And I was happy to be without a car...

I had this huge list of "looking forward to"s when I came here, including:
--the whole Pacific island thing
--tropical fruit
--getting away from American politics
--living somewhere else entirely random in the world
--living by myself
--not having a car
--learning a new language
--etc, etc.

Until recently, I've had this whole theory on not ever owning a car EVER again. I am not meant for a car. I keep the inside decent, except the important inside parts, like the engine, the breaks, carburetor, etc. I often either ignore or don't hear random warning noises because I space out or listen to my CDs way too loud, and with my last vehicle, poor Fiona, warning lights came on so often I decided to just ignore those, too.
So, new theory: no more owning a car! Yay!
Theoretically, it works, since I want to move to a city (ish) for school and (gasp) jobs and such, so public transportation will be available, and of course, I'm always up for trekking or biking it.

So I bought a bike here, used it rarely in 'Eua (beautiful hills, but stupid for biking), but since I've become a townie, my bike is my lifeline. I bike to work, to the PC office, to friends' houses, to stores, yada yada yada.
But. Remember. Most days I dress like a puritan, and no skirt is shorter than the knee.
Try biking in THAT. If I don't wear shorts underneath, I usually have to bend over, grab both sides of the skirt below the crotch, hold/hike it up, swing a leg over the bike like a horse, adjust the skirt to avoid drive-by-flash-age, and pray to Sisu the skirt won't get caught in the chain, the spokes, or any other random part of a bicycle that threatens my life.
Bikes also don't have gears here. Or handlebars appropriate for more intense riding other than beach-cruising. (Notice my efficiently-sketched handlebars.) Tires often go flat due to pot holes and gravely, rough terrain, and more than once has my seat (literally) fallen apart.

Anyway, enjoy this anatomy of a bicycle and thank the heavens you have access to legit transportation!

The Death List...Continues

Even before Socrates the rat came to trouble my life with ruined underwear, holey papayas, and missing loaves of bread, I had serious animal issues. They began in day one of my stay in Ha'apai with my amazing host family.
You see, I'd always had this perspective, thanks to Disney, that at the rise of the beautiful morning sun, the awaiting rooster would crow for as long as it took the cows to murmur, the little chicks to scurry, and the farmer and his wife to begin their stretch and yawn before morning chores.
DISNEY LIED.
Roosters don't crow at the dawning of a new day. Well, they do, but they also crow at breakfast, at snack times, at lunch, at dinner, at shower-time, at washing-dishes time, at I'm-in-an-important-flipping-conversation! time, at yay-for-quiet-reading time, and at taimi mohe. (Sleep time.)
Roosters are THE MOST obnoxious creatures ON THIS PLANET!
For example, my friend Sandy, who like me as rooster surround-sound since both our houses are on stilts, actually witnessed her god-awful alpha rooster stalk beneath her bedroom window at 6am, turn to look UP at her window, and screech his most awful, attention-seeking crow that he could muster.
There are many chickens at at least 3 roosters around my house at all hours, and it's quite humorous to hear an assembly-line of roosters from streets and houses beyond...it's a contest!
If I'm up and frustrated enough, I storm outside--loudly stomping, of course--and shout curses, wishes, pleas... but if it persists, I throw things. Mostly, old vegetables (rotten potatoes, shriveled/purply carrots, the usual,) etc.
Usually, the chickens/roosters scatter with screechy panic, only to plague my life with a plethora of rooster harmonies that, of course, add to the numerous dog fights, baby cries, and construction traffic.
Stupid rooster.
I'd hate to go all Socrates on that bia.

Don't Do Crack, Do Wordpad!

In case you couldn't tell, I've recently become a Wordpad/Paint enthusiast. (See previous blog dedicated to Socrates).
It's been a busy and slightly stressful 3 weeks, which will only build and build until the camp is over, so this is my new way of relaxing and such. Painting things on the computer. And I feel like it represents my perception of images and such...so maybe I'll replace ALLLLLL my pictures with WordPad paintings! (crazed laugh begins)

Anywho, as closure for dear, fallen Socrates, I thought I'd add one more doodle. Enjoy :)

(ps, sorry for the tiny text. In order, it reads 1.) cute baby mouse from my bedroom, 2.) Socrates, 3.) NYC rat...with a pirate eyepatch and racing stripes, 4.) R.O.U.S (Rodents of Unusual Size). If you don't understand the last one, watch The Princess Bride.)

Socrates, what a big tail you have!

It began. The night of epic proportions. At approximately 6pm on Saturday, I was stirring a pot of papaya jam, waiting on a friend to come over for a girls’ night, and preparing the ingredients for our made-from- scratch brownies.
And I saw it. This long, cord-like tail by a little blue ice cream box I keep below the leaky spout that gives me drinking water from the cement water monstrosity tank outside. Just two hours ago, I filled up my water-boiler without that loopy, grey tail curled like a serpent under the faucet. I just stared, open-mouthed.



In ‘Eua, I got used to long-ish tails from all the little geckos and lizards that run around. Sometimes, I’d gasp as a little tail vanished passed my bedroom door before I realized it was an annoying little lizard. But this was no gecko. This was a legit tail. I knew the time had come.
Of course, I’ve been preparing for death. I threw two poison-packs in the nooks and crannies of my kitchen, where Socrates has obnoxiously been eating things (other than my underwear, in which he totally violated my personal space.)
So I froze, spoon in hand. I stirred a bit more, contemplated. Stared again. It wasn’t moving. I walked through the kitchen, stomped a couple times. Nothing. The thing had to be dead…rats don’t leave their rear out in the open like that… but I was nervous. There was about a 3-4-inch opening between the wall and my cabinet, so even if I ever got the courage to reach in and grab the thing (fat chance), it would be awkward anyway.
So I brisked to my bedroom, grabbed my flashlight, and sauntered back into the death trap, hoping the tail was some genetic deficiency to the small mouse that had scurried out of my bedroom a couple weeks ago.
The corner approached. The light blinked on, the light shone into the crevice…the tail led to…
OH, MY GOD! I screamed….OHhhh, OHHHHH, BLLAHHHHHH! AHHHHHH! BLEH, BLEH, BLEH (these are my gagging antics).



I grabbed my phone, dialed Kaitlin. Nothing. Then, Kimberly. I paced, remembered my jam, stirred with great anxiety…
“Hey Big Nuts!” (long story)
“Ohhhhh Kimberly, oh—blah-mmrrrrr---eeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
(laughter) “Uhh, are you okay?”
“Noo! No, I’m not. There’s a rat and I think it’s dead (voice rises to a high pitch) but I can’t touch it I won’t won’t won’t touch it and OH MY GOD it’s sooooooo big! It’s like HUGE, I mean fur and grey and big tail and it’s curly and itOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHh holy Moses, Kimberly, I’m freaking out! I’m freaking out. It ate the poison and I thought it’d die somewhere I couldn’t see and I don’t want it to get stinky back there but I can’t touch it!”
After Kimberly rotated between laughing, listening, and consoling, she went through her usual checklist of disposing of rodents. (The girl has experience…her house kinda sucks.)
Did I have rubber gloves? No. Did I have a broom? Yes, but it wouldn’t fit in the crevice. The questions proceeded and we came to the conclusion that I needed to ask my neighbors to get rid of the expired Socrates.
My neighbors, my kind lovely neighbors who put up with two days of my scattered, busy, overwhelmed self (I locked myself out of my house/bedroom three times in two days), weren’t home at the time, so I just pondered. And stared at the tail.
I occupied myself with stirring the jam, tasting it, stirring it again with fervor and the need for distraction. (Though I’ll say, my papaya jam is bomb. Unless I try to multitask, in which it sticks to the bottom and tastes like gas.)



Then. The tail moved. It moseyed into the crevice and a concerned yelp escaped. I heard scratching and maneuvering, and thought, “Great…now he’s moved to die in my cabinets! Wonderful!”
I heard nothing for a few minutes and walked back over to check the crevice. Socrates’ big puff of a body had only inched forward, just enough to hide his tail. He looked so fluffy and gross! A few minutes later, I checked again, and his two beady eyes were staring at me. I convulsed and nearly shat myself.




Luckily, my friend Stephanie came in. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to the whole rat thing, but I explained the story. Her first reaction, after I told her of his intimidating size, was, “Is he like a New York rat or a regular rat?”
“Ummm, well, in my dramatic mind, which has never dealt with rats, thinks it’s quite comparable to a NY rat…then again, I’ve never been to New York, so I have no idea.”
Stephanie was extremely wonderful at calming me down, ensuring that things would be fine, that we’d see if he made an appearance later. “He’s definitely sick,” she said.
And sure enough, he did make a sickly appearance. He crawled from the crevice and into the ice cream box for a sip of water to quench his poisoned body, then sauntered to the middle of the kitchen and sat. Just sat there.
“Uhhhh…Steph-a-nie…what the—what is he doing?”
‘Oh man, he’s definitely sickly. Do you have a broom?”
“Yeah…”
“I’m thinking we should try to sweep him out…then again, he could retaliate behind the cabinets or perhaps behind your oven, which would be unfortunate.”
“Okay, hmmm let me get…oh shoot, I should take a picture! Hold on.”
So I took the picture, after which Socrates retreated behind the cupboard. Of course, he’d left a nice bloody turd on the floor for me. I smiled at the thought of his internal bleeding.



So we ate our brownies, drank our tea, and I chopped off Stephanie’s wavy locks for a cute, funky short cut. (What can I say, I’m really building my own career capacity, in case writing, volunteering, and schooling doesn’t quite work out.)
Steph walked into the kitchen to take a last look at the new do as I swept the hair off the front steps.
“Okay. Jamie, I’ll need that broom. Don’t panic, but Socrates is in here, and he looks not so good. I think I can sweep him out. You don’t even have to come in here, just hand me the broom.”
“Waaahhhh? Seriously? He’s just chillin’ in there?”
“Yup.”
I handed her the broom. “Do you want me to open the back door?”
“Nope,” she said, “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll get it propped open, sweep ‘im out, and then he can die a peaceful death under the stars.”
I stayed rooms away but watched her sweep out the body and that long tail into the abyss of roosters, yippy dogs, and the twinkly night sky.
And I forgot to blow my trumpet.

Last Push for Camp GLOW 'Eua!!!

Hello dear friends!

Here's a fun little timeline for you!
--Today is...August 26th.
--I leave for 'Eua on September 2 to begin preparation for the camp.
--The camp starts September 12
--I come back September 19, exhausted and ready to sleep for weeks.

SO: I'm thinking that this will be the last Camp GLOW thingy I post before I dedicate a post to recapping the camp, la-dee-da.
Knowing this, I hope you can tolerate one more blog post in which I beg you to donate to our camp! We need around $1000 USD, and would be much obliged and extremely grateful if you or someone you know would be willing to donate!

The link that leads to magic:
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=421-132

Malo 'aupito...meimei 'osi! (Thank you very much...almost finished!)

Jamie O.

Shall We Start the Weeping Trumpets?

Socrates Status: Infected
Projected Death: Approximately 4 Days
Cause of Potential Death: Mortein Rat Poison Throw-Packs

Since I can remember, we've always had this...tradition of discarding dead things. Well, more specifically, my goofy father has always felt this comical need to fake-trumpet "Taps" before discarding a smashed fly (or any other insect) into the trash. He would hold the bug in one hand and place the other hand to his mouth in trumpet-like fashion, then begin the melody that, in pitch, sounds similar to the tiny little prawns in The Little Mermaid as they zip up to King Triton. He would slowly slink forward to the trash, and as soon as the tune finished, he'd dump the fallen fly into its smelly depths of the kitchen garbage. The funny thing is that I've totally done it. On several occassions.
AND I plan on continuing this tradition/tribute of fallen nuisances when Socrates has passed, most likely in a foul-smelling fashion and, if karma would have it, probably in one of my bedroom walls he likes to scurry about so often.

You know, he just couldn't take a hint.
Fare thee well, dear Socrates. My trumpet is ready.

'Ohai

The 'ohai is the most beautiful tree in Tonga, in my eyes. The leaves are light and ferny, and much smaller than they look. Leaves cover the branch, making each branch look like a big ferny mass, but you look closely, beyond the beautiful pursed lips of red blooms, and you see little leaves the size of my nub of a pinky-nail.
For years, I've been obsessed with the symbolic tree of life. Whether you relate it to religion or not, the life of a tree is absolutely breathtaking. How it supplements life to other things, how its expanse of mass reaches far beyond the soil and far beyond our reach to the sky. Trees are beautiful, colorful, fruitful in some cases.
But the 'ohai is beyond. I always felt in touch with Mother Willow from Pocahontas-- her wisdom and good-hearted humor; and the 'ohai's branches and leaves are similar to the willowy ones, but when the 'ohai sheds its starkingly contrasted Ireland-green and chili-pepper red, it becomes a stout, winding mass of slate, white, and mint-green of moss (if it's an old tree.)
In 'Eua, I read the complete set of Lord of the Rings, and always envisioned this beautiful 'ohai tree as the White Tree of Gondor--this symbol of fallen but soon-regained power and reinstatement of goodness.
And in LOTR, trees are powerful and active. They help the good guys, overthrow the bad guys, and are OLD! They're wise and talk ridiculously slow and like to be alone sometimes. They adorn themselves with organic, beautiful decorations, and are such a safe-haven.
Of course, my favorite 'ohai tree in 'Eua was old and beautiful, but also had laughing, taunting children in its every crevice, along with a rusty car engine dangling from its biggest branch as a school bell.
Most Tongans would consider the coconut tree as the most beautiful because there are 101 ways to use it; it's a staple of the Tongan culture--it provides food, drink, shelter, materials for mats and baskets and other handicrafts, therefore generating income.
The 'ohai isn't extremely useful, other than providing leaves and blooms for kahoa's (lei) but it's beautiful--whether its bare and grey or full of flowly, blooming branches. It's still life.

Borders

*Prelude: So I'm currently working on compiling a portfolio for Grad School (Creative Writing), and I'm randomly writing little Brevities to see if they'll work. Malo 'aupito!*

Of my two siblings, I usually choose more artistic routes of expression/sanity-maintenance. I feel more spiritually thrilled by bluegrass stringed harmony than by a man behind a pulpit, I’d weep if the world ran out of ink, and Frida Kahlo’s “Broken Column” (my favorite artist and painting in high school,) sent thrills so violent I thought the nerves would chip my spine to the likeness of hers. I love her details and colors, just as I loved the chaos of Jackson Pollock or the haunting, addicting voice of Thom York. Music and art has always been the mom and dad of my aesthetic upbringing. Like when Pocahontas and John Smith run through wind and forests, past colorful animals and rivers full of hues and swirling life.
I loved, I cared, I felt and pined for muses and superpowers in the expressive form just to absorb like osmosis into my finger-fibers, guiding my way through piano chords and stubborn Crayolas. At the age of 4, I picked out the melody to “My Old Kentucky Home,” yet I also spent my entire childhood (and adolescence…and teenage years) loathing every normal student’s favorite activity.
Most of the time, I would observe the expertise with which my careful girlfriends would apply equal pressure between each crayon stroke. I was always drawn to the darker, bolder colors of coloring-book images; however, the softer, pastel-y pictures taunted me like the frilly ‘little lady’ my grandmother always wanted me to be. I was messy; my half-dark-half-light strokes went in crazy directions and, heaven forbid, off the page. I could spell tornado at age five, but I just couldn’t keep Mickey’s red pants inside the lines!
I finally made peace with my artistic (in)abilities the semester before I graduated college. My philosopher friend lit incense and prepared a vegan meal before scraping through our collaborative efforts at Philology. With her encouragement, I found myself at a canvas and four paints: pink, white, moody blue, and black. (There’s nothing like Vladimir Nabokov and Nietzsche to provoke an artistic dumping session.)
I resurfaced an hour later to my own scrutiny and my friend’s amazement at filling a medium-sized canvas with a free-handed painting of a Puritan-style bodice (the top of the painting) and skirt with an aged tree trunk stouting itself below the lacy flows of the hem. We had conversations during my applied skills, but the only cognitive process I remember was to add the pink bow at the bodice for a Mrs. Goodman Brown tribute.
Nearly halfway through my Peace Corps service, I found myself sitting down to water colors and sketch paper, dibbing and swooping my way into a hills-and-skyscrapers smorgasbord into…something about Blues. I’m still not sure where it came from, though I felt strangely empowered by Anne Lamott’s dread locks, bluegrass music, and self-conscious views of the previous night’s jam-session with some talented musicians, in which I sang with a slightly scratchy (and very strained) voice.
I’m always a bit weary of my singing voice, anyway. At four I was mimicking Whitney Houston and my sister told me to make my voice stop shaking because I sounded like one of the older ladies in our church. (I stopped immediately.) As a teenager, I had to sing a lot in church and was encouraged to nearly scream the melody so the old people could hear and the young people wouldn’t have to hear the old people. Revival season left me hoarse halfway through—all I wanted to do was sing my normal voice, but I always toned it down because I had a tendency to “jazz things up” a bit.
I suppose I started letting my voice take its own form just a few months before my Mrs. Goodman Brown Puritan Tree-trunk painting popped out of my dark place. In this self-discovery time period, a lyric from Damien Rice’s “Accidental Babies” really embedded itself—“is he dark enough/enough to see your light?” I suppose that lyric led to a bit of overdue self-acceptance. I had to dig to that dark, moody, outside-the-lines self to really understand the whole self—the one without the perfectly drawn outlines ready to fill in.
And that’s my border in life. As the curvy body of the Ohio River forms Kentucky’s top, I’m the formation of flowing, bold colors and no real outline. No distinguished shapes to color between. In my dark place, I begin as a blank page—open, hidden with visual combinations. I’m a harmony waiting to find a melody, or a melody waiting for the dark to absorb me with confidence before I’ll let my inner noise take a floaty shape in the waiting air.

Skype!

Praise Sisu, I finally got Skype to work today! It was wonderful to see a real face from clean life ALONG with a voice! (Yay Cali friend Laura!)
Anyway, I wanted to give out my Skype name in case anyone was interested in chatting sometime!
If you have a Skype account or want to make one, search for jamie.ogles. Then I'll add you as a friend and we can make a Skype date! It's gonna be fantastic!

Also, I randomly took a picture of the tattoo I got a couple months ago. It's a Polynesian (mostly Tahitian), and I love it! Enjoy!

Tales of a SocRATes

In my four weeks as a newbie in Nuku’alofa, my access to wonderful things has made my GAD coordinator initiation quite wonderful. I have internet every day, (except weekends, where I take a break,) a hot shower keeps me feeling clean, I have furniture for watching my newly-acquired shows and movies via Ttap (Tongatapu) friends, and then there’s food.
If I’m feeling ice cream, I go to Chateaux for a double-scoop of boysenberry and passionfruit, or if one is out, banana and strawberry or kiwi and passionfruit. (For some reason, living here has made me crave fruity ice cream…I never got it back home.) If I need a quick bite to eat, I’ll run by this a cheap sit-down place called Talahiva (chicken curry and manioke for $3!) or perhaps barbeque (which they call KENTUCKY) for $5. If I want snacky and delicious things, Molisi has fruits, yogurt, good cereal, healthy crackers, etc. And the American Store has a random and ever-changing stock of stuff you just can’t get anywhere else.
Life is good. The bakery is always open and quite delicious (sausage roll $1.50 what!!!), and I always buy bread from there. It’s so accessible for my ever-changing cravings, like PB&Js, garlic toast, or sadly and of late, plain bread and butter (but not a lot of butter.) Bread is just awesome. It’s easy. Fluffy. Goes with anything.
Like Bleach, for example. I recently found a beautiful bottle of Clorox bleach and figured I should get it since my shower actually has tile in it. Plus I’m slightly anal about cleaning certain things. (Not my bedroom, though…sorry, ‘rents.)
And since discovering there was a little sneak in my house, I knew the Bleach would come in handy someday. Let’s go back a few months to ‘Eua, where Kimberly (AKA: Boo-Boo) sends me a hilarious text about handling her quite terrible rat situation. It says something along the lines of:
“Im crzy- bc the dull machete wont kill these stupid rats, I got the idea to soak my pata (small bananas) in bleach. And feed it to the rats. Im insane. (Next message, after I replied with enthusiasm and amazement) I should be institutionalized.”
Since then, Kimberly has become the rat-killing maestra. Other PCVs have texted her about the details of lacing food with any common rodent killer...like Bleach. She tries to defend her honor and psyche by claiming that these thoughts were only accumulated in desperate need, but I believe much differently. It was divine intervention.
Let’s fast-forward a few months to yesterday. Well, first I’ll preface yesterday. Rats, in my mind, are the “EEEK!” equivalent to the molokau. I walk into a room, scan the floor from crack to crevice, check table tops and chairs, and then breathe out when I realize neither has chosen to visit and scare the Sisu out of me. These things…are scary in a way a scary movie is scary. It’s not, but the anticipation makes you twiddle your thumbs in rapid succession, tap your foot as though the energy will wear it off, and your mind races at possibilities, trying to get the timing of the music just right with the moment when the evil SocRATes jumps out in steroided form, with 12-inch fangs, poisonous whiskers, and a tail with one of those medieval pointy ball things attached.
In all reality, when I saw Socrates for the first time last night, he was tiny. Technically, I don’t know if the word “rat” applies…of course, I use it for dramatic effect, since “rat” makes my whole face cringe, while mouse makes me think of The Rescuers or Feivel Goes West.


Socrates caught my eye under my bedroom table, between my tennis shoes and hiking boots. At first, I thought he was a little dancing shadow, but then I realized that something is to move in order to make a shadow, and nothing in my room was moving. So I studied this subtly-twitching thing, watching him scurry past my shoes and into a pile of clothes I’ve left on my floor all week. I carefully removed an article of clothing at a time, got to the bottom of the pile, and beneath my pink tank top, Socrates made a dash to the corner of my room below my bed, around the wall, and then out the door into the dark living room, where, of course, I didn’t find him. The little sh* must have squeezed between my cardboard-and-tape hole-plugs, or into another mouse escape I couldn’t see.
I immediately went into the kitchen, tore an old slice of bread into chunks, doused it in Clorox, and did the same with some leftover fried apples. This morning, the food was gone.
If I smell dead things in my house soon, I’ll only cringe a little…and part of that cringe will be a sly, successful smile, knowing that now I, too, should be institutionalized due to creative ways of rat poisoning.

Down to the Uaia (wire)

Camp GLOW Tonga is making its scary debut in just a month. Scary, you say? But JAMIE, this is an amazing camp to empower young girls in Tonga (and through the world!) to rise above patriarchal stereotypes and customs...why is it scary?
1. Because I have to put on my big girl pants and start (gasp) organizing things. A lot.
2. Because both camps in Tongatapu and 'Eua are still needing a tiny bit of fundage.
3. Because I've never been so busy in my Peace Corps life and I feel as though the logistics and background work are keeping me from remembering the actual camp.
4. Because life after Camp GLOW 2011 will be crazy planning Camp GLOW 2012 and other partnership projects.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I feel there's more, as well, such as not having time to do laundry, being overwhelmed by seeing a large amount of people EVERY DAY, and staying up late to have Jamie time with my new favorite TV shows and, of course, Disney movies (ones with empowering women, of course).
Anyway, as this is our last big pull for fundage, if you are feeling extra generous or know someone or a group who'd be interested in donating to Camp GLOW, please click on the link! Malo 'aupito!

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=421-132

If It's All Just Furniture, I'm the Curtains

A thing about Tongan furniture: they will cover anything with fabric to make it look presentable, though that chair you're sitting on could be half a bed fitted with random plywood as a back, a halved or quartered foam pad as the cushions, and sarong fabric as the cover.
The thing I've noticed most, however, is that most of the furniture is used over and over for practicality, which is great. This also means they wear the heck out of something until it is dangling by its last fibers of life...and then they fix it up again.
In America, we get in a mood to change things around. Move furniture, get new candle holders, buy a new table that looks worn out and vintage... and curtains.
As a volunteer, it's quite normal to feel like the newest cleaning product on the old Billy Mays infomercials... and when my bottle is in its last effort of squirting to make things shiny in Tonga, I am...replaced.
I'm like curtains. Tongans, as I've noticed, do replace curtains quite often. New colors, patterns, fabric...the thinner and breezier the better, and I feel like the new material being crafted to fit this certain-sized window... and in a year and a half, they'll find another.
It's sad, really. Feeling like a quick-fix. I do think I am appreciated and I feel that my new position as GAD Coordinator will be fruitful in my Tongan life AND back in Clean Life...beneficial, no doubt. But I'm just a person, after all. Just another Palangi who came here with post-college energy and wide-eyed amazement at how MUCH I can LEARN! (Ok, it's still mostly there, but a bit faded...worn into a vintage wash, if you will.)
So there. Here I am making furniture metaphors about my life as a PCV, and BOOM. I realize I AM the furniture. Or more specifically, a single accessory!