At some point during our senior spring at Williams, my good friend Merritt Edlind and I attempted to determine who, between the two of us, was more amused by our own thoughts. This exercise had nothing to do with who was more entertaining to other individuals, but was instead meant to compare our self-images—which of us found ourselves wittier. We eventually concluded that I find myself funnier than Merritt, mostly because Merritt is a rather modest sort, and I think I am hilarious.
Any extended period of solo travel affords one a great deal of time for self-reflection, and in my more pensive moments, I find myself coming back to Merritt and my discussion. I have now concluded that the primary reason I enjoy myself so much, often more than I should, is rooted in my hugely inflated sense of self-worth. The experiences I have had abroad have shown me that I think I am far funnier, more clever and better-looking than I actually am. Although my unabashed egotism may not have been apparent to many of my friends and acquaintances back home, it is only because I am also (exceptionally) good at feigning modesty. This discovery, though, has not really made me any less full of myself— it has just allowed for some interesting analyses of my behavior.
While at home or at school, my self-infatuation was often tempered by conversations with friends or distractions like schoolwork or females. Now that I am alone, I have a great deal more free time to think and let my mind wander. As a result, I grow more impressed with myself each day. More often than not, the sources of this pride are irrational and entirely unfounded. I was, for example, proud of myself after I delivered two massive sacks of laundry to the laundromat in Largo Machado, a part of town 20 minutes away. My discovery later that day— that I could have spent far less at a place walking distance from my house— did not put a dent in my swollen chest. As far as I was concerned, the day, and I, had been massively successful.
I have not been more proud of myself over the course of my entire five months abroad than in the moments following the creation of my first batch of homemade peanut butter. For all four months in Ireland, where peanut butter is readily available, I never once got the urge to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. As soon as I landed in Brazil, though, the cravings hit, and I headed straight for the store. After spending an hour in the spreads aisle, being teased by jars of exotic jams and jellies, it became apparent to me that peanut butter is not eaten in this country. I returned home a broken man, and reported my findings to Sadakne, a friend living in the same house. Sadakne is also from the Midwest, but has lived in Rio for the past few years. “No biggie,” she said. “Just make some yourself. Oil, peanuts, salt and sugar.”
It was another couple of weeks before I had moved into my own place and purchased a blender, but I did not forget. After purchasing 4 little baggies of peanuts from the store, I returned home and churned out some Americana. My first batch wasn’t that great. It was too oily, and didn’t taste good by itself. On sandwiches, it got the job done, although the superb guava jelly that I splurged on was probably what tipped the scales. In short, my creation was nothing to put Jif out of business*. Yet, over the next few days, I probably ate upwards of 10 bananas with peanut butter. Because it was my peanut butter. Peanut butter that I had made. I mentioned it incessantly in conversation with friends and family. I didn’t even have the decency to slip it in casually. I was that proud.
Aroop: So what have you been doing in Rio? Playing a lot of music?
Me: Yea, yea some music. And eating. Eating bananas.
Aroop: Cool, bananas.
Me: Yea I eat them with peanut butter.
Aroop: Word, I like b—
Me (cutting him off): That I made. Peanut butter that I made.
Aroop: You make your own peanut butter?
Me (nonchalantly): Yea, I guess I do. No big deal. You know, you do what you gotta do.
Aroop: Wow. You should write a blog post about that.
Me: Yea maybe. I do a lot of stuff like that though, I don’t know.
My last statement was, of course, a lie. I haven’t done anything as cool as making my own peanut butter outside of when I accidentally charred most of the hair off of my right hand with my oven, but I already wrote about that. Clearly I was going to write a post about the peanut butter. Although not all of my little victories have been quite that glamorous, however, I have found that I have a much easier time dealing with the minute yet significant challenges inherent in living abroad when I view them not as obstacles, but as more opportunities. Opportunities to impress myself time and time again. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for the other Watson fellows who may not be as full of themselves as I am. In the midst of these meditations, however, I usually get distracted by my own radiant genius and thus never get too much time to think about them. Intellect has its price, I suppose.
On a less self-aggrandizing note, I hope everyone’s holidays back in the US (and wherever else) are spectacular. It’s now the height of summer in Rio, and I went to the beach on December 24th, took my shirt off, and drank fresh coconut water. It’s a bit surreal, but I’m coping. There’s also supposed to be a massive New Year’s party on Copacabana beach, so if any of you back home don’t have any plans, there’s space in my apartment for you to crash. I only have one pillow, though, so keep that in mind. If you don’t make it down, have a great New Year’s and I’ll see you all in 2008.
Much love,
Auyon
* Batch two, on the other hand, was a different story. I got my oil/peanut and sugar/salt ratios down, and then, in a moment of brilliance, melted down some of the dark chocolate Toblerone I had in the fridge and added it to the mix. Words cannot describe how dazzled I was by myself when I was finished with this masterpiece.
Note from the poster: Sorry it took so long for this guy to go up. Auyon's been having internet problems down South, so he asked me to post this. Mid December bacchanalia and poor connection for the past couple of days prevented me from helping a brother out. My apologies. Updates to go up soon on aroop.vox.com. Promise. - Aroop
Last week, Vinicius and I strolled around Santa Teresa in search of some suitable accommodation for me for the next four months. We saw a few lavish apartments, all of which came with price tags to match. Although the Real (the Brazilian currency) is more forgiving than the Euro, my decision to take both intensive Portuguese classes as well as mandolin lessons in Rio has rendered me unable to afford much more than a modest rent. At the tail end of our tour of the town, after seeing a mouth-watering little place with huge windows and hardwood floors, the owner said that he had something else that might be more suitable. We descended down a number of staircases, deep into the bowels of the apartment complex. When we got to what seemed like the bottom floor, he led us down another small, narrow concrete staircase hidden in the corner, leading to an unpainted wooden door. He opened the door, revealing a concrete floor littered with the belongings of the current occupant, a bed, a mini-table and a small kitchenette with an oven and a sink. Although I wasn’t overly impressed, the price he quoted was exactly what I was looking for, so after some deliberation, I took it.
I returned later that day, sans Vinicius, in order to procure the contract from a lady named Andrea to make it all official. I walked to the desk at the entrance of the building, and met Julio, a behemoth of a man with deep black skin and intensely white teeth, for the second time. I had the pleasure of meeting him earlier, when Vinicius and I first entered the building. Vinicius had shaken hands with him first, recoiling in pain afterwards and informing me to “Watch out.” I then nervously looked up from my own extended hand to Julio, who exposed his teeth in an intimidating grin, and then gripped my hand and shook it like a dead rodent. Our second encounter began with a simple “Olá”, as I made sure to keep my hand in my pocket lest he try to mangle it again. We were all alone, and since Julio speaks no English, I took a stab at Portuguese. For the benefit of all you gringo readers out there in cyberspace, I will be recounting our conversations in translation.
“Hello Julio. I… Andrea. Where. Andrea.” It wasn’t really a question, but he understood.
“She’s not here yet.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
A slight pause followed, followed by Julio’s attempt to make conversation. “It’s pretty hot outside,” he said slowly. I then decided to try one of the phrases I remembered from my Rosetta Stone course.
“I… I am. I am hot.” I continued. “You. You are hot. We are. We are hot.” These were some of the first full sentences I had constructed in Portuguese, and I was hugely proud of myself. Only later did I realize what a blathering idiot I must have sounded like. Julio cut me off.
“The beach would be great today. Have you been to the beach?”
“I love beach.”
It was at this point that Andrea, a pretty lady in her mid-30’s, walked into the room. Julio informed her that I needed the contract, and she then turned her back to us to walk to the desk. I then looked back at Julio. His arms were outstretched, and he was framing Andrea’s posterior in a little window he made with his fingers, wincing as though he were experiencing intense pain or pleasure. He then grinned at me and flashed a thumbs-up sign. I nodded vigorously. Over the course of our short interaction, language barriers aside, we had established that we share an interest in both beaches and the jean-clad female form. I can’t think of a more solid foundation for friendship. I hope to see much more of Julio.
I moved in to the apartment last week, and found a few surprises. Most were minor, like a broken board in the bed, but I also found that the oven didn’t work. When I informed one of the men who work the desk, he called the gas company to bring a new tank. He then fixed it up for me, and watched as I tried to light it. I had recently gotten comfortable lighting gas ovens, since I had cooked a bit with Vinicius in his house. I took the lighter in hand, turned up the gas, and flicked the lighter. Foot-tall flames erupted out of the oven, singing most of the hair off of the knuckles of my right hand and scaring the shit out of me. Antonio, the gentleman who had helped me hook the tank up, frowned and muttered something in Portuguese. I cradled my hand and inspected the damage. The results weren’t all bad. I admit that my knuckles had been getting a bit hairy, and could have done with a little trim. Engulfing my hand in a gas-borne fireball, however, would not have been my preferred method. Antonio then instructed me to use the oven on very low heat, presumably to prevent lighting the building on fire. I agreed.
Outside of my flaming oven, the apartment has been great. I have two decently sized windows that look out onto Santa Teresa, so I get a nice breeze and a view. I also have a pet cockroach named Mr. Brojangles who lives under my fridge. When I first saw him a few nights ago, I tried to goosh him, but he’s a very clever boy and scuttled back under the fridge. I recently sprayed Raid all over the apartment though, so I’m afraid I might not be seeing much of Mr. Brojangles anymore.
In all seriousness, I’m starting to get really settled down here and am really enjoying Rio. I had my first mandolin lesson with a guy named Rudá, and am absolutely loving the music. The language barrier makes for a much trickier adjustment than anything I experienced in Ireland, but my Portuguese is getting better by the day. Hopefully I’ll be able to speak well enough to get my oven fixed soon.
Much love, I’m missing you all,
Auyon
My first meal in Brazil consisted of a small, floppy cheeseburger and a strangely flavored milkshake at a little joint called “Bob’s Burgers” in Rio de Janeiro airport. Upon consumption, I headed outside to catch a cab to Santa Teresa, where my friend Vinicius is staying. These first two interactions with Cariocas (inhabitants of Rio)— the cashier at Bob’s and the cab driver— made it quite clear to me that I had been operating under false pretenses for the past 4 months. Before my arrival, I had convinced myself that since Rio is such a popular tourist destination, I would be able to get around speaking English. Sure, I thought, Portuguese would help in communicating with the musicians, but my limited knowledge of the language via the Rosetta Stone course, combined with my familiarity with French and Spanish, would make the transition hardly noticeable.
Fallacies.
The cab driver tried to make conversation, but soon realized I had no idea what was going on, and instead resorted to the few English words he knew. “Favela,” he pointed out as we passed by one of the many poor shanty towns that dot the city. “Dangerous.” I nodded. We drove several minutes in silence. “Beautiful, this city,” he continued, pointing at the towering mountains, lush green forests and white sand beaches that lay in the distance. I nodded vigorously. We eventually got into Centro, or downtown, and then drove up the hill that leads to the neighborhood of Santa Teresa.
Santa Teresa was at one point one of the most fashionable places to live in Rio, and the huge, colonial style houses that line many of its streets are a testament to its glory days. The often dilapidated and decrepit façades of the buildings, though, are evidence of the area’s later decline. Today, Santa Teresa is experiencing a rejuvenation of sorts, and is reputed to be the city’s booming arts district. All the guidebooks I read, though, make clear that Santa Teresa retains a rather rough edge, as it is close to many favelas. “Take care,” they warn, “as muggings do occur often here.” I looked around as the cab climbed up the cobbled streets, and noticed that all the houses had sizable gates and fences, tastefully decorated with barbed wire and chunks of broken glass to discourage uninvited guests.
We soon reached no. 587, Rua Joaquim Murtinho, at which point I thanked the cab driver profusely and collected my bags from the trunk. The driver zoomed off, and I headed towards the gate. It was locked. There was another gate, though. Locked as well. I looked for a doorbell. There was one inside the second gate, and I reached through and rang it. No one answered. I rang it again. I then took a minute to survey my surroundings. There was no one in sight— just stretches of cobbled street and high fences on either side of me. I was all alone. In Rio. I took ten deep breaths, and then collected my thoughts. “This is it,” I thought. “I’m going to get mugged. I’ve been in Rio for all of 45 minutes, and I’m going to get mugged. And when they mug me, they’re going to laugh at me, because I’m wearing this god damned fanny pack I promised my dad I’d wear to keep my passport safe and—”
“Olá!” buzzed a man’s voice through the speaker above the doorbell behind the gate, followed by several incomprehensible words in Portuguese.
“Amigo. Amigo de Vinicius,” I said in what I thought was a Portuguese inflection. I heard a shuffle, and then saw a little shirtless man wearing Bermuda shorts walk down to the gate. I could have kissed him.
The man, named Eduardo, opened the gate, and relieved me of one of my suitcases. We then headed up to the main house, a watermelon-red mansion with white trim and surrounded by foliage. I found the owner, a lady named Julie, and tried desperately to explain my plight. “I speak English,” she said, after I trailed off into Portuguese-gibberish for the third or fourth time. I later learned that Julie is in fact Irish, from Belfast. Small world. She put me up in a hostel area in the basement of the house. There were no other hostel-dwellers at the time, however, leaving me with 10 beds to myself. Glorious. I took a long hot shower, and then looked around for Vinicius. He had been gone when I arrived, but was around when I checked a second time. The man is a paraglider pilot, musician and graphic designer. I want to be like him when I grow up. We spoke for a little while, and then I headed into town to try and buy groceries. It turns out everything is much more interesting when you can’t understand what’s going on around you. Unlike Ireland, though, I don’t look at all out of place here, which is a welcome change. I spent about an hour and a half buying 5 things from the supermarket, and then headed home, quite proud of myself.
Over the next few days, I managed to get a decent sense of the city and how to get around. This was accomplished primarily by getting on bus headed to some chosen destination, like Ipanema beach. I would then fail to get off at the right stop, because there are no official stops here. You simply push a little button, and the bus slows down and stops wherever you please. This is fantastic for anyone who knows the city, but I did not have that luxury, making every bus ride a little adventure of its own. Constant vigilance is not a forte of mine, and thus I got off at random points in the city more often than not, realized I had no idea where I was, and then would try to catch another bus. The cycle continued until I found my way home. 3 hours is my average travel time, regardless of destination.
I’ve also gotten completely hooked on samba and chorinho (a more intimate, instrumental type of Brazilian music), and have been looking for a teacher. For the next few months, I plan on primarily concentrating on learning Portuguese and getting to a decent point on the mandolin. Before I arrived, I had entertained fantasies of learning to surf, dance, fight capoeira, et cetera, but I recently realized that my time will be much more effectively spent getting good at a few things rather than spreading myself thin with too many.
In other news, I just found a place to live for the next four months. I don’t know the exact room number yet (I move in on Saturday) but will post the address as soon as I can. I also just started some intensive Portuguese classes, and will hopefully be at a conversational-fluent point within a couple of months. My current lack of ability, however, will certainly lead to some entertaining encounters. Get excited.
I miss you all. More stories soon.
Much love,
Auyon
After a week of galavanting around England to see loved ones, friends and family (as well as participating in two hugely indulgent Thanksgiving feasts), I head to Heathrow this afternoon to catch a direct flight to Sao Paulo, which then continues to Rio. I'm a little nervous, mostly because I don't have a place to stay figured out quite yet. I have been connected with a paraglider pilot named Vinicius, though, who has agreed to help me find a place. The catch is that Vinicius doesn't technically have a place either. He and I are going home-hunting on Sunday, he tells me.
I should get back to packing my goodness. The airline I'm flying only allows me to bring one carry-on item, which means that my mandolin must go in my checked luggage, throwing what little organization I had before into disarray. Sorry this post is so short, but have no doubt that exciting stories will soon follow.
Much love,
Auyon
Some of the first advice I received about living in Ireland was to move out before winter set in. Only a few weeks into November, I'm beginning to see why my friend was so emphatic about this suggestion. Purplish-grey clouds perpetually blot out the sky, casting a gloomy shadow over the countryside and robbing the inky-black rivers and lakes of their shimmer. The days are shorter and I have begun wearing long underwear around the house because I'm so cold, much to the amusement of my housemates. I would be depressed were I not moving to Rio in 2 weeks. Admittedly, though, my last few days in Ireland could not have been better. This past weekend, Aroop came to visit and I did my best to show him everything I love about this country. On the Friday he arrived, he was rather sluggish as a result of his academic commitments at Oxford. We had planned to take it easy to allow him to recuperate a bit, and were in the midst of debating whether to buy a cheap burger in town or cook some pasta when our mother called. She phoned to ensure that Aroop had indeed made it to Galway safely, and also to wish us "Happy Diwali." Diwali is the Hindu festival of light, and celebrates the homecoming of Lord Ram in one of the great Hindu epics, the Ramayana. After wishing us, my mother did something entirely unexpected. She informed me that, as a Diwali gift, everything my brother and I did this weekend would be on her. Neither my brother nor I had ever received a Diwali gift from anyone before. We used to receive Christmas presents when we were very young, but that ended when we learned that Santa didn't exist. I have heard it's traumatic for kids to learn that Santa isn't real, but my brothers and I came to this realization with the accompanying admission from my parents that "we aren't actually Christian," so "we wouldn't be getting a tree next year." I remember crying a lot.
Scarring childhood experiences aside, I thanked my mother profusely and then hung up the phone and informed Aroop of our good fortune. All of a sudden, the bags disappeared from under his eyes, and his exhaustion was replaced by sheer joy. "We," he informed me confidently, "are going to the best god damned restaurant in this town." I had no choice but to acquiesce. Upon his departure from the US, Aroop was given a credit card from my mother "to be used for emergencies," and it was this card my mother had instructed us to use. I got curious though, and asked Aroop how often he uses it for miscellaneous expenses. "It's a grey area, really," he said. "I've been doing some thinking, though. I think I'll start paying for my own alcohol." I felt so proud of him when he said that. My baby brother is growing up so fast, and he's only 19.
Following an overly indulgent meal, Aroop and I retired home and passed out, fat and happy. From this point, the weekend only got better. We had been invited to a party in Dundalk, which is north of Dublin (across the country from Galway), hosted by Eimear's parents (Eimear being a family friend who has graciously had me over several times over the course of my stay here). Aroop and I stopped off in Dublin for a few hours and then headed north, and walked into a house filled with a lot of delicious food and even more beer. Michael, Eimear's father, notified us that he had placed to a large trash bag outside the bathroom where we were to put empty cans. "You two," he continued, "are responsible for filling that up. Clear? Good." Aroop and I got to work, diligent as we are. It was a fantastic night. We woke up sometime the next afternoon, and made our way back to Galway to catch a concert by Damien Dempsey, an up-and-coming Irish singer/songwriter. We then headed home once again to prepare for Aroop's departure early the next morning. It's a busy life we vagrants lead, but someone has to do it.
The next blog post I compose will be written outside of Ireland, as I leave the country in six days. I will spend a little more than a week in England to celebrate American Thanksgiving with the Schmidt family, and then head on to Rio on the 29th of November. Thus, if you have any packages of candy or kittens that you plan on sending me in Ireland, make sure to label them "Express," otherwise the candy will go bad, and I hate stale candy.
Much love,
Auyon
Having called Ireland home for the past three months, I have begun to embrace a number of Irish habits and sentiments as my own. It was thus with an abiding sense of hatred of the English that I arrived in London last Monday to visit friends and family. I like to think of myself as an open-minded person, though, and upon consumption of a delicious traditional Cornish pasty at Gatwick airport, I chose to give the country a second chance. All of the English could not possibly be as snooty as my Irish compatriots made them out to be. How could they possibly take themselves that seriously, with subway stops like “Piccadilly Circus” and “Cockfosters” dotting their hallowed capital? These people, I decided, must be hilarious.
The night we arrived in London, Dave and I took a train into Oxford to stay with my younger brother Aroop and good friend Harris Paseltiner at the Williams-Exeter house, just outside the center of the city. Much love was exchanged, and I got to hear about Aroop’s latest antics, which included joining the Exeter Amateur Boxing Club (Aroop, at 130 lbs, will be competing in the super featherweight division) and his purchase of a badger-hair shaving brush from Crabtree and Evelyn. Once Dave and I had sorted out our respective sleeping situations, and had each raided Aroop’s closet for fashionable items we would don later in the week, we headed out to a pub. Upon arrival, we approached the rather crowded bar. One of the bartenders, a surly, stupid looking man, made eye contact with my brother. Aroop smiled back at him, and politely requested a few ales. “Yes. Yes of course you can get that. When you’re served,” replied the brute, sneering. He then whirled around and lumbered back to his cave, or perhaps to the other side of the bar to serve some other lucky customer. Aroop went into a brief state of shock. I was furious. No one speaks to my baby brother like that. A few of us then began loudly discussing the extent to which the bartender was an asshole. At this point another bartender, this one more rodent-like than boorish, instructed us to “not make ludicrous demands.” I was so angry I had to go urinate. When I got back, I ordered a round from a different bartender, and made sure to go out of my way to be extraordinarily polite and gracious to everyone behind the bar, which threw them off a great deal.
The Bartender Incident was just the first of many negative experiences with service industry personnel in Oxford. Every second bus driver, cabbie and waiter seemed to have an enormous chip on his shoulder. I certainly loved spending time with Aroop, Harris, and the Williams crew, as there’s little that can prevent one from enjoying getting sloppily drunk with kith and kin (my cousin Shanto is studying at Oxford this term as well, and we celebrated his 21st birthday together on Thursday), but I did leave Oxford with a rather bad taste in my mouth. During the course of my bus ride to London, I made a mental list of the differences I perceived between Ireland and England.
1. Ireland uses the Euro. England uses pounds.
2. In Ireland, people drink Guinness. In England, people eat crumpets.
3. Cockfosters.
4. In Ireland, there is a warm hospitality that greets newcomers who are unfamiliar with Irish culture and customs. In England, any unfamiliarity or inability to immediately assimilate is considered offensive. This reaction is presumably rooted in the conviction that all things English are correct, and all things not English are not, which is most likely a sad, desperate throwback to the days when anything English actually mattered.
It is unfortunate that I only realize now, after graduating from Williams, that sociology/comparative anthropology is my true calling. In any case, I felt much better after an entire bus ride of mental England-bashing, and emerged onto the streets of London refreshed. I spent my first few hours in London hanging out with my freshman year crew coach, Ben Lewis. It was fantastic to catch up with him, talking about the old times and how we had been a crew entirely composed of misfits. I then met up with Cynthia Zwicky, a dear friend from Williams, and her boyfriend Simon. We all headed out to Brick Lane, which is renowned for its authentic Indian cuisine. It was a surreal experience: South Asians of all sizes and ages yelled and hawked in the streets, attempting to entice innocent bystanders into their restaurants. One well-dressed gentleman promised “discount beer” as well as a “table overlooking the cookery, where [we] could talk to the chefs.” We were escorted into an uncomfortably hot room literally within the kitchen. It was filled with a small army of short, unhappy looking South Asian men in white aprons, none of whom looked like they had any desire to speak to me. I held my tongue. The meal was actually one of the worst I have ever had. The saag, which is normally a delicious, spinach dish, was a yellow, milky curry with a few spinach leaves thrown in for good measure, and then drenched in honey. I couldn’t finish my meal. We retired to Cynthia and Simon’s place, a graduate school apartment, the highlight of which was the foldout bed, and I fell asleep hungry and disheartened. The next day I headed to Cambridge to see a number of friends who are studying there on fellowships, and then returned to London the following night to fly back to Galway in the morning. I am now writing this post in the comfort of an Irish pub, a few empty pints of Guinness at my side and not a crumpet in sight. It feels good to be home.
Much love,
Auyon
I was a bit nervous about my friend Dave’s arrival in Galway. He was going to stay for a few weeks, and although we get along very well (having been roommates freshman year), I had gotten quite comfortable living alone. As I waited for Dave’s plane to get in at Galway airport, questions raced through my mind. Would we have to walk in and out of town every day, or would Dave be able to balance on my handlebars? Would Dave be okay with the fact that I eat the same delicious hummus, chicken and cheddar sandwich for lunch every day, or would he demand variety? Do I have to share my muesli? Does Dave even like muesli? Would he prefer Hi-Fiber with Coconut, or Berries ‘n’ Cherries? I prefer Hi-Fiber. I was caught up in a complex web of queries when Dave made his grand entrance out of the tiny terminal of Galway airport. He emerged bleary-eyed, coughing and sneezing. We embraced and said a tender yet platonic hello, and then jumped into a cab driven by an amicable Nigerian man. Over the course of the ride, all of my questions faded into irrelevance as I realized that the only appropriate inquiry was how long I would have to play man-nurse. Dave arrived on October 15th. It is now October 28th, and he is still sick. I would like to say that the experience has brought us closer as friends and brothers, and that we gained a greater appreciation for each other. The truth is that all I now have is a greater appreciation for the thankless job all mothers do when taking care of whiny kids. Dave was very much grateful for my cooking and medicine runs for the first week, but the honeymoon was soon over. One day, I fixed muesli for Dave. I sliced a banana, as one does, over the muesli, poured milk over it, and presented it to him. “Don’t eat bananas,” he said simply. “Hate them.” I took a deep breath. I decided to explain to him that in my house, we eat my muesli my way. As I opened my mouth to inform Dave, he looked back up with sad, red eyes and reiterated, “Hate bananas. Hate them. Hate.” I shut my mouth, swallowed my pride, and dutifully removed the banana slices from his cereal. I have now gone from living entirely independently to de-fruiting bowls of cereal for demanding, sickly friends.
Dave and I spent a few days in Galway, and then headed over to Dublin and Belfast for a few days each. On our way back, we met up with Anna Condino (annaconda.vox.com), a friend who just graduated with us from Williams in June, and we all headed back to Galway. It’s been great to be among Williams company again, and in a few days Dave and I are heading over to Oxford to see Aroop and crew, which should be spectacular. In other news, my quarterly report for the folks at Watson headquarters is due in a few days, and I’ve thrown a draft together (with a great deal of help from Dave) and included it below. I hope you all enjoy it.
Much love,
Auyon
I arrived in Eyre Square in Galway, Ireland on August 1st with my mandolin, a backpack, a suitcase and a bag of shoes. The prospect of arriving with only a backpack, suitcase and instrument had a certain romantic appeal, but the good people of Kansas City International Airport had deemed my suitcase too heavy, so I had to buy an extra bag for my footwear. Fashionable luggage retailers are few and far between at KCI, and the only bag I could find was small and tan, and decorated with friendly black antelope. Thus, there I stood, clutching the mandolin and antelope close to my chest, surveying what would be my home for the next four months. My arrival in Ireland marked the first time I have ever truly been on my own, and it took a good while for me to adjust. Though surrounded by people— Galway is a bustling little city— I felt as though I lacked the ability to strike up a conversation with anyone. My studies led me to a number of open, nightly music sessions where I was introduced to a variety of musicians and publicans, and although these sessions did ease my transition to autonomy, it was still almost three weeks before I was comfortable existing independently. Only at this point, once I had regained some measure of confidence and footing, was I able to begin my study of Irish traditional music (trad) and musicians in earnest.
As I grew closer to the musicians with whom I played and met more people in the pubs, I started hearing about the All-Ireland Fleadh in Tullamore at the end of August. The Fleadh is the largest celebration of traditional music in Ireland, and draws several hundreds of thousands of people each year. For three days, musicians from all corners of Ireland play in pubs and on the streets of the town, inviting others to jump in and join them. Far from the intimacy of the small pub sessions in Galway, it was an experience I enjoyed immensely. One of my most enlightening interactions there was with Steven, the 21-year old with whose family I was staying during the festival. He was a skilled Irish dancer, star Gaelic footballer and something of a celebrity in his hometown. One night when we were meandering from pub to pub, I asked him why he danced. I asked what role his heritage and culture played in his affinity for the music. Steven paused for a moment. “That’s pretty interesting, what you just said about my heritage and all, but that actually has nothing to do with it. I dance because it’s my favorite way to relax. It’s not ‘Irish traditional’ music to me. It’s not a cultural tie-back, or a connection with my ancestors or whatever. It’s just music. That’s what music is.” I was floored. I had never considered that someone like Steven’s idea of music could differ so much from my own. He was just as well-versed in contemporary music as I was— just earlier that day we had compared and contrasted our favorite rock bands— and yet his conception of music was rooted in Irish trad. The fact that younger generations view trad not merely as a cultural tradition, but as part of their personal identity, was a complete surprise to me. I immediately grew embarrassed of my naïveté and preconceived notions, and would have blushed had I not been of South Asian ancestry. Steven continued that the camaraderie inherent in Irish traditional music adds immensely to its appeal to him and other young people. The playing of trad is very much a social affair. At sessions, the focus is on bringing people together to enjoy and play music collectively. The repetitiveness and simplicity of trad simultaneously lets beginners jump in with relative ease, while allowing more skilled players to embellish with personal touches. Young kids and seasoned professionals can play side-by-side, having studied and grown up with largely similar collections of tunes. Thus, while the performance of trad is rich with self-expression, the music itself remains a celebration of community.
My interest in the compositional methods of the music prompted me to seek out John Brady, an acclaimed contemporary composer of trad. When asked why he composes, he replied that each of his pieces represents a story or experience. Mr. Brady’s father’s death had prompted him to write “The Empty Armchair,” referring to the armchair his father used to inhabit in their home. What differentiates Mr. Brady’s compositional process from that of a songwriter is that Irish tunes have no lyrics— they are typically made up of two sets of eight bars of monotonic music. Thus, while a songwriter writes with the intention of sharing a perspective with the listener, this connection does not exist in Mr. Brady’s compositions. His writing is a more private and personal endeavor, resulting in a tune for others to enjoy rather than a vehicle to share his thoughts.
My interviews with composers and musicians like Mr. Brady, as well as my participation in sessions over the past three months, have restructured the questions I initially sought to ask. Among players of Irish trad, there is no balance between fidelity to culture and self-expression. Individuals who play trad are not balancing their heritage with anything else— they are simply playing what they know and love as music. A more appropriate investigation has been to determine the balance between self-expression and celebration of community within the musical culture. This balance is one that each player strikes individually, and is entirely dependent on their technical prowess and ability to manipulate a tune. Even the most wizened players I spoke to, however, agreed that the greatest joy of playing remains in doing so with a group of friends and a few pints. On a broader level, my experiences in Ireland have completely reshaped my understanding of music as function of both culture and community. The notion of restarting this process from scratch in less than a month in a country halfway around the world leaves me both nervous and excited. My ability to exist independently in Ireland, however, has instilled a sense of confidence that will make the transition a much less arduous task. That, and I can now talk a great deal about horses in Portuguese, courtesy of my Rosetta Stone course. It should be quite an adventure.
Every week, around Thursday, a strange anxiety seizes me. I become worried that something bad or unexpected will not happen to me soon, which will render me unable to write my weekly blog post over the weekend. I realize that this might sound silly to those of you back home, but I don’t have many responsibilities abroad, and thus the few that I have serve to both organize and give purpose to my life here. They are not to be taken lightly. This past Thursday, I was sitting in a pub, mandolin in hand, pondering my potential upcoming misfortunes, when I realized I have not yet described, in any sufficient detail, the single seminal experience of my time in Ireland: the trad session.
Trad, or traditional, music in Ireland primarily consists of jigs, which are in 3, reels, in 4 and played quickly, and to a lesser extent, hornpipes, which are also in 4 but with accents on the first and third beats. There are other types of tunes as well— marches, polkas, etc.— but jigs and reels are the bread and butter of the traditional Irish musician. These tunes are all broken into two parts, A and B, each of which consists of 8 bars and is played twice (AABB). The tune is then repeated anywhere between 3 and 6 times, and then followed by another tune of the same kind (jigs by jigs, reels by reels). Usually, there will be at least 3 tunes played one after another, each flowing into the next, before there is a break in the music. What is most amazing is the vast number of tunes each trad player has in his or her mental library; seasoned players have several hundred pieces committed to memory, and can recall them given only a few notes notice. At the same time, the repetition inherent in the way the tunes are played is hugely helpful to beginners hoping to build up a repertoire.
At a true trad session, one will find only musicians with acoustic instruments. No microphones, no amplifiers. Accordions, melodeons (an accordion with adjustable reeds), banjos, bouzoukis (a Greek relative of the mandolin), guitars, fiddles, mandolins, mandolas, Uilleann pipes, tin whistles and bodhrans (open-ended goatskin drums, pronounced bow-rons) are all commonplace. I saw a harp at a session once. The poor girl must have had a hell of a time lugging that thing in. Typically, all the instruments play the melody of the tune. Bouzouki players often play harmonies, guitar players play chords and bodhran beaters of course keep rhythm, but otherwise the music is primarily monotonic.
Now a few months in, I have built up a modest library of my own, and due to the speed at which the tunes are played in pubs, my playing ability has improved immensely. If I wish to be reminded of this improvement, though, I must come back to the privacy of my room— the quality of the players who surround me at sessions greatly overshadows any progress I might have made. It seems that there is no limit to the number of excellent musicians that this city houses. Since the musical community doubles as my only social network in the city, I have been able to not only play alongside these men (and women, but mostly men), but also get to know them. As a result, my conception of musicians has been drastically altered.
In the U.S., the word musician carries a great deal of baggage. For example, when I want cheap thrills, I tell my mother that I am thinking of becoming a musician. She then forthrightly explains to me the decline into drugs, alcoholism and poverty with which any career in music, especially rock music, inevitably ends. While her view might be a bit more extreme than most, the American notion of a musician is typically associated with a desire to express individuality, to break outside the norm. Two characteristically American styles of music— the singer-songwriter genre and jazz— further this conception, both emphasizing the importance of the individual performer and his or her relationship with the music. In pop culture, the musician is a trendsetter, a personification of youthful rebellion. The images that are splashed over the front pages of glossy magazines, of painfully thin, mascara-smeared, pouting young men, wearing skin-tight jeans and looking as though they might break into tears at any minute, readily spring to mind.
In Ireland, this is not the case. Irish traditional music is an integral, if not defining, aspect of Irish culture, and rather than being an expression of rebellion, it is a source of cultural and national pride. Last Thursday, I played at a pub called Taaffe’s. It was the birthday of a melodeon player named John, and to celebrate, there was a whole crew of 10 or 12 friends and musicians who had come to play a session with him. As I looked around at my fellow players, one fact became abundantly clear: these are not men who wear tight pants. These men do not wear eyeliner, nor do they cry about their feelings or use music to express their sensitivity. These are men who smell like sweat and vinegar. They ride motorcycles. They drink dark beer, and lots of it. Some of them, in fact, drank so much at one point that they no longer drink, for the safety of their families and those around them. The man about whom I am speaking plays the mandolin. These are men who, when they enter a pub and see friends, will yell “What’s the story?” or “How the hell are ya?,” usually accompanied with a hearty slap on the back. “Mighty,” their friends will respond, or “Fierce fucking grand.” Fierce is an adverb in Ireland. One of my favorite responses came from Nick, a wizened old bodhran player, at the birthday session. When asked how he was, he paused to think for a minute, and then responded, “I’m… I’m greatly delighted. By this situation.” Coming out of anyone else, that would have sounded silly. Nick could not have been spoken truer words. He’s the kind of guy who is consistently and assuredly content with whatever is going on around him, especially if he is surrounded by friends and music. He’s also the kind of guy who always seems a few pints deep, so maybe we can all learn a lesson there.
Placed in front of John was a small birthday cake, with several red paper flags with white crosses proudly poking out of the top. “Why in God’s name are there Danish flags on my cake?” asked John. Anders, an accordion and fiddle player with shoulder-length dirty blond hair, a pleasant disposition and a Danish accent, responded that he did not have any Irish flags at his home at the time of baking. John grunted. I thought to myself that it was fortunate that Anders at least had Danish flags, because what is a birthday cake without flags of some kind? Not much, that’s what. John unceremoniously plucked one of the flags from the cake, inspected it, and then stuck it back into the baked good from whence it came. We then played some tunes.
I had explained earlier that most every instrument essentially plays the same melody in each tune, which in truth is a bit misleading. Although all the musicians know the same skeleton of eighth notes that makes up the tune, individuality and technical skill are showcased in the execution of these notes. There are trills, triplets, chords and hammered notes, all of which may be improvised and added at each player’s discretion. This is done in such a way that the tune still sounds like a coherent piece, but individual flourishes are perceptible to the trained ear. Given the speed at which the tunes are played, to add such embellishments requires both an intimate knowledge of the tune, as well as an incredibly high level of technical skill. On Thursday, in the midst of a tune, I stopped to take a sip of Guinness, and just listened for a moment. I felt privileged just to sit around with these guys. I was also feeling pretty good because I knew we were going to eat cake soon, and if there’s anything I love, it’s cake. I just hoped I would get a Danish flag in my slice.
Much love,
Auyon
Last Saturday, I took the bus to Dublin to welcome my parents to Ireland. It was fantastic to see them, not least because their arrival marked the first time I have eaten dessert or been seated at a restaurant with tablecloths in awhile. It also felt good to be able to share my knowledge of Irish traditional music and culture in a pub rather than over the phone or in my journal. What has stuck out most about their visit, though, is the way we have interacted. Somehow the fact that I’m living on my own has made my parents think that they now have the license to treat me as an adult. This has been unsettling.
It seems like as recently as a few months ago, my mother’s maternal instincts where the driving force behind our every conversation. One of the most common ways in which my mother expresses her motherly love is through harsh, unyielding and often irrational criticism. A few days before my college graduation, I had the misfortune of delivering some bad news to her. Over my first seven semesters at Williams, I had done rather well, and was hoping to do well enough in my final semester to be inducted into an honors society. Due to my poor performances in such classes as field botany and oil painting, I ended up not making the cut. A few of my friends with whom I had previously been on par, however, were inducted. When I shared this news with my mother, she stopped packing the box with which she was helping me, and sighed with disappointment. “Shameful,” she said, to no one in particular, and then went back to packing.
I responded that I didn’t think that “shameful” was an appropriate way to summarize my college career. In fact, I continued, I was pretty proud of myself, in spite of my recent performance. My mother did not so much as glance in my direction while I spoke. After I finished, she took a deep breath and looked directly at me, clearly disgusted. “Shameful, shameful, shameful,” she repeated, taking care to enunciate each syllable. She then hurled the nearest object, which happened to be an empty shoebox, at my head, in case I had any questions about the strength of her convictions on the matter. I did not.
Paradoxically, the harshness of my mother’s criticism is rivaled only by the intensity of her pride for her progeny. A few days following the shoebox projectile incident, I found myself on stage at the Commencement ceremony of my graduation from Williams College. I had been elected Class Speaker by my fellow graduates, and was thus allowed five minutes to say whatever I wanted on a stage in front of thousands of people. I chose to discuss personal problems and then blame the school for them. The speech went over well with both students and faculty alike, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. For the two weeks following Commencement, I checked my email several times a day, eagerly awaiting some kind of notification from the college. There were three student speakers— myself, the valedictorian, and the honors society president— and every year there is a cash prize presented to the student deemed to have given the best speech. After a couple weeks of empty inboxes, I assumed the worst and went ahead and emailed the registrar’s office. I soon received the reply that the valedictorian had won the prize. I was disappointed, but after some careful reflection, realized that such was the risk one ran when using the word “butthead” in a speech and calling the alumni association an incestuous bunch. My mother, however, was not so forgiving. Upon hearing the news, she demanded I tell her who made this decision. I informed her that I didn’t know the specifics, but assumed that the deciding committee was probably made up of faculty and alumni. Old people, I reminded her, are easily offended. My mother’s eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened as she processed this information. After a few seconds of careful deliberation, she came to a decision. “I’ll kill them,” she informed me, quite seriously.
My father has fewer fiery tendencies than my mother—his paternal hallmarks have been to provide me with a great deal of eloquently explained and well thought-out guidance, but then to sit back and observe my development with a sort of distant amusement. While growing up, I often got the sense that my father thought of me as a mildly funny joke for which, due to circumstances beyond his control, he had been made responsible. A turning point in our relationship came during a plane ride when I was seated next to my father. We were sitting behind a group of whiny kids, and my father made some offhand comment about how much he dislikes children. I was probably 15 or 16 at the time, and this statement thus intrigued me. A few minutes later I pursued it. “Ba,” I asked, “you said you didn’t like kids. But you liked us, right? When we were small?”
He pretended not to hear me, and shuffled the pages of the newspaper he was reading. I repeated myself loudly next to his ear: “You liked us, right? Your own kids?”
My father put the paper down and bit his lip pensively, as though he was deep in thought. “Auyon,” he finally said, “I like you now.”
I was quite shaken by this incident, but the conversation did allow me to make sense of the majority of my childhood. From all the times my father shut his door when he knew my brothers or I were going to attempt to show him the latest classical piece we had learned on our violins or piano, to his firm belief that, as babies, we always seemed to soil ourselves as soon as our mother left him alone with us, everything became clearer. As we have grown older, my brothers and I have continued to be sources of both entertainment and bewilderment for my father. Perhaps the only change has been that the advice my father now gives me is slightly weightier, as my impending descent into the real world scares us both a great deal.
When I left the country a few months ago, I was comfortable with these regular and convincing lectures from my father, which instilled motivation and a sense of urgency when he seemed to think I needed one or the other. I was comfortable with my mother’s unreasonable criticisms and fierce pride. I was comfortable with the way things were, and with the fact that my parents were the primary guiding force in my life. Over the course of these two short months, however, it seems that so much has changed. Perhaps the fact that I have been able to exist on my own in a foreign country has marked, both to my parents and to me, my entry into adulthood. My parents now speak to me not in sermons but in conversation. Their advice is no longer presented as instructive or critical, but rather as a series of suggestions or alternate possibilities. I always thought it would be refreshing to be treated as an adult, but I instead find myself feeling stripped of my security blanket and left to face the world naked as a jaybird. I could go on whining for at least a few more sentences, but it’s my parents’ second-to-last day and we’re heading to a pub, and the earlier we get there, the more pints my dad will buy me. I suppose there are trade-offs to everything. Adulthood might be an intimidating place, but only adults can get drunk with their middle-aged Indian parents.
Much love,
Auyon
P.S. For those of you who are interested, the speech mentioned above may be found at the following address:
