I explained that the tart had overflowed onto me, but thank you for asking. It then occured to me that not only did it look as if a baby had spat up on me, it looked as if I had just been sick on the platform. Grand. By the time A arrived, I was not in the best of spirits.
When we got to Roberto and Liliana's house, I asked if I could put the tart back in the oven for a while (fortunately only a bit of the filling seems to have escaped), and that seems to have remedied the runnyness for a large part. We had a wonderful time with them and their three children. They have also lived all over: in Delft, in Leuven, in Canada, back in Mexico, and now here in the US - so we have this international experience in common. It was a joy to compare notes on cultural differences between South Africa/the US/Europe and Mexico.
The other milk tart came out even better after a lengthy return to the oven at a low temperature here at home, so that seems to be the answer: cook them for a long time at a low temperature until the eggs can work their magic.
I'm signing off now - I'm playing in the band at church tonight, and my sore shoulders have to carry my cello up the hill ;-)
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Whatever oils the wheels
It’s been a long time since I last wrote a blog post... I’m sorry for the long gap! The longer I left it, the more I had to say, and the more daunting it was to write it. Besides, I think I’ve just been too busy dealing with the new situation, and haven’t really had the resources to reflect and share. Today I’m not going to write about everything that’s been on my mind the past few months, though, because that would be too long, but I have been thinking a lot about how American society functions and how people interact with one another.
The first thing you notice is that Americans can come across as fake in social situations. They will say stuff just to seem nice. They may offer to introduce you to friends who have stuff in common with you or even give you their phone numbers, but the funny thing is: they may not follow up. At least that was my experience with a few of the people I’ve met in our building. (Friends from church are a different story, of course, but more about that later!) Secondly, everybody asks you how you are. This can range from, “How are you today?” from a store clerk to, “How are ya?” said with a sideways glance as a security guard joins you in the lift. The thing is this: almost none of those people are actually interested in how you are, and some don’t even expect a reply from you. I didn’t like it at first, having people who don’t know me from a bar of soap asking me how I am, just by way of a greeting. (On some days I was tempted to say, “Perfectly awful, if you must know”!) Besides, if you’re not interested, why ask? I saw it as a way of faking intimacy and giving you a good feeling so that you buy more stuff, or of coming across as a nice person. What is wrong with just good old, “Good morning” or “Hi”? I wondered. But then I realized that there are people who are interested and don’t just fling the question at you over the cash register because it’s company policy (my favourite cashier at Harris Teeter springs to mind). I also realized that many of the people who do so are tired and not loving their job. So I started making a point of replying, “Fine thank you. And you?” (and being genuinely interested), and it sometimes does lead to genuine interaction (although some still respond with, “What?”). Finally, the parting shot is never just, “Goodbye”/”Bye”, it’s “Enjoy your evening”, “Have a good one”, “Enjoy your day”...
Now I know that 99% of the time, the person asking me how I am is really just greeting me, and that a lot of what comes across as friendliness to newcomers is not going to be followed up on with close friendships. But the overall effect is to create an impression of goodwill in society, a sense that people really do wish each other well. The strange thing is, although it may come across as fake at first (that cardinal sin to the Dutchman – insincerity!), it is such a pleasure to be in a society where that politeness and at least the impression of goodwill oils the wheels of social interaction. Especially for someone as isolated as I have been for the past 2 months, every bit of warm human interaction (or interaction that creates the impression of warmth) is welcome. Also, people are open to chatting to strangers. In Holland you would never strike up a conversation with a stranger on the street. I’ve had some lovely chats with people here. And people are so polite! If somebody brushes against you by accident, or bumps into you, they don’t just say, “Sorry”, they say, “Excuse me please!”. “Excuse me please!” As if there is still a sense of mutual respect (which is, after all the reason for being polite) in this society that has leeched out of Dutch society. (Who says, “Neem me niet kwalijk” – the equivalent of “Excuse me please” – anymore?)
We are starting to slowly settle in. At least, I’m beginning to feel for the first time that we are settling into something like a routine. We “camped” in our apartment for 2 months before our stuff arrived from Holland. Just before they delivered it to us, we had a wonderful visit from my friend Agnes from Belgium. She came at just the right time, as I was starting to get into a spiral of negativity and passiveness, missing Delft and my friends and especially feeling that my life was pretty pointless. Many of the people we know from church work at NGOs here in Washington, making a difference in the world, and what was I doing? Just buying stuff at Target and doing a little translation. Agnes had a gap of 2 weeks before she was going to start a new job, so she decided to come over and visit me. It was the best gift anyone could have given me! It was not only wonderful to see my darling friend, but she also kicked my butt and got me to go to the Alliance Francaise to find out about courses, and to the French embassy to find out about an organisation called “Washington Accueil” (Washington Welcome), which has many different activities for French-speaking expats and francophiles here in the DC area. It looks very promising.
In the mean time, I have also got more involved in church activities and spending time with church friends. On Tuesdays we have our small group meetings – 9 of us meet up at one couple’s house, we share a meal together then talk about the previous Sunday’s sermon and pray together. And on Thursdays I meet up with my “triad”: a smaller group of 3 that commits to meeting once a week for prayer and accountability. Then of course there’s church on Sundays, and we always have a potluck meal afterwards, when we often stay and chat. I’ve started playing the cello in church on a more regular basis now (twice a month), and it’s great to be able to serve. Since we’ve been here I’ve been battling with a deep sense of insecurity when it comes to social situations. It’s so strange, because I thought I had finally outgrown that when we were in Holland. But now I’m back in that doubting and wondering about whether I’m likeable; the fact that I’m the odd one out because of my accent and background doesn’t help. Who would have thought that an accent can make you feel so out-of-place? It’s tragic, because this is supposed to be my own language, but there have been times when I’ve been talking to someone and feeling as if we were speaking two different languages because their pronunciation was so different from mine.
Social conventions are particularly tricky to navigate in Washington, because despite what it may seem from the outside, “American culture” is not at all uniform, and Washington DC is a kind of melting pot, with people coming here to work or study from all over the US (and the world). It’s pretty standard to ask someone where they’re from and get the name of a far-flung state in reply. The practical implications of this are a certain awkwardness. Can I touch someone while I’m speaking to them? How should I greet people? Is hugging okay? What jokes will people find funny? I’ve taken to hugging girls I’m friendly with and waving awkwardly at the guys. It’s those subtle social cues that I’m missing at the moment, and which will come later, along with the deepening of relationships and a better understanding of how individuals communicate nonverbally. Then perhaps I’ll understand (and trust) the signals that tell me, “You’re okay”.
Next time: pictures of what our apartment looks like with furniture! ;-)
The first thing you notice is that Americans can come across as fake in social situations. They will say stuff just to seem nice. They may offer to introduce you to friends who have stuff in common with you or even give you their phone numbers, but the funny thing is: they may not follow up. At least that was my experience with a few of the people I’ve met in our building. (Friends from church are a different story, of course, but more about that later!) Secondly, everybody asks you how you are. This can range from, “How are you today?” from a store clerk to, “How are ya?” said with a sideways glance as a security guard joins you in the lift. The thing is this: almost none of those people are actually interested in how you are, and some don’t even expect a reply from you. I didn’t like it at first, having people who don’t know me from a bar of soap asking me how I am, just by way of a greeting. (On some days I was tempted to say, “Perfectly awful, if you must know”!) Besides, if you’re not interested, why ask? I saw it as a way of faking intimacy and giving you a good feeling so that you buy more stuff, or of coming across as a nice person. What is wrong with just good old, “Good morning” or “Hi”? I wondered. But then I realized that there are people who are interested and don’t just fling the question at you over the cash register because it’s company policy (my favourite cashier at Harris Teeter springs to mind). I also realized that many of the people who do so are tired and not loving their job. So I started making a point of replying, “Fine thank you. And you?” (and being genuinely interested), and it sometimes does lead to genuine interaction (although some still respond with, “What?”). Finally, the parting shot is never just, “Goodbye”/”Bye”, it’s “Enjoy your evening”, “Have a good one”, “Enjoy your day”...
Now I know that 99% of the time, the person asking me how I am is really just greeting me, and that a lot of what comes across as friendliness to newcomers is not going to be followed up on with close friendships. But the overall effect is to create an impression of goodwill in society, a sense that people really do wish each other well. The strange thing is, although it may come across as fake at first (that cardinal sin to the Dutchman – insincerity!), it is such a pleasure to be in a society where that politeness and at least the impression of goodwill oils the wheels of social interaction. Especially for someone as isolated as I have been for the past 2 months, every bit of warm human interaction (or interaction that creates the impression of warmth) is welcome. Also, people are open to chatting to strangers. In Holland you would never strike up a conversation with a stranger on the street. I’ve had some lovely chats with people here. And people are so polite! If somebody brushes against you by accident, or bumps into you, they don’t just say, “Sorry”, they say, “Excuse me please!”. “Excuse me please!” As if there is still a sense of mutual respect (which is, after all the reason for being polite) in this society that has leeched out of Dutch society. (Who says, “Neem me niet kwalijk” – the equivalent of “Excuse me please” – anymore?)
We are starting to slowly settle in. At least, I’m beginning to feel for the first time that we are settling into something like a routine. We “camped” in our apartment for 2 months before our stuff arrived from Holland. Just before they delivered it to us, we had a wonderful visit from my friend Agnes from Belgium. She came at just the right time, as I was starting to get into a spiral of negativity and passiveness, missing Delft and my friends and especially feeling that my life was pretty pointless. Many of the people we know from church work at NGOs here in Washington, making a difference in the world, and what was I doing? Just buying stuff at Target and doing a little translation. Agnes had a gap of 2 weeks before she was going to start a new job, so she decided to come over and visit me. It was the best gift anyone could have given me! It was not only wonderful to see my darling friend, but she also kicked my butt and got me to go to the Alliance Francaise to find out about courses, and to the French embassy to find out about an organisation called “Washington Accueil” (Washington Welcome), which has many different activities for French-speaking expats and francophiles here in the DC area. It looks very promising.
In the mean time, I have also got more involved in church activities and spending time with church friends. On Tuesdays we have our small group meetings – 9 of us meet up at one couple’s house, we share a meal together then talk about the previous Sunday’s sermon and pray together. And on Thursdays I meet up with my “triad”: a smaller group of 3 that commits to meeting once a week for prayer and accountability. Then of course there’s church on Sundays, and we always have a potluck meal afterwards, when we often stay and chat. I’ve started playing the cello in church on a more regular basis now (twice a month), and it’s great to be able to serve. Since we’ve been here I’ve been battling with a deep sense of insecurity when it comes to social situations. It’s so strange, because I thought I had finally outgrown that when we were in Holland. But now I’m back in that doubting and wondering about whether I’m likeable; the fact that I’m the odd one out because of my accent and background doesn’t help. Who would have thought that an accent can make you feel so out-of-place? It’s tragic, because this is supposed to be my own language, but there have been times when I’ve been talking to someone and feeling as if we were speaking two different languages because their pronunciation was so different from mine.
Social conventions are particularly tricky to navigate in Washington, because despite what it may seem from the outside, “American culture” is not at all uniform, and Washington DC is a kind of melting pot, with people coming here to work or study from all over the US (and the world). It’s pretty standard to ask someone where they’re from and get the name of a far-flung state in reply. The practical implications of this are a certain awkwardness. Can I touch someone while I’m speaking to them? How should I greet people? Is hugging okay? What jokes will people find funny? I’ve taken to hugging girls I’m friendly with and waving awkwardly at the guys. It’s those subtle social cues that I’m missing at the moment, and which will come later, along with the deepening of relationships and a better understanding of how individuals communicate nonverbally. Then perhaps I’ll understand (and trust) the signals that tell me, “You’re okay”.
Next time: pictures of what our apartment looks like with furniture! ;-)
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Dupont Circle
This evening after dinner, I went out to go and get some things at the drugstore and an item or two that I had forgotten to get at the supermarket earlier. It was warm and humid, as usual, but two big thunder showers in the afternoon had brought down the temperature a few degrees, and it seemed as if everyone had emerged from their air-conditioning to enjoy the sultry evening.
The women here really know how to dress up. They wear beautiful, stylish clothes and are extremely well-groomed. But it's the clothes that are such a pleasure to see. Dutch women dress pretty much the same all the time: even when they go to the opera, it's the same semi-casual uniform all the time, with very little distinction between daywear and evening (save perhaps the odd accessory). Perhaps it has to do with the weather, which is seldom warm enough to wear stylish shift dresses, or perhaps it has to do with the cycling (ever tried cycling in a tight skirt?), but there's less evidence of making an effort. Here, there is a clear distinction between daywear and evening wear: when you travel on the metro between 5 and 7 in the evening, you can definitely tell the difference between the day crowd on their way home from work in their smart tailored trousers and shirts, and the evening crowd, with their high heels and sparkle.
Another pleasant surprise here has been shops' long opening hours. Our supermarket up the road is open from 5am to 10pm, and the drugstore (CVS) is even open 24 hours a day. I understand that this is because of the labour laws being less strict (people can work as many hours as they want to), but it does make for tremendous convenience to customers. I remember the times I planned to be back in Delft from Rotterdam by 6 in order to do something in the shops (other than the supermarket), and would be just too late, or when I was early, the blissful realisation that I had ten minutes to quickly browse in a shoe shop on the way home before they closed at 6. Here it's just so much easier.
The third thing that has really impressed me here, is the level of service. If something isn't right, the shop will mostly take it back or exchange it, no questions asked. Yesterday, I went to Staples, a big stationery and office supplies shop like Waltons in South Africa, and bought a stapler. As I was unfamiliar with the various brands, I just took the cheapest one. As a bonus, it also came with a staple remover and a box of spare staples. Well, it turns out you always get what you pay for, because the first thing that happened when I opened it to put staples in it last night, was that a long spring detached itself at one end. We tried to find a place to reattach it, but the end result was us having to sort of stuff it back in to close the thing, because it made a big, loose arch instead of pushing the staples forward. I went back today with the intention of just asking for a refund, but the guy said I could exchange it for a stapler of a better brand - without having to pay in extra. I was very impressed, to say the least!
Today was a very productive day, as I sent off all the documentation needed for my work permit application. I'm doing it through a company called VisaVersa back in the Netherlands. They gave us so much (free) advice when we were trying to decide which kind of visa to get, I decided it would only be fair to make use of their services. It's going to be pricey, but the money will quickly be earned back if the application is approved.
I'm also practising cello most days now. I want to audition for an orchestra here called the Capital City Symphony (www.capitalcitysymphony.org), and it sounds as if the standard is pretty high, with some professionals playing in it too. The audition is on the 26th of August, and I've already got a pretty good idea of what I'm going to play. Besides the audition, though, it's really nice to have the time to pick up my cello again and work on some lasting technique issues. It gives me a sense of achievement at a time when my life has very little structure.
The other thing I've been working on has been an article for a friend of a friend who is a lecturer in Theology at an evangelical theological seminary in Leuven. It will be hard-going, but then you need something difficult to help you appreciate your leisure time :-P
The solitude and lack of structure is starting to get to me a bit. Today when I emerged from the metro station at Dupont Circle and saw the flower seller standing there, I thought oh! I should buy flowers! And bought flowers to take to the barbecure we're going to... tomorrow...
I'm starting to miss my friends a lot, but I try not to think about it too much. I'm also realising that spending lots of time on Facebook only partly makes up for it. Now comes the crunch... But I know that it will get better. I just need to be patient and trust God to send the right people across our paths...
x
The women here really know how to dress up. They wear beautiful, stylish clothes and are extremely well-groomed. But it's the clothes that are such a pleasure to see. Dutch women dress pretty much the same all the time: even when they go to the opera, it's the same semi-casual uniform all the time, with very little distinction between daywear and evening (save perhaps the odd accessory). Perhaps it has to do with the weather, which is seldom warm enough to wear stylish shift dresses, or perhaps it has to do with the cycling (ever tried cycling in a tight skirt?), but there's less evidence of making an effort. Here, there is a clear distinction between daywear and evening wear: when you travel on the metro between 5 and 7 in the evening, you can definitely tell the difference between the day crowd on their way home from work in their smart tailored trousers and shirts, and the evening crowd, with their high heels and sparkle.
Another pleasant surprise here has been shops' long opening hours. Our supermarket up the road is open from 5am to 10pm, and the drugstore (CVS) is even open 24 hours a day. I understand that this is because of the labour laws being less strict (people can work as many hours as they want to), but it does make for tremendous convenience to customers. I remember the times I planned to be back in Delft from Rotterdam by 6 in order to do something in the shops (other than the supermarket), and would be just too late, or when I was early, the blissful realisation that I had ten minutes to quickly browse in a shoe shop on the way home before they closed at 6. Here it's just so much easier.
The third thing that has really impressed me here, is the level of service. If something isn't right, the shop will mostly take it back or exchange it, no questions asked. Yesterday, I went to Staples, a big stationery and office supplies shop like Waltons in South Africa, and bought a stapler. As I was unfamiliar with the various brands, I just took the cheapest one. As a bonus, it also came with a staple remover and a box of spare staples. Well, it turns out you always get what you pay for, because the first thing that happened when I opened it to put staples in it last night, was that a long spring detached itself at one end. We tried to find a place to reattach it, but the end result was us having to sort of stuff it back in to close the thing, because it made a big, loose arch instead of pushing the staples forward. I went back today with the intention of just asking for a refund, but the guy said I could exchange it for a stapler of a better brand - without having to pay in extra. I was very impressed, to say the least!
Today was a very productive day, as I sent off all the documentation needed for my work permit application. I'm doing it through a company called VisaVersa back in the Netherlands. They gave us so much (free) advice when we were trying to decide which kind of visa to get, I decided it would only be fair to make use of their services. It's going to be pricey, but the money will quickly be earned back if the application is approved.
I'm also practising cello most days now. I want to audition for an orchestra here called the Capital City Symphony (www.capitalcitysymphony.org), and it sounds as if the standard is pretty high, with some professionals playing in it too. The audition is on the 26th of August, and I've already got a pretty good idea of what I'm going to play. Besides the audition, though, it's really nice to have the time to pick up my cello again and work on some lasting technique issues. It gives me a sense of achievement at a time when my life has very little structure.
The other thing I've been working on has been an article for a friend of a friend who is a lecturer in Theology at an evangelical theological seminary in Leuven. It will be hard-going, but then you need something difficult to help you appreciate your leisure time :-P
The solitude and lack of structure is starting to get to me a bit. Today when I emerged from the metro station at Dupont Circle and saw the flower seller standing there, I thought oh! I should buy flowers! And bought flowers to take to the barbecure we're going to... tomorrow...
I'm starting to miss my friends a lot, but I try not to think about it too much. I'm also realising that spending lots of time on Facebook only partly makes up for it. Now comes the crunch... But I know that it will get better. I just need to be patient and trust God to send the right people across our paths...
x
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Hunt
Dear friends and family,
A long-overdue update! The last week has been a busy one, and largely dominated by our search for an unfurnished apartment to move to once our month of furnished luxury ends but we also did something fun. Every Monday evening, there is an outdoor screening of a film on 'the Mall' - a large open park area that extends between the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial (perhaps you will recognize it from images of Obama's inauguration). It is lined by museums belonging to the Smithsonian Institute, including the National Air and Space Museum and the National Art Gallery. The event is called 'Screen on the Green', and people bring picnic blankets and park off on the grass to watch the film. It was a very hot evening: hot and humid. The closest I could find to a picnic blanket at Target was a yoga mat, so we perched on this rather narrow strip and had our picnic. The atmosphere was wonderful. We saw a beautiful glowing sunset behind the Washington Monument, and at one point there was a brief rainshower (we sheltered under my umbrella). The film was so-so: "The Goodbye Girl", written by Neil Simon. At one point they must have loaded the wrong reel, because suddely an earlier scene was repeated. We never got to see the end, as we left soon afterwards, but it was fun nonetheless!
[What follows is a fairly detailed account of our house search. The short version is: we've found a cool place to live :-)]
The search started slowly with my foray into Craigslist that led to that one viewing in Takoma Park, then culminated in me frantically working through lists of apartment blocks. But we'll get to that!
On the way home from church the Sunday before last, we happened to notice one of the many containers with newspapers and advertising periodicals that seem to feature on every street corner here contained some copies of a monthly publication called 'Apartment Showcase'. It's about 5 cm thick and turned out to be one of the most comprehensive overviews of what's available for rent in DC. There were at least 15 blocks listed with one-bedroomed apartments in our price class (we gave up on the two-bedroomed thing long ago). I diligently drew up a list of them, with addresses and contact numbers.
(This is what they looked like in winter with snow on them! - Taken in December)
Then started the vetting process.
Were they close to a metro station? What facilities did they have? (Dishwasher, gym, laundry...) And if they met the criteria for location and facilities, did they have a one-bedroomed apartment in our price range available? Many didn't, and somewhere along the line, I discovered the website http://www.apartmentratings.com/, where tenants past and present rate various different apartment blocks. After that, I started looking up the blocks not only on the map, but also on there, which narrowed down the possibilities quite dramatically. The thing with D.C. (or 'The District', as the locals call it), is that many of the cheaper apartment blocks are old and in need of some renewal. D.C. is also a city where many people live in a relatively small area in a temperate climate, so you're going to get some vermin. The problem was that many of the promising apartment blocks turned out to be overrun with cockroaches and/or mice, and some tenants mentioned problems with bedbugs (!). The problem was not necessarily the presence of these pests, as the lackadaisical attitude that the building management had when it came to dealing with them. If a building had review after review that said the place was overrun with cockroaches and that management didn't seem too concerned to do anything about it, it got struck off my list. Likewise places with lots of students. (Although I'm not comparing students to cockroaches, of course!)
After this intensive sifting process, I managed to make two appointments for viewings: one on Wednesday evening, and one on Friday morning. The Wednesday evening apartment had a lot going for it: it was 'downtown', i.e. in the centre of the city, two minutes from a metro station, 10 minutes from Chinatown (where there are a lot of restaurants and things), it was newly renovated (albeit with cream wall-to-wall carpeting - not very practical!), it was in a small block (3 storeys), it had a balcony and a dishwasher, and the laundry was just across the hallway. And there is a fantastic supermarket 5 minutes' walk down the road, they had a deal with the local gym that tenants could join for $25 a month, it had a free parking space (a rarity in DC!) and the rent was cheap: $1414 a month + electricity. The area seemed slightly shady, but when we went back at 10 o'clock at night, it looked quite okay.
In the meantime, a rental agency who I had emailed at the weekend finally got back to me. Enter Capri, the bubbly agent form Urban Igloo! They are the only agency in DC that deals solely with rentals (as opposed to both property sales and rentals), and their service to renters is free of charge. They didn't have much to show me, as this is the busiest time of the year (many people seem to plan moves for the summer), but they did have one up in Adams Morgan... This turned out to be the one I had an appointment to view on the Friday morning. Capri picked me up (this is the other perk: they drive you around!) in her old black Merc on Thursday evening to go and have a look at some apartments, and we saw a larger, more expensive one in the same block, and I was rather underwhelmed. I still preferred the other. On the Friday, however. Capri took me up there again, and I saw the actual apartment (they had been fixing it up until then), and that was enough to make me very confused. This was on a lower floor (the 3rd), overlooking a garden, so you don't feel as if you're in a big block at all. And although it didn't have a dishwasher, it had a bigger kitchen than the one I had seen previously. And loads of space. Other perks: a roof deck with views of all the major landmarks in the city, a gym in the basement and a very good supermarket next door, plus the fact that it's in a lovely area (embassies of Poland and Lithuania just a few doors down, park across the road) and that John F. Kennedy lived there as a young, up-and-coming politician.
We saw the apartment together on Saturday, and we were sold. This one doesn't have the parking space, it's further from a metro station (10-15 mins' walk), the laundry is in the basement and the rent is more expensive, but we decided the other one is a bit TOO much in the middle of everything, and that we preferred something a bit quieter. Our book for newcomers to DC describes the apartment blocks in Adams Morgan (that area of DC) as being like an old cadillac with the seats patched with duct tape: they may have seen better days, but the definitely have character! This is certainly the case with this apartment: the fixtures are (to put it kindly) retro, but they are well-maintained. And the parquet floors are gorgeous.
Today I handed in all the paperwork and paid the 'management fee'. We will be signing the lease contract sometime next week and moving on Sunday the 8th. Here are a few photos:
The living room Dining room area Kitchen (in-between living room, left, and dining area, right)
Bathroom, linen closet, bedroom The GIANT bedroom!
Dorchester House
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