tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73494324487291543842024-02-07T04:24:32.583-08:00ChelSea to SeaChelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.comBlogger186125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-5910709412724130702017-12-05T10:58:00.001-08:002017-12-05T10:59:42.739-08:00Florence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I crawled out of my mosquito net before the sun. I put on my clothes in the dark and walked
through the damp grass to the Land Cruiser that was parked outside waiting for
me. I had been living and working in
Uganda for 17 months trying to improve babies’ access to vaccines. For the last month I had been in Kitgum, a rural
district in Northern Uganda. For a
decade, Kitgum was slaughtered and tortured by Kony and his Lord’s Resistance
Army. It had been 14 years since the
massacre but you could still see the trauma resting heavy in everyone’s eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The longer I stayed in Kitgum the more I could see its
ghosts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was 26, as new to Uganda as I was to myself. What kind of woman do I want to be? Why do I keep moving so damn far away from home? Where am I going? These questions sat in my throat. I was hoping I would find the answers, like
big road signs, down one of those dirt roads.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My translator Terrence was waiting for me in the car and
sleepily smiled at me as I slid into the passenger seat. It was barely 5 am when we drove off down
the dark, dirt roads. The windows were
cracked and the cool, moonlit air started to blow the sleep from my eyes. Today I was joining a woman who would be
walking the 4 hours to the nearest clinic to get her baby vaccinated. As part of my research, I wanted to find out
what motivated her to travel such a long distance, why she felt vaccinations
were so important. Maybe I could learn a
little bit more about why so many of these children were dying of diseases medicine
had cured.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was early but Kitgum was already very much awake. The red glow of morning breakfast fires
dotted the mountainside. An hour into
the ride, Terrence pulled over next to a narrow path that cut through grass taller
than me. A group of motorcycles waited
near the entrance to take passengers to the villages that were deep in the
bush. I tucked my skirt between my legs
and got on the back of one motorcycle and Terrence got on the back of the
other. My driver wore a cutoff denim jacket
and cool guy sunglasses. He liked to
make sharp turns to try and scare me.
But I hadn’t had coffee and was more pissed off than scared. I hit him in the back of the head with my
purse and told him to knock it off or I wouldn’t pay him. We passed circular villages of mud huts with
straw roofs and men playing dice under mango trees. But we kept going, further and further. After we had been winding down roads for half
an hour, we turned off into a cluster of huts that sat before a large field of potatoes
and cassava. Terrence walked up to a
woman, the mother of the household, who was bent over in half sweeping the area
in front of her hut. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Afoyo!” “Ti mabe?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Bey” she said standing up to shake his hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Terrence told me that her name was Florence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Florence tied her little baby to her back with a large scarf
and then tied a callabus, a dried pumpkin shell, over the baby’s head to
protect him from the sun. It looked like
a little turtle shell. A baby hunchback. A reverse baby bump. The motorcycles had already left to meet us
at the clinic and we set off walking with Florence down the path we had just
come.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Florence walked fast. Terrance and her talked Acholi for a while
before I burst in with my questions. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I learned Rwo, the baby on Florence’s back, was her 10<sup>th</sup>
child but that only 6 had survived. At
14 she got married to a boy in the next village. She became pregnant with his baby. When the Lord’s Resistance Army came to her
village she saw her brother killed. And
then she was captured, ripped away from her family and husband and made the
“wife” of one of the soldiers. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Florence would talk for a while in the loping Acholi dialect
and then Terrence would translate her words for me. No part of me was prepared for her
story. Her words knocked the wind out of
me and left my hands shaking. I gave up
writing. I recorded her story on my
phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She told me how he raped her every night. How he forced her to take pills to end her
pregnancy. How she was supposed to be bathing
in the river when she ran away. How she
wasn’t sure if her baby was dead inside of her but she kept running for the
both of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Florence didn’t stop walking. Flies tried to balance on
little Rwo’s forehead but couldn’t because his mother was walking too
fast. Florence didn’t cry or even stop
to look at my reaction. She just kept on
walking. For the next few hours we were
quiet, walking to the rhythm our footsteps.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had no more questions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The tall grasses grew into a jungle and then shrank back
down into tall grasses. I could see her,
a 14 year old girl with a swollen belly running just ahead of me. At 14, I was running around Brooklyn trying
not to get caught in games of Hide and Seek.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Florence said hi to the women who passed us, tall women with
babies on their back and large bundles balanced on their head. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Four hours of walking and we reached the clinic. A long line of women and their babies already
waited under the tree outside. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Do you see why I walk this far?” Florence asked through
Terrence. “My baby will survive.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I tried not to think about the rich mothers in California
who elect not to have their babies vaccinated. </div>
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Florence untied the scarf from her back and laid it down in the
grass. Rwo laid on the scarf next to
other babies under the tree. I squished his plump little cheeks and sat with
Florence for three hours until the nurse could see her. Rwo received some vaccines but the clinic was
missing one of the vaccines in his series and Florence would have to walk four
hours to and from the clinic again in a few days to see if it was in stock
again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I paid for a motorcycle to take Florence and baby Rwo back
to their house and hugged them goodbye.
When I could no longer see their motorcycle, I felt relieved. And then guilty for being relieved.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I got on the back of the bike of Cool Glasses and we drove
to the car. We passed back through the
villages and the jungles and the tall grasses.
We passed the women with the heavy sacks on their heads and the babies
strapped to their backs. Cool Glasses
turned on his portable radio. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I like big butts and I cannot lie, you other brothers
cannot deny…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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We passed a wooden cross that marked a mass grave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I returned to my hotel and stood in the shower watching the
red dirt from the walk circle off my body and down the drain. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That day I stopped looking for answers down windy dirt roads
and just kept going. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-89914778238557526872017-10-27T05:42:00.000-07:002017-10-27T05:55:05.427-07:00The Best Pizza in NY According to Me and Science<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I often get the question, “You’re a New Yorker, AND you’re
Italian! You’ll know where I can get the
best pizza!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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They’re right. I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I’m going to do better than just telling you the best
pizza. I am going to quantify the
quality of the pie and present to you not just another Buzzfeed ranking but
rather a calculated list of mathematically undeniable excellence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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2 days. 2
judges. 9 pizza parlors. 4 ranking categories.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The 4 Categories:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Sauce: A good sauce is the single most important
part of the pizza. It needs to taste
fresh, and juicy but thick enough to differentiate it from pasta sauce. It needs to be light, not weighed down with
spices. When you eat a good pizza
sauce you should feel like you’re being hugged by grandma.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Cheese: When you bite into a good piece of
mozzarella it should squeak against your teeth.
It should puddle slightly with delicious oil and the stretch of cheese
from slice to face should be long and unwieldy.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->3)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Crust:
When you hold the slice up by the crust end, it shouldn’t flop
down. No one likes a floppy pizza. The crust should be supportive, crunchy and
make your pizza stand erect.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]-->4)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Ratio: Do
you have a bunch of cheese on a crust?
Then you have yourself a flat bread, not a pizza. Are you swimming in sauce? Well that’s kinda nice but it’s not
right. Ratio is important.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And those are the categories. Each category is ranked 1-5 (5 being the
highest) for a total score out of 20.
Scores were averaged between the two judges to come up with the below,
statistically significant pizza ranking:<o:p></o:p></div>
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#9: Di Fara:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some people are going to hate me for ranking Di Fara
last. But I don’t care because I have
science and math on my side. #9. There’s
a stupid long line because this place is “Old school.” But let me tell
you something. This pizza scored a 5/20.
A 1 on each category. 25%. F. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A slice is a whopping
$5. Their schtick is that every pie is made by the old man that started the
place. Which is cute, but he forgot how
to make pizza. Take a look at my picture
below. Oily, grey slice. Sauce is barely there and suffocated by oil
anyway so you can’t taste it. Cheese
tastes like plastic. Crust is a SIN. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHEE7gg1ajpbBh8Fqf9uI1IZN4M56vFNi_5U8chpKmS6rNL2sD10A3dRU2v-f1E9jZj0FqXSXoKO_9PaxCQYmHxl4KRRT50MgNdx2Yl3IkhUvrOxZDxIlmht0FSRH4yu2rNXsLPMw4z3f/s1600/3.2.16+092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHEE7gg1ajpbBh8Fqf9uI1IZN4M56vFNi_5U8chpKmS6rNL2sD10A3dRU2v-f1E9jZj0FqXSXoKO_9PaxCQYmHxl4KRRT50MgNdx2Yl3IkhUvrOxZDxIlmht0FSRH4yu2rNXsLPMw4z3f/s640/3.2.16+092.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grey Di Fara's Pizza</span></td></tr>
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Here is a picture of me outside of Di Fara eating Totonno’s
because (spoiler) Totonno’s ranked much higher.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2N9VfyN2AXS-aGmP5ra84thSDSkPOao74RsZlVPkguhP5CdlGmBm5kcwtpmoABaGdsvx-kZlAGPgKa254s-MYhc8QuH9ZabFHGfM6hhPN9MuvPHd2fUNJNmeVNoZgnJQa4d2vjPzLduE/s1600/3.2.16+093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF2N9VfyN2AXS-aGmP5ra84thSDSkPOao74RsZlVPkguhP5CdlGmBm5kcwtpmoABaGdsvx-kZlAGPgKa254s-MYhc8QuH9ZabFHGfM6hhPN9MuvPHd2fUNJNmeVNoZgnJQa4d2vjPzLduE/s640/3.2.16+093.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Eating Totonno's outside Di Fara</span></td></tr>
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#8) Tavola: <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tavola on 9<sup>th</sup> and 37<sup>th</sup> is dressed up
to look like an old Italian grocery store.
It is a sit-down trattoria that serves whole pies. Now let’s get something straight, there are
sit down, wood burning stove pies, and there are slices. I realize there is a difference and I am
ranking both on the same list. Moving
on…<o:p></o:p></div>
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This pizza did not rank so well. It scored an 11/20 (55%). Its main downfall is that it really just
wasn’t New York enough. The sauce and
cheese both ranked a 2 ratio 3, and the crunchy crust did better with a 4. But alas, the crust did not save it as pizza
is not bread.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjmcqsFx_Xb1AORDx6nI45oqvDKNXOffMdwTY3bK_ZhGdHeny-JGyedlOxF-iQ-R2OO-RlSqOj9UwqEgq3jkqyk9119w88Hi2jehLg74Nb5_EtFu9uFZqm-io6gC4QXfyN9TfoJ0UgMO1/s1600/IMG_4213.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjmcqsFx_Xb1AORDx6nI45oqvDKNXOffMdwTY3bK_ZhGdHeny-JGyedlOxF-iQ-R2OO-RlSqOj9UwqEgq3jkqyk9119w88Hi2jehLg74Nb5_EtFu9uFZqm-io6gC4QXfyN9TfoJ0UgMO1/s640/IMG_4213.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tavola</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7kS2So606hL7QLZYirMMaBY9_FREcmCYgqxDhgqdgGdTbM1V016pOPR4wBEWIsxAANHl3VjxBidz5DExmdkNfYlK57S6gmVkU5T1PekY949xYRBMjWmpmmtAA4HB8f565kUNuvjwklJa/s1600/unnamed+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7kS2So606hL7QLZYirMMaBY9_FREcmCYgqxDhgqdgGdTbM1V016pOPR4wBEWIsxAANHl3VjxBidz5DExmdkNfYlK57S6gmVkU5T1PekY949xYRBMjWmpmmtAA4HB8f565kUNuvjwklJa/s640/unnamed+%25287%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tavola</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCTqXoc4TcDFLsQD2G_EyJmViuRQvl7aXR2VQwN1EL5HMr3WZg08C-qQLN1TP8zDgd4xtV1-e1rCermQHFQO80NsMSwu-QOoQMHmc24ErqRvoMQ3L7vqA8wYSs8EjxTEjd1COTD62n67m/s1600/3.2.16+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhCTqXoc4TcDFLsQD2G_EyJmViuRQvl7aXR2VQwN1EL5HMr3WZg08C-qQLN1TP8zDgd4xtV1-e1rCermQHFQO80NsMSwu-QOoQMHmc24ErqRvoMQ3L7vqA8wYSs8EjxTEjd1COTD62n67m/s640/3.2.16+009.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tavola Pizza</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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#7) Roberta’s:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh Roberta’s you hipster daughter you. If I could subtract points for a tiki bar and
too many mason jars I would. But I will
not. Because that’s not science.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Roberta’s scored 12/20 (60%) and had a very decent pie. (Keep in mind we scored all these against
each other so Roberta’s is not 60% of all NY pizzas but rather 60% compared to
other places on this list). Sauce was
too oniony so ranked a 2. Crust was
decent at a 3, ratio could have used more sauce so also a 3, and the mozz was
really quite squeaky so got a 4. I do
have to admit that in addition to their regular, I tried their “Bee Sting”:
tomato sauce, mozz, sopressata, chili and honey. It was (gesture with kissing fingers and then
raising them to heaven in that Italian way).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4CM8O6VWOLmQxdLe4bs3saIMhXF8D6YGYAlnvn8UEOoycT2S5BdDjPHNERwEUBpVzMkKVsL9XOB31CCgNEPDsL668UBgwITeg-2HLa5PLo2ksfpeFPDQdKX2cjbgKggEl6D5M_dR6CVR/s1600/Robertas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV4CM8O6VWOLmQxdLe4bs3saIMhXF8D6YGYAlnvn8UEOoycT2S5BdDjPHNERwEUBpVzMkKVsL9XOB31CCgNEPDsL668UBgwITeg-2HLa5PLo2ksfpeFPDQdKX2cjbgKggEl6D5M_dR6CVR/s640/Robertas.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Roberta's Pizza</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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#6) Joe’s Pizza:<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you’re in the city, and you want an excellent slice,
there is no better place than Joe’s Pizza.
It’s exactly what you want, especially at 2am. (who am I kidding I haven’t been out until
2am in years). Served on that flimsy
barely there paper plate that you need to quadruple up so the oil doesn’t make
it to your lap, you can scarf down two of these bad boys in seconds. Cheese, sauce and ratio were golden all
scoring a 4. But the crust was mushy. When you fold the pizza (the only way to walk
and eat a pizza) it should have a nice small crack down the middle where the
crust gave way to the break. It should
not be able to be rolled up into a ball.
Pizza is not rollatini. The crust
scored a 1 bringing Joe’s to a score of 13/20 (65%).</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR18RWbIdfFOlYBvgMFvZqOF2wO4nuaKZvSCflJ0DBZAL32h-bgiRdrACYWL5UMCJxoQrCqafRKCKxBdpw53dc9Z7j0GWMwP6SI-RDIo6WJSR_F0tG4m_UZJgagu3E72AR-356OusF6mPH/s1600/joes-slice-resize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR18RWbIdfFOlYBvgMFvZqOF2wO4nuaKZvSCflJ0DBZAL32h-bgiRdrACYWL5UMCJxoQrCqafRKCKxBdpw53dc9Z7j0GWMwP6SI-RDIo6WJSR_F0tG4m_UZJgagu3E72AR-356OusF6mPH/s640/joes-slice-resize.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Joe's Pizza</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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#5) Motorino: <o:p></o:p></div>
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Freakin noms. Sauce
is delicious. Cheese is very good. But although the crust is a crunchy delight,
it takes up way too much of the pizza.
So in this case, the ratio of crust to sauce and cheese was not doing
it. Motorino scored 14 (70%). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1LcfTsxV1iFKANFG1pJnVJ84ngqlqtKT3OLeyQBSslfoCHP8bXaWcaXZlPKQZss5AlTQNmZbetyTijbgb-EggzDpCMkxVp9GZV9AMOlIOxvfsbOoVcO1fj0OlSZWCa-Zg_MqlSKEMTIj/s1600/motorino-pie-resize.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1LcfTsxV1iFKANFG1pJnVJ84ngqlqtKT3OLeyQBSslfoCHP8bXaWcaXZlPKQZss5AlTQNmZbetyTijbgb-EggzDpCMkxVp9GZV9AMOlIOxvfsbOoVcO1fj0OlSZWCa-Zg_MqlSKEMTIj/s640/motorino-pie-resize.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Motorino Pizza</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy-_M7funQNMoORUVToWjBAyofwnzdc0ZEpI3pzR0N9BVawjAVUIWAJOiLpINW2HA8pP0GwaqI1FViSkvHXVsNbgnDTBHEeinPVlipEKORWyLVz4_CdToZF6hi5e6BS43nA1V_KnjZ0r_/s1600/unnamed+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAy-_M7funQNMoORUVToWjBAyofwnzdc0ZEpI3pzR0N9BVawjAVUIWAJOiLpINW2HA8pP0GwaqI1FViSkvHXVsNbgnDTBHEeinPVlipEKORWyLVz4_CdToZF6hi5e6BS43nA1V_KnjZ0r_/s640/unnamed+%25284%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Motorino</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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#4) Grimaldi’s:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Grimaldi’s (the Coney island location) is so
underrated. Everyone thinks of Totonno’s
when they think of Coney Island Pizza (and I guess they should since Totonno’s
ranks higher than Grimaldi’s on this list) but should not forget about
Grimaldi’s! The mozz is fresh, the sauce
is light, the crust is crunchy. It is a
good pie. Scored a 15/20 (75%).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM4fGHnnBsOlpKFsZ5AvaKzjwSwhoJyeFhy-OtbjRVQvkvfvxmjMVmLMvU9vzcwVUT8hUGQqSjhqy8-jkvUE22bmldz7hEsej2sm7NxkHmA_ixUrHAv8jZlrWg8dQTz7ia_wUCY-y3WLc/s1600/3.2.16+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM4fGHnnBsOlpKFsZ5AvaKzjwSwhoJyeFhy-OtbjRVQvkvfvxmjMVmLMvU9vzcwVUT8hUGQqSjhqy8-jkvUE22bmldz7hEsej2sm7NxkHmA_ixUrHAv8jZlrWg8dQTz7ia_wUCY-y3WLc/s640/3.2.16+010.JPG" width="480" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grimaldi's</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHJXePQXk-fqAb3172z-A988hMIP562ArqKgiD31iMDGpDrUPsweo61G3jzdZz62PWEhM-VjCmcwwauC2T5Pqa8wLb1bpAGQTnlttFoVE28FmujdkPDoC9xuKcLoCVmevh1spZ8aiJI_O/s1600/3.2.16+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1386" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieHJXePQXk-fqAb3172z-A988hMIP562ArqKgiD31iMDGpDrUPsweo61G3jzdZz62PWEhM-VjCmcwwauC2T5Pqa8wLb1bpAGQTnlttFoVE28FmujdkPDoC9xuKcLoCVmevh1spZ8aiJI_O/s640/3.2.16+012.JPG" width="554" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here's to Grimaldi's</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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#3) L&B Spumoni Gardens:<o:p></o:p></div>
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I GREW UP ON THIS PIZZA.
When I was a teenager and had a cavernous pit of a stomach I once ate an
entire square pizza pie in one sitting.
And yes, that is what you order at Spumoni Garden, the square. Omgomgomg the square pizza is a dream come
true. The crust is crunchy, the center
like a pillow and in a CRAZY TWIST the sauce is over the cheese which is
brilliant because it makes the cheese melt better. Then there is the sauce which has a recipe so
secretive that the owner was SHOT DEAD by the mob who says he stole the recipe. (True story).
Get the square, (or 4), and finish up your meal with a rainbow spumoni
ice. It will be heaven. (also great people watching as this is where
all the mafia goes when they visit Brooklyn from Staten Island). L&B scored
a 90%. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxjFEJtd1dHttrEx_mwGAxMV3yY084KK0t9ShGiixvkq5OhUolRCYYH3G4raAPOtNH3mZTeUKMR1xRmjxfY0l7WAPjBg7WibVm06Bh9-0ErzFo1UYpou2JW3pANgZbPxiL4ewfXKVqE8v/s1600/rfl_19140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxjFEJtd1dHttrEx_mwGAxMV3yY084KK0t9ShGiixvkq5OhUolRCYYH3G4raAPOtNH3mZTeUKMR1xRmjxfY0l7WAPjBg7WibVm06Bh9-0ErzFo1UYpou2JW3pANgZbPxiL4ewfXKVqE8v/s640/rfl_19140.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Spumoni Garden</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlEOz6kOiBRH-hrE2XDHSfm0nhANxiP-e1b_LFHBNx45tjqh38s6IN2OW-1cB_excqKAmStiYcT4ltY2TetVBWiSykEmTm7im5l7vDryOdEXukulFET6rYvUgFxjtiQHEWQZM7ZiQOVCs/s1600/7.17.16+094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlEOz6kOiBRH-hrE2XDHSfm0nhANxiP-e1b_LFHBNx45tjqh38s6IN2OW-1cB_excqKAmStiYcT4ltY2TetVBWiSykEmTm7im5l7vDryOdEXukulFET6rYvUgFxjtiQHEWQZM7ZiQOVCs/s640/7.17.16+094.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Spumoni Garden</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumzp8AM_VutAE2PNea_9bQiFJE0uTCpN0Cgvd2LSyn7fboP3ekpfP14pC60EmpmX1KKu5i9mNeFnWNaGKOKtz7DEmxPBuEKZSd5N7drmV8vU_7Pbl7DthJTVSsr7FO-ddldbPtSpQroHP/s1600/unnamed+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumzp8AM_VutAE2PNea_9bQiFJE0uTCpN0Cgvd2LSyn7fboP3ekpfP14pC60EmpmX1KKu5i9mNeFnWNaGKOKtz7DEmxPBuEKZSd5N7drmV8vU_7Pbl7DthJTVSsr7FO-ddldbPtSpQroHP/s640/unnamed+%25282%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Spumoni Ice</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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#2) And the winner of
the best traditional slice of pizza in New York goes to Totonno’s in Coney
Island. This is everything a slice
dreams it could be. Really it’s just so
perfect in all of the categories above that I’m not even going to go into
it. Just, trust me, next time you go to
Coney Island tell Nathan’s to suck it and go to Totonno’s. Your stomach will thank you. (Even if the surly old guy behind the counter
will not). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXP18_iRnC0WOILCLdpa4thUwCXiK34esH8Zo-Q_iOfxKiGRVYjQpiz43Kye-k4U3xYLOmYIKWipLdHmrwyQqBgQfwmGpTDTyIhvEqra2bGLmFhcO9hXmfQQv7ppK_ckLzbTx1QT7ne_E/s1600/3.13.16+089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZXP18_iRnC0WOILCLdpa4thUwCXiK34esH8Zo-Q_iOfxKiGRVYjQpiz43Kye-k4U3xYLOmYIKWipLdHmrwyQqBgQfwmGpTDTyIhvEqra2bGLmFhcO9hXmfQQv7ppK_ckLzbTx1QT7ne_E/s640/3.13.16+089.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Totonno's</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKik5x3_6rIhqJyZHhB-5YcUUTcHZILJrcRDifEws-uc47GyM4QxkJjICd-pIIl55KrMl72kPtbpudHSk8XogYA4qsbxkOBo1QJc6I2Y-KGau5c4a57PPKWlp2a964CvA8MLbwFz430nw4/s1600/3.2.16+091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKik5x3_6rIhqJyZHhB-5YcUUTcHZILJrcRDifEws-uc47GyM4QxkJjICd-pIIl55KrMl72kPtbpudHSk8XogYA4qsbxkOBo1QJc6I2Y-KGau5c4a57PPKWlp2a964CvA8MLbwFz430nw4/s640/3.2.16+091.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Totonno's crust is perf</span></td></tr>
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#1) Now for the big prize.
Winner of best pizza in New York according to this indisputable science
is…Lucali’s in Carroll Gardens! Holy
mother of god this pizza. Each bite of
this pie will rock your world a little more until, with a flourishing dip of
your slice in the EXTRA BOWL OF SAUCE THEY GIVE YOU, your world is thoroughly
rocked. I am writing this over a plate
of bland chicken in Namibia right now. I
may have to cut my visit short and fly home to get a pie a Lucali’s. From your table you can see Lucali in the
back slowly making the pizza while looking around at his kingdom. He got stabbed a few years ago by stealing
another restaurateur’s girlfriend. He
touched my back and asked how my pizza was.
I almost fell over. Lucali’s
scored a perfect 5 in each category. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you don’t believe the science listen to Jay Z and
Beyonce. They DITCHED THE GRAMMIES to
have a pie at Lucali’s. And Beyonce is
better than science. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_i6dOx1oJggCWSdNYo24diweJcexfwdr81BBLwNLbdL2Ma5P1ijXBoVzIIFr-j8ElNjT16Ahp97JvypdpTVebYzI_2utKyv4ujGjFC7zgUvpGrTuj7eMDxrvYd8T6YQEtBBXAu-uq-EO/s1600/IMG_8674.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_i6dOx1oJggCWSdNYo24diweJcexfwdr81BBLwNLbdL2Ma5P1ijXBoVzIIFr-j8ElNjT16Ahp97JvypdpTVebYzI_2utKyv4ujGjFC7zgUvpGrTuj7eMDxrvYd8T6YQEtBBXAu-uq-EO/s640/IMG_8674.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lucali's</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOeMQ2ms6u0AmATOVCK0o5BgMQVIuU1T2dsoJ2RCilfiPy9B-yjXLAnaRLqiTcqjpjKSidbZS4J3z6h6P-9fMofNPe2kktLOwnTyU7wL4txtQ6890pzKyzYGqsPxrD69zEjkESt2b8drRA/s1600/IMG_8682.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOeMQ2ms6u0AmATOVCK0o5BgMQVIuU1T2dsoJ2RCilfiPy9B-yjXLAnaRLqiTcqjpjKSidbZS4J3z6h6P-9fMofNPe2kktLOwnTyU7wL4txtQ6890pzKyzYGqsPxrD69zEjkESt2b8drRA/s640/IMG_8682.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Lucali's</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCzhuuvdOA5wPNFQc3fAZ2WfF0b61uEDoiMnUleSGhwlfv1ylc-SekrTwEl6y5i5oQqQyNt5ISqnBP1FMJoANGGVxqsYGM0dtYc1F4zchhptdMYlnnjzTLdUQ8FTW0UlJwyZC_WOUIRMM/s1600/jayzzz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="712" data-original-width="1140" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpCzhuuvdOA5wPNFQc3fAZ2WfF0b61uEDoiMnUleSGhwlfv1ylc-SekrTwEl6y5i5oQqQyNt5ISqnBP1FMJoANGGVxqsYGM0dtYc1F4zchhptdMYlnnjzTLdUQ8FTW0UlJwyZC_WOUIRMM/s640/jayzzz.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-52487001626895245522017-10-11T10:01:00.001-07:002017-10-11T10:08:23.366-07:00So, what do you do?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Every time I am at a party I dread the question, “So, what do
you do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Because there’s no casual way of saying what I do. My
elevator pitch sounds like it should have Sarah McLachlan playing in the
background. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I am trying to assess the burden of HIV in 13 African
countries.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And when I try to be flippant and nonchalant I sound like an
asshole. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Oh you know. HIV. In Africa. With the
babies.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I'm like the person who kvetches about her period
cramps when asked a hallway “How are you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I asked a few of my girlfriends who do similar work and they all
feel exactly the same way. One of them said she feels bad because she
feels like they feel like she thinks she’s a saint. Shefeelsliketheyfeellikeshethinksshe’s.
How’s that for some emotional censoring? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I asked a male colleague if he feels awkward.
Apparently he puts “I save babies in Africa” in his Tinder profile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I think what I do is cool. I think I'm cool for doing it. I do not think I am a saint. Most
of what I do is spreadsheets and conference calls and hoping that my teams will
not lose another survey tablet that I have to report to the IRB. But I’m
doing what I love and hopefully helping people as well. I just want to stop this self-imposed meekness when I explain what I do with my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe the next time I walk into a party I’ll announce to the
room “I am Chelsea, and I study HIV in Namibia! With the babies! I will take questions
now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyVecL9UvrehyphenhyphenVzSmlNEuZ5BO2ZFGokLv5nWmZKdCgAF9EQYjqp2hnw3kg98Po4dOW949sSzTlMzfBoEqedRigCCrFx-0v6OZXJdFIvsLX-ur9TiZoKFiDiPXexrMBDPtzcvA-OZvOqZN/s1600/10561819_812458498772345_8395743783544268084_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="206" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAyVecL9UvrehyphenhyphenVzSmlNEuZ5BO2ZFGokLv5nWmZKdCgAF9EQYjqp2hnw3kg98Po4dOW949sSzTlMzfBoEqedRigCCrFx-0v6OZXJdFIvsLX-ur9TiZoKFiDiPXexrMBDPtzcvA-OZvOqZN/s640/10561819_812458498772345_8395743783544268084_n.jpg" width="599" /></a></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-3754594787716150682017-09-29T12:37:00.004-07:002017-09-29T12:37:58.203-07:00It Started With Outbreak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was 10 years old, I saw the movie Outbreak.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This, is what I am going to do with my life. I am going to wear the white suit and steal
helicopters and write complicated formulas on the blackboard to teach all the
health people things because I know science and I am from the CDC. Besides, we don’t need another Alanis
Morisette because we already have an Alanis Morisette and I can’t sing that
great anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told my mother.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes. We knew this.
You are going to be a doctor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ok great, I would be a doctor and then save the people from
the outbreaks. Preferably in Africa
because I think that’s where they are the sickest. Also ‘cause I want to see a lion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In high school, I took all the science classes, became
valedictorian and told everyone I was going to join Doctors without Borders so
that I could save the world. After
graduation, I took a peek at the Doctors without Borders website to see if
maybe they would take me out of high school?
You never know, I did take AP Bio.
But no, apparently my dissection of a pig didn’t count as experience. Ok, just checking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went to college and majored in biology. In my spare time, I volunteered at a
biochemistry lab. Because Dustan Hoffman
stole a helicopter but he also knew what he was doing in the lab. I needed to know how science works from the
bottom up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over spring break I volunteered at a mosquito laboratory in
Vero Beach (NERD). It was there that I
put on my first full-body protection suit and went into a sealed room that
contained the chikungunya virus. The lab
tech opened the airtight freezer. It
made a whooshing noise and smoke from the ice spilled out. She showed me the tube with the virus, put it
back in the freezer, and shooed me out of the room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THAT. WAS. SO. COOL. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spring break ended, I was not tanner but <u>was</u> covered
in mosquito bites. I could not, at this
point, get a boyfriend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ramped up my hours at the lab to include nights, weekends
and the summer. I heard from my lab
friends that the Howard Hughes Medical Institute was giving a grant for a
student to go work at a lab studying Cholera in Kolkata, India. Two months later I was in India.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right next to the lab was a cholera clinic. All day I saw grey people being carried inside. The smell of diarrhea coming from the beds lingered
on your nose hairs long after leaving. I
begged to be able to work there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” my boss said, politely, smiling and bobbing his head
back and forth. Subtext: “The last thing
we need is to be responsible for this curly haired girl getting cholera.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please,” I had persisted.
“I have come all the way to India; I do not want to stay behind a lab
bench.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was 19, knew the chemistry and was ready to rid the world
of cholera!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They allowed me to join a local doctor as he made his rounds
in the nearby slum. The poverty and devastation
slapped me around and was exactly what I needed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the doctor took patient histories, it was my job to
write down how many times the patients had cholera. Not <u>if</u> they had cholera but <u>how
many times</u>. The doctor kept treating
the cholera and the people of this slum kept contracting it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But who treats the root cause of the disease? Makes sure their water is kept clean and stresses
the importance of hand washing?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This,” the doctor said (drum roll) “is the role of the
Epidemiologist” (gong). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After 3 months I went back to school, continued studying,
and in my senior year started applying to Public Health schools. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you first walk into the Johns Hopkins School of Public
Health a large image projected 3 stories high shows the latest statistics of
diseases and pictures of students installing mosquito nets. Omg, I was going to
be that student. It was my Mecca. I learned about tropical diseases and how to
purify a water source so that you wouldn’t get cholera. And all of my new friends wanted to play with
diseases too! People (many people) came
to my Outbreak themed party. (There were
syphilis cookies.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent a year in rural Bangladesh doing my thesis. It was the best year. I learned the language, drove a motorcycle
between rice paddies to the villages. Got
a taste of office work and submitted my first protocol to an ethical review
board. One of my coworkers died during
childbirth. The ethical review board
took 6 months to approve my protocol. I
could see the urgency and could see how long it could take to affect
change. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I returned to finish classes and apply for jobs. I applied to Doctors without Borders (which
should really be called Doctors, Nurses, Epidemiologists and Logisticians
without Borders). I got through 3 rounds
of the application process and was finally told “Not yet. You need more experience. Come back after a few more years of
international work.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked for the UN Foundation and helped people doing cool
stuff talk to other people doing cool stuff.
AND THEN. I was hired to lead a
malaria study in Uganda! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For 2 years I lived in Uganda and went around the country
helping to conduct trainings, collect and analyze data. I worked for the International Rescue
Committee on a vaccine trial in Uganda and Ethiopia. Maybe I could take time off the project and
spend a week learning about outbreaks in the IRC refugee camps! But the study grant ended and I had to look
for a job again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am sitting at a desk in Ethiopia after a long day of supervising
field workers go door to door interviewing people and testing them for
HIV. My face is a little sunburnt, my
fingers smell like curry and my shoes are drying in the corner. For a year and a half I have been helping to
coordinate nationwide HIV surveys in Swaziland, Ethiopia and Namibia. I am 28 years old and have been working in
Public Health for the past 7 years. I am
still not Dustan Hoffman. But tonight I
started my application to Doctors without Borders.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUDi8CsbI3ZcXdRW20Ls-1kaa7DMWAwu1VtmrCPJFEBDkFrAbORsRBxeHmc0s67tgZi5ehQv2Ou2U5GzS8brcyZHTj5UMiZBaXUrlxpTo3iJlEWFpo5fPqMfrCqFJfrhx1GXrkmratuC4/s1600/11403206_10107020545357641_3838817361601539165_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="529" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUDi8CsbI3ZcXdRW20Ls-1kaa7DMWAwu1VtmrCPJFEBDkFrAbORsRBxeHmc0s67tgZi5ehQv2Ou2U5GzS8brcyZHTj5UMiZBaXUrlxpTo3iJlEWFpo5fPqMfrCqFJfrhx1GXrkmratuC4/s640/11403206_10107020545357641_3838817361601539165_n.jpg" width="520" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I'm the little one on the right</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-33266445432379410332017-01-24T03:16:00.000-08:002017-01-24T03:16:38.703-08:00It Comes Back<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I let the couch gasp for air as I finally got off of it to
meet Chiara for dinner. She picked me up
in her car and we drove down the mountain and back up another one. Chiara has been in Swaziland for 2 years now
and we have grown close during my many visits.
Tonight we would join her friends at their cottage for dinner before
heading out to a party. The cottage was
warm with beef stew and the bottles of delicious South African wine just made
it warmer. I immediately liked the women
but when they brought out chocolate cake for dessert I knew I would marry them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was ok that we were roly from food and drink, because we only
had to roll a few feet from the cottage to the party. It was Swaziland Art night, Swarty, and bands
from South Africa came to perform in the sunken living room of an empty
mansion. Every expat within a 100 mile
radius heard the siren call of booze and music and packed in. The mansion was meant for Airbnb guests and so
it felt like we were children playing in an empty adult house,
unchaperoned. Anyone could pop behind
the fully stocked bar and pretend to be bartender, making concoctions just like
I used to do as a kid in the schoolyard.
But this time my drink was made of Jameson instead of mud and fancy berries
instead of the leftover ketchup in the fridge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt comfortable.
Besides knowing many people from my previous visits, it was so easy to
lean back into that swaying feeling that comes from being more than 8,000 miles
from home. A feeling of freedom and
recklessness and familiarity with the unfamiliar. I love the small talk that happens seamlessly
at an expat party but would make me feel like a douche anywhere else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh I just got in from Johannesburg. You’re headed to Uganda? Nice!
Say hi to my cat for me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We danced under a disco light (??) to songs that were
popular 2 years ago. We played in a
sunken bathtub and slid around the kitchen.
I ran outside, to a hill on a mountain and called the boy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m calling you from SWAZILAND. OMG TECHNOLOGY. I MISS YOU. OK GONNA GO BACK
AND DANCE NOW.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m happy that I’m here for 2 weeks but excited to go home
to my sweet apartment in Harlem. I never
once regret not taking the job overseas.
I like my happy hour on Thursdays and my bagels on Saturday. But when I get antsy in my cubicle and miss
the freedom of distance, I know I’ll be going to Namibia next month, and
Ethiopia after that, and then…who knows?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-38177243930752531132016-10-13T11:04:00.002-07:002016-10-13T11:21:58.489-07:00New in Namibia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You can drive for hours without seeing anyone in
Namibia. A tumbleweed might literally
cross in front of your car. The capital
Windhoek, is surrounded by tall, sandy mountains making the horizon look like
Mars. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was in Namibia for work.
Helping to run a workshop to adapt materials for our nationwide HIV
survey. Unfortunately this meant I saw
these mountains mostly from the window of my conference room. I insisted that even though it made the
projected materials a little harder to read, we have the windows open
every day. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Over lunches, I made friends
with Frida, a Namibian woman who worked at the Ministry of Health. One day at lunch, I bumped into a waiter and
said “lo siento”. Because I’m too old to
be juggling all these languages and random ones just pop out. (Most embarrassing is when I’m speaking to a
taxi driver in Africa and I start wagging my head like I’m in India. I’m confused.) Frida turned to me “Tu hablas espanol?!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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During the Namibian War of Independence, children were
smuggled out of the country to safety, many never to see their families
again. Frida’s boat went to Cuba. Not knowing a word of English or Spanish,
Frida and the other children spent the next 15 years growing up in Cuba. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Most of us are now back in Namibia. Once a month we roast a big pig and dance
salsa all night long.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Frida is trying to get into the University of Michigan for a Masters Program. I told her to
tell her story and she’d be a shoo in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Friday night we all went out to for Namibia’s famous beef
at Kapana. We ducked under the large
blue tarped area and pushed through the wall of smoke. In the center of the large outdoor market
were butchers using machetes to cut large pieces of the cow laid on the wooden
tables in front of them. The meat
was passed up front where men arranged
the pieces on open grills. The men
called at you to come and try their beef.
Theirs is the tenderest. I took a
few pieces from their hands, chewed, deliberated, and decided on the best
vendor. </div>
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I gave the man the equivalent of
5 dollars, and he chopped up a section for us and slid it to the bottom of the
grill. Then me, my friends and the smoke
stood around eating our pieces of the meat.
Large piles of salt, chile, and MSG were on pieces of cardboard next to
the grills for dippings. My coworker
handed me a plastic bottle cut in half with a sloshing brown liquid in it. “Dip it in this.” It was like eating raw garbage. He laughed.
Was cow bile.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After filled with beef and MSG, we sat in the back of the
tarped market on plastic chairs. A woman
dipped a ladle in a bucket of swamp water (?) and poured us each a glass. It was
a traditional fermented brew. Slightly
warm, it tasted like coconut water meets butter meets cholera. I drank my whole damn cup. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Super full, I said goodbye to everyone and told Frida I
would bring her back some Cuban Coffee from Key West. She laughed and said “get me into the
University of Michigan.”<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-65833176733991091302016-07-17T09:26:00.001-07:002016-07-17T09:27:15.140-07:00What I do not Hear<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;">It was a bright and crisp day at 9am when I first got
to the clinic in rural Uganda. A line
was already wrapped around the single clinic room and women were resting in
circles allowing their fat, naked babies to play in the middle. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“Afoyo, hello!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The kids laughed at
the white lady speaking their language.
Today I would be looking over the record books to get a sense of how bad
the most recent malaria epidemic had hit this village.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Just before greeting
the nurse, a woman grabbed my arm. She was panicked and her nails dug in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“I prayed, but
nothing. Help me sistah docter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">At first, I did not
hear her. So many people call out to me
every day that I have become good at not hearing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">She almost threw her
little girl into my arms. The girl was too light and her eyes were glassy. I was trying to explain that I am not a
doctor, I am just a scientist studying malaria when, like a horror film, the
little girl turned and I could see the back of her head had been eaten away by
disease. The pulpy flesh was rotting and
covered in flies. I gave the baby back
to her mother, went into the bush, threw up, and then went into the clinic to
count the cases of malaria.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I do not believe in
god. I pray again and again for strength
of faith but I have heard no answer.
Maybe I’ve spent too many years looking down through a microscope to
hear the god above me. I’m a scientist and
thus a skeptic. We’re taught to be wary
of religion as it is unfounded in evidence (the only scripture of
science.) But there is a woman in front
of me, just a baby herself, praying that her little girl doesn’t die. How can I help her if I don’t understand her?
School did not teach me what sustains people beyond the antibiotics. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It’s the big
questions, the ones that catch in your throat, unasked, that are all around me
in Uganda. The questions about death and
faith. I’m terrified because if I fail
to save you, you will not live on in another world. I will be here, and you will be gone. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">I
am afraid that if I do not figure out a way to hear some god, I may not be able
to continue doing this work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br />
Sometimes, usually when I’m lying in bed at night, I
feel a tingling at the back of my head, and I have to reach up to feel if I’m
whole. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-67444700154007377022016-07-10T12:40:00.001-07:002016-07-10T12:40:18.829-07:00Red Hook, Love and Basketball<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I told her I grew up in Red Hook. Which was only kind of true. I grew up in Gravesend and Park Slope, in Red
Hook, Key West, Gainesville. But Red
Hook, those were my formative years. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We lived in this brick house at the end of Beard
Street. It’s still the house of my
dreams. Wooden staircases, restaurant
stove, tin ceilings, fireplaces, an English garden. This house could eat my 400sq foot studio for
breakfast. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My mom worked at a nonprofit on Van Brundt street. My other mom owned an international shipping
company that worked out of the warehouse down the block. My parents were heavily involved in the
community and we went to city hall meetings to make sure the garbage dump
wasn’t built in Red Hook. We went on
marches protesting that “DAMN DAIRY PLANT” down the block. We built gardens on the waterfront and worked
to restore the old trolleys. I was extremely helpful by bringing art into
Red Hook by way of an outdoor performed modern dance to Let it Be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Not many of my school friends would visit me so I made
friends on the block. There were 2
apartment buildings across the street and I guess they didn’t have doorbells
(??) because I would shout “Elissabeeeeth, Nelllsoooon” over and over until
their mom opened the window and leaned out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Can Elisabeth come out to play?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then the two of us would call for Kris. Oh my god Kris. I looooooved Kris. I spent hours looking out my window into his
window wondering what he was doing.
Asking my magic eight ball if he and I would get married some day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Krriiiiisss, can you come out to play?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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When the heavy door to his building squealed open my heart
skipped a beat. I bet if I heard that
door today I would still catch my breath.
Then I’d hear the basketball dribbling on the concrete sidewalk. Squeal of door, bounce of ball. Those are the sounds love is made of.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hey,” he’d say and pass me the ball. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“What’s up,” I’d say, and dribble the ball between my legs
like a goddamn pro. I was all curly hair
and jammed fingers. An 11 year old lover
in baby blue Air Jordans. (I scrubbed
those beauties with my toothbrush once a week.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’d play until the sun set and then some. We drew a square on the warehouse next to my
house. Hit it with your ball for a
point. (We once burned out a soda crate
and tied it to a fence for a hoop. But
someone stole it…) Quick 10 point games, every man for himself. Nelson sometimes joined us before he got too
old to play on the block. When no one
could come out, I would play by myself, practicing bouncing the ball against
the wall and catching the rebound for an ally-oop. If I was going to join the WNBA and if Kris
and I were going to live out my Love and Basketball fantasy, I had to start
getting good.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When we weren’t playing basketball we were at the corner
store buying candy. None of that
chocolate crap either. We liked the hard
stuff. Pure sugar packed into tubes that would turn our
mouths blue or maybe a pack of sour straws that we smoked like cigarettes. We
would shake up soda bottles and
leave them in the street for cars to run over.
Because. Hilarious. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the winter we crammed into the hallway and played
monopoly. Yelled at people when they had to walk over our board
to get to the stairs and messed up our house placement. The hallway was dark but warm and thick with
the comforting smell of Ecuadorian food.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If it was summer, we would lay our bellies on the sun warmed
bricks in the garden and roll roly polys to see whose went farthest. Or me and Elisabeth would draw a whole house
out on a piece of paper and see where our slug babies would go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Look, yours is going into the bathroom!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Elisabeth taught me all the Spanish words to the
Macarena. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We rigged a skateboard with a rope. One sat, one ran, both fell. Most of my scars are from those days. But the trick was never to go inside. Not for a band aid or to use the
bathroom. Because that’s when the
parents would remember you existed and make you come in for the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Things changed after 9/11.
My mom took pictures of the towers burning from our roof. My other mom lost her shipping business. My parents went to 6 funerals. The experience gave them pause. They were tired of the New York rat race and
wanted to slow down and live the life that New York collectively realized could
be gone in seconds. Within a few months,
they sold our house, enrolled me into Key West High School and my sister into
Montessouri. 3 months after that, my
fifth generation Brooklyn family moved to Key West.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I stopped playing basketball at school because the nearest
away game was an hour away. I lost touch
with Elisabeth and Nelson. Kris and I,
despite the magic 8 ball predictions, did not get married. It was 7 years before I visited Red Hook
again. There is an Ikea now and a
Fairway. There are man buns in Sunny’s
and a candy shop selling only chocolate.
My mother’s warehouse is owned by some artisanal artist brewing beer with
wood or making wood with beer. The English
garden has no light anymore because of some crab shack minigolf monstrosity
blocking the sun. I passed my house and
saw a blonde boy playing with his phone on my steps. But I could still see Kris’s name written on
the sidewalk from that time he wrote it in the wet cement with a stick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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I’m back in New York, living in Harlem now. It feels good to be back here. My world weary body is ready for it. I’ve lived in 5 different countries, 10
different cities. When people ask me
where I’m from, I’ll say New York. If I
feel they’ll get me, I say Brooklyn. But
if I’m feeling real, I’ll say “I grew up in Red Hook.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEDPTyyLL6X5Xj_QVOpHuzTyAp2_o3-bLL6AuqyS1QbkX_XfvkVk7e8r5myJ27KtT8IIGlOaVlspAf3XFrso61DarZo97TixVof_3lR0so86ZGNCABtY9aYEBgyhGg_LynP9drnG_xsOt/s1600/IMG_0964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEDPTyyLL6X5Xj_QVOpHuzTyAp2_o3-bLL6AuqyS1QbkX_XfvkVk7e8r5myJ27KtT8IIGlOaVlspAf3XFrso61DarZo97TixVof_3lR0so86ZGNCABtY9aYEBgyhGg_LynP9drnG_xsOt/s640/IMG_0964.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Red Hook: May 2001, Van Brundt Street. Aunt is wearing Red Hook G.A.G (Groups Against Garbage) Shirt</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-3115851569329368252016-06-25T20:30:00.001-07:002016-06-25T21:36:32.794-07:00Breathless<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Tonight I went to celebrate the Shabbat at Zahara’s
house. A group of 20 people crowded
into the living room, in chairs, on the floor, perched on end tables covered in
books. A
Visit Palestine poster was framed next to texts about the Torah and the
window was open letting in the smells of the Dominican Chicharones from
Broadway. We talked about queer activism, and the Torah, and what we were most
proud of. This is New York Pride week
after all. We sang ningunim, wordless
songs, that felt like they have been sitting in my throat all week waiting to
be heard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The candle lit the wall with shadows as the room grew dark
and our singing came to an end. And in
the dark I realized, I had caught my breath.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>Because I have been running through this city breathing in
short little spurts until events like Orlando knocked what little breath I had
right out of me. Days follow days without
singing, having a real conversation, without being in the dark, without
breathing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Last week a man shot and killed 49 people. This week the Britain left the EU. Yesterday, I signed up to campaign for Hillary because I’m damn
scared. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I could run away to another country again. Pretend the world is bigger than it is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I’m tired. And my
feet hurt. And I want to sing not shout..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took a deep breath tonight because things were good enough
to slow down. But I think I might be holding
that breath. Rationing it. Waiting for the next Orlando, around the
corner, to leave me breathless again.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-70506985040749208202016-05-13T18:16:00.000-07:002016-05-13T18:26:09.801-07:00Tsujiki Fish Market and Sushi Dai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 3am, I woke up wide awake. Jet lag! Ugh!
Why hasn’t science fixed you?! But figured, I might as well head to the Tsujiki fish market to see the fresh fish being unloaded from the boats and catch a glimpse
of the famous tuna auction!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SO at 3am, I walked through my neighborhood to the subway
which all guides seemed to promise was open 24 hours. It’s not.
They were wrong. But I found a taxi
guy and managed to finagle a ride to the market for $30. (It should have been $60 but every time the
driver tried to let me out of the cab I kept pointing, silently and urgently
ahead until my google maps told me I arrived.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was dark in the fish market but men were already there
unloading their trucks with fresh fish and setting up their shops. As I made my way to the arena for the giant
tuna auction, I saw groups of white people walking away dejectedly. When I got there I was told that they had
sold out of tickets at 2:30! Earlier
than any guidebook had said possible. I
stuck a 2,000 yen fresh note ($20) in between my fingers and saddled up to the
guard. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sir, my friend is in there and she is waiting for me.” I casually laid the money by his hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No sorry, tickets sold out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Drats! That would have totally worked in Africa!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But sir, my sister is getting married in there!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please leave now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With nothing else to do at 3:30am, I decided to head to
Sushi Dai a sushi restaurant in the heart of the fish market and the proclaimed
best sushi in the world. The fish was unloaded from the boat and straight into the back of the restaurant where the chefs take great care to tamper with the fish as little as possible before serving. The freshest in the world. Already there
was a snaking line. The restaurant
opened at 5am and there was already about 30 people in front of me. And the restaurant seats 12 at a time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh well, still wide awake with nothing else to do, I settled
in and made friends with the group behind me.
6 fortysomething native New Yorkers.
It did not surprise me that the New Yorkers were where the good food
was. We took turns holding our place and
exploring the market place, going to the bathroom, getting coffee, and
purchasing delicious tamago (sweet egg) on a stick. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfBDZkjov49LdxZjxoXqeX7F7uYLBR9vnWIPNYNI2Jgy-OqzXxFV8RwgpSdA8BWHeQl2Ua1ciQLbNUUSG3Km97BRJJnHtXbGgoKt4VLlmW9MgacNIpLX9XF9cm2b6fjfLLVxNECzrVmks/s1600/IMG_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfBDZkjov49LdxZjxoXqeX7F7uYLBR9vnWIPNYNI2Jgy-OqzXxFV8RwgpSdA8BWHeQl2Ua1ciQLbNUUSG3Km97BRJJnHtXbGgoKt4VLlmW9MgacNIpLX9XF9cm2b6fjfLLVxNECzrVmks/s640/IMG_0124.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tamago</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was fun being so still.
As a tourist, you’re always rushing trying to see the next thing but
missing everything along the way. The line
had me watch the sun rise over Tsukiji market and almost get hit (several
times) by men whizzing by on their trolleys, cigarette lit in their
mouths. The air was so laden with fish
you could taste it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WHvhFsMrFwxKAi4uYKul2rmJPFL0cSmP_Hf8kVKM9DpCV4nQCyrmedcniDFSW3O168r6TucQLsxeGaIz5WtoMR3q1u9QRSnA9QcNLwAxOzlQkPu1STkHt1OhlgoG2mNJccnDl3RaB-yB/s1600/IMG_0134.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WHvhFsMrFwxKAi4uYKul2rmJPFL0cSmP_Hf8kVKM9DpCV4nQCyrmedcniDFSW3O168r6TucQLsxeGaIz5WtoMR3q1u9QRSnA9QcNLwAxOzlQkPu1STkHt1OhlgoG2mNJccnDl3RaB-yB/s640/IMG_0134.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun rose and the non foodies, noodies if you will,
started to meander into the market. They
often came up to our line.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s this line for, brah?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sushi.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh sweet, how long have you been waiting for?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“3 hours. We’ve been
here since 4.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whaaaaa. That’s
insane!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We smiled at their naivity.
They don’t know what it’s like to truly want something. To wait for it. To yearn for it. Noodies.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, I’m on the phone with my mother who is salivating
cathartically. She read the reviews over
the phone to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Try the fatty tuna, I hear it’s out of this world. OH I’m so JEALOUS.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it was my turn, I was waved in. The benefit of being a solo traveler, I ate a
full hour before the group behind me. It
was 7:30 am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was sat at a long counter with 11 other chosen ones. Behind the bar was thick slabs of glistening fresh
fish and 3 chef masters. I was given a ceramic cup of thick green tea and a hot
towel. I patted my face, readying
myself. First course was a seafood miso
soup. Fresh large clams and pieces of
fish made the already salty miso taste like you were drinking the ocean.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2l4HnA8CFxTGfi6alVpqWYAwWTfbIysvqHo5PWgzvX7ydh4cxNuzpk3WVtW_454kYXqJi0IItgDJHoz_f2ysmvtol2K7v4Y08uGpKQAuCebYEoSbu_M9C_vc_f75e_irk6Fe5BG-Raq5/s1600/IMG_0147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_2l4HnA8CFxTGfi6alVpqWYAwWTfbIysvqHo5PWgzvX7ydh4cxNuzpk3WVtW_454kYXqJi0IItgDJHoz_f2ysmvtol2K7v4Y08uGpKQAuCebYEoSbu_M9C_vc_f75e_irk6Fe5BG-Raq5/s640/IMG_0147.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Miso Soup</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjvclrTSEhWJqbj4dhW62awiwsK-WEG7LAZgJszAIaH2B8ktoSFj-Dc7nMWmLkC6LYZDIpP4VUt2BJNqz04HwbWnMKRzh3KIN-B7H0jup6d8eP30lt9WC6KJXv7O_5HcGMmRdJrfonblyo/s1600/IMG_0145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjvclrTSEhWJqbj4dhW62awiwsK-WEG7LAZgJszAIaH2B8ktoSFj-Dc7nMWmLkC6LYZDIpP4VUt2BJNqz04HwbWnMKRzh3KIN-B7H0jup6d8eP30lt9WC6KJXv7O_5HcGMmRdJrfonblyo/s640/IMG_0145.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next course was a cube of sweet egg tamago. With a consistency of an omlette but
sweetened with sugar and soy sauce, it was exactly what I needed to ready my
palette this early in the morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7HmsfThSLmtYVPAJvWkE_ljboKX5vjIkWxC2m2ZwYBwOegB71wN6F2VZFuNw5tDiXgRRtupwM5e9aAKqYamM_IV3ZZ_AScQhN4QNiP4D4LKalVpOdg5G0owuemVvTc38rM7h5cmqTFRj/s1600/IMG_0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7HmsfThSLmtYVPAJvWkE_ljboKX5vjIkWxC2m2ZwYBwOegB71wN6F2VZFuNw5tDiXgRRtupwM5e9aAKqYamM_IV3ZZ_AScQhN4QNiP4D4LKalVpOdg5G0owuemVvTc38rM7h5cmqTFRj/s640/IMG_0146.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tamago</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sushi was placed directly on the counter in front of
us. The chef used a brush to glaze the
fish with a hint of soy sauce and a dab of wasabi so it was ready to pop right
into our mouths. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MnTh9uDDHrWxxV-EbQ2uGCXUls7PDz4mOAL7eQTq0SE3XrLdS_vpA7aZtGScpd76DYEmpZNQBfk2TBKrjA1qNJOSDPTAhfx9eAE874pA-SPSG-bLynayA5phSoshal-UHAdjXOxU3sBc/s1600/IMG_0152.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MnTh9uDDHrWxxV-EbQ2uGCXUls7PDz4mOAL7eQTq0SE3XrLdS_vpA7aZtGScpd76DYEmpZNQBfk2TBKrjA1qNJOSDPTAhfx9eAE874pA-SPSG-bLynayA5phSoshal-UHAdjXOxU3sBc/s640/IMG_0152.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first sushi was the
fatty tuna, the most popular sushi in the restaurant. It was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. So buttery and supple you barely had to chew,
it melted in your mouth. It was
sunshine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYELQBqKnCeIe0KKC2jGE2D1ia2Tznqu8Mcd72vAb1hG4q9Par2C_MGT2Egiyr8C6W3n1zHwJH8UtqMtSrkKvzn4-4G_BJyNfImtUQoEqBdPko3yJyoJE5Z-CtKI4D4ezFlDvdukK0C0o/s1600/IMG_0148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGYELQBqKnCeIe0KKC2jGE2D1ia2Tznqu8Mcd72vAb1hG4q9Par2C_MGT2Egiyr8C6W3n1zHwJH8UtqMtSrkKvzn4-4G_BJyNfImtUQoEqBdPko3yJyoJE5Z-CtKI4D4ezFlDvdukK0C0o/s640/IMG_0148.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fatty Tuna</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A large pile of freshest ginger was available for a chew in
between pieces to cleanse the palette.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next was the snapper.
It had more of a bite to it than the tuna and almost had a citrus taste. I took to closing my eyes when I put the
sushi in my mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-qIrgiDWYxMepVxxhH68qf8LqWRMu3xEnAQQCqUvsgtaB0k27zT4hLFp7x6SjSIYC4kp0NTLAuJxb9aUDdlqy40IPNK-ElGUF63zJSvAhdbdfGTiV-cJeCnYJ77coHERfxC9n952me1x/s1600/IMG_0149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-qIrgiDWYxMepVxxhH68qf8LqWRMu3xEnAQQCqUvsgtaB0k27zT4hLFp7x6SjSIYC4kp0NTLAuJxb9aUDdlqy40IPNK-ElGUF63zJSvAhdbdfGTiV-cJeCnYJ77coHERfxC9n952me1x/s640/IMG_0149.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Snapper</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the chef put down a piece of sushi that was
moving. The clam on top of the rice wiggled as if saying
hello. I put in into my mouth and I
could feel it wriggling against my tongue. It was creepy.
Definitely more of a struggle to get down than the grasshoppers in
Uganda.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Gqz7W0DM1qE/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Gqz7W0DM1qE?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ate red snapper. I
turned to my friends behind me still waiting just outside the restaurant, faces
pressed against the window. “It’s
amazing,” I mouthed, and they cheered and high fived each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEYVFuZVM9-tDOga8eMaaEldgyTLk9UOqZHXRcBrVBvZDfDNkFpZQO9WZMq9xEcttWdlCTmdaz_TTqBV6lFEliZB7lEhDIROWPMgzTudGS2Vyyo_CnmJ7ey9nmjU-bFpImXiMDJXSYQHq/s1600/IMG_0150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEYVFuZVM9-tDOga8eMaaEldgyTLk9UOqZHXRcBrVBvZDfDNkFpZQO9WZMq9xEcttWdlCTmdaz_TTqBV6lFEliZB7lEhDIROWPMgzTudGS2Vyyo_CnmJ7ey9nmjU-bFpImXiMDJXSYQHq/s640/IMG_0150.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Red Snapper</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNfbX06ngwxM3k_5Vip96vT7Xk8hDOFXvgwnN2TM_ezU3PRJe7htJ6ShWoQl2HqNm0MJYW5H82gEhOa6IScReMuYzDBpwk4opQmH2BjaVqrRcTGuvDdA7AhkJdJ6ExsYn90Zq-kertuTo/s1600/IMG_0144.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNfbX06ngwxM3k_5Vip96vT7Xk8hDOFXvgwnN2TM_ezU3PRJe7htJ6ShWoQl2HqNm0MJYW5H82gEhOa6IScReMuYzDBpwk4opQmH2BjaVqrRcTGuvDdA7AhkJdJ6ExsYn90Zq-kertuTo/s640/IMG_0144.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sea urchin was so flavorful, fishy and salty and almost
meaty. But the slimyness threw me off a
bit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7s6RqbzkI3bv9wWriyfGxgLpYOAxe-pBu20vtys_aWSYNNAJLqrorc_AfZFUDRlcDICuwoc35c__pjmwEEp7Av0Jict_z2pMqfTSoQ4wmd22wNgKrZgwnmWg0sFa740sEuR8pKyzQ0nlq/s1600/IMG_0151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7s6RqbzkI3bv9wWriyfGxgLpYOAxe-pBu20vtys_aWSYNNAJLqrorc_AfZFUDRlcDICuwoc35c__pjmwEEp7Av0Jict_z2pMqfTSoQ4wmd22wNgKrZgwnmWg0sFa740sEuR8pKyzQ0nlq/s640/IMG_0151.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sea Urchin</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then came the Spanish Mackerel or Sawara. Sushi Dai you clever bastard, you had me
reeling. I Daid and went to heaven. It was plump and flavorful and smooth. Subtly fishy.
It took me there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvacZxZP6nh9eIctCDJiCyocnDkySqteFrVzNdpUmQA8tI7F9O1w_ga14vz00UA53a_2020f5YSPnwxP-VJPpxXSTvYhXtRMy0_v5RGNrbqY-lY1ysdAl355TaaYFu74_R4XkMVwhuSk1T/s1600/IMG_0159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvacZxZP6nh9eIctCDJiCyocnDkySqteFrVzNdpUmQA8tI7F9O1w_ga14vz00UA53a_2020f5YSPnwxP-VJPpxXSTvYhXtRMy0_v5RGNrbqY-lY1ysdAl355TaaYFu74_R4XkMVwhuSk1T/s640/IMG_0159.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Spanish Mackerel</span></td></tr>
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We finished the meal up with tuna, horse mackerel, tuna and
cod egg maki, and sea eel. When the chef
asked me what I liked best, I said the fatty tuna. And he gave me another piece!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tuna</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Horse Mackerel</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sea Eel</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tuna and Cod Eggs</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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I bowed to the master chefs and left. Now 9am, the fish market was packed with fish and tourists and restaurant owners. I was full and sleepy and walked around the market like a fatty tuna. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I rolled myself back to the apartment and took a nap. I had tickets to see Sumo wrestling!</div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-15355098657062080122016-05-12T03:49:00.000-07:002016-05-12T03:49:00.447-07:00First Day in Tokyo: Harajuku!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It’s Sunday! The day
the Japanese Harajuku girls come out to play in their platform shoes and
rainbow hair and glitter makeup! I’ve
been obsessed with the Harajuku for years.
See vintage picture of me, 10 years ago: 17, dressed up as a Harajuku
girl for Halloween.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I scooched on down to the Harajuku district and took a walk
on the famous Takeshita street.
Everything was pink and smiley.
There was surround sound giggles.
The girls wore two main styles.
The innocent: lace bib shirt, tulle skirt, soft pink, barretes. And the wild: 6 inch platforms, teal hair in
pigtails, candy necklaces. I crushed it
in jeans and a tshirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Because I wanted to be supersaturated with sweetness, I went
to the pompompurin café. Pompompurin is
one of the many famous Sanrio characters in Japan. Hello Kitty’s cousin or something. I ordered this cute little pompompurin cup of
pudding with a chocolate beret hat. I
asked the old man next to me if I could take a picture of his pompompurin
rice. He obliged.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just as I was leaving the district I saw what I thought was a parade of Harajuku girls. But no!
It was the Tokyo Pride parade! I
joined them for awhile, shouted for gay rights a little, took a few videos, and
then took a nap.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At dusk, I went to the top of the Mori art museum and saw
all of Tokyo from 52 stories high. It was
magic. Made even more magic by the
limited time only Sailor moon exhibit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For dinner I stuffed my face with fresh, delicious sushi and
jetlagged home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-88702363308624144402016-05-11T03:05:00.000-07:002016-05-11T04:00:29.775-07:00I Made it to Tokyo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I wasn’t sure how I was going to get from the airport to my
Airbnb in Tokyo. </div>
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I booked the my ticket to Japan 6 months ago in a rush of “when again am I going to have the time and
money and no ties (no boyfriendbabyapartment…oi) to travel to Tokyo on my own?” I’ve wanted to go to Japan ever since when in the
third grade, my mom and I started an extracurricular research project on Japan
and the bullet train. nerds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Loopy and jetlagged from 24 hours of travel, I wandered
around the airport until I figured out a thing and got my body on a bus to
Tokyo. The bus spit me out in Shinjuku
district which looks like an arcade game threw up on Times Square. I wondered around the streets dragging my
suitcase, big haired and squinty eyed, letting the lights lead me in circles. </div>
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After I calmed down, my other senses picked
up and I started to smell all of counter top Ramen restaurants. I came to Japan to explore the culture and
history yadda yadda but I really came to eat.
So at 10pm I dragged my suitcase into one of these Ramen
restaurants. I was confronted by a
machine with lights and Japanese. I
stood there looking at the machine, like a zombie, until someone came over to
help me. They pointed at a picture menu
with numbers corresponding with the buttons.
You press a button, put in the money, and it spits out a ticket that you
give to the counter. </div>
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5 minutes later I
was eating a bowl of salty ramen with soba noodles and shrimp tempura. I sat at my little seat facing the counter
and let the ramen tell me it was time for bed.</div>
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I still had to find my apartment. I found a taxi and the door opened magically on its
own! After many nervous pointing and
“arigatos” we found our way to the apartment.
I figured out all the tricks to getting in, facetimed my mommies, and
collapsed into bed. But not before going
to the bathroom where the toilet played trickling waterfall music and the seat
warmed and different buttons did surprising things with water and hot air.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-24318018615733369512016-04-20T12:42:00.001-07:002016-04-21T00:49:12.986-07:00Sunshine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">When I was 23, I went to
Tanzania to help set up an electronic database to track babies with HIV. I wrote about the clinics (<a href="http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2013/07/we-woke-up-early-and-met-with-member-of.html">http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2013/07/we-woke-up-early-and-met-with-member-of.html</a>) and how I held a
baby with HIV and how “</span>“[The nurse] <span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">didn’t want to tell mothers
they were HIV positive if she didn’t have the medicine to treat them.” Her words circled me for years. I didn’t think I could work with HIV again.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">But now I’m back in Africa, back in the HIV clinics, this time in
Swaziland: a country with the greatest HIV prevalence in the world (26%).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was led into the clinic and greeted by the Nurse, Sunshine. Sunshine was in her late forties and had long
braided hair dyed red at the tips that she kept in a swinging ponytail. She was an HIV prevention nurse who has been
working with adolescent girls for the past 15 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hello momma, come sit down.” Sunshine had a voice as colorful as
her namesake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I sat down on a chair in the minimal but clean and brightly lit
clinic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Hi Sunshine it’s so great to meet you! Can you please take me through what a normal
HIV Prevention session looks like?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Of course momma. You see,
I tell my queens that their vagina is their playground. But they have to keep it protected.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">She opens up her wooden drawer and pulls out a massive black dildo
and slaps it on the desk. It wobbles
around a bit before standing aggressively erect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I tell my queens, you can have fun with a brother,” she starts
waving around the dildo “but tell him he cannot enter your Southern Hemisphere
without a condom.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">We moved on to female contraceptives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I tell my queens, if your man tells you that your IUD is poking
his thing, you come straight back in and I’ll cut your strings so you can get
right back to it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="background: white; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I can see the line of young
girls outside many with babies of their own.
The same kind of line I saw in Tanzania years ago. But I’m older now. It’s the same heavy, dark field, but it’s the
lightness that I can now see and take home with me. The Sunshine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">On my way out Sunshine
pulled me to her side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I hear the US has condoms
that light up in the dark? Could you
bring us back some of those? I think we could have fun with them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "im fell dw pica" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I promised her I would.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-77998432442706658722016-02-16T10:13:00.003-08:002016-02-16T10:13:57.857-08:00A Dating Life of First Chapters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Speed dating through NYC has left me winded. <span style="background: white;">Tinder,
Ok Cupid, Coffee Meets Bagel, Cupid Drinks a Coffee. I have been on 19 dates in 2 months. It’s not the dates that are leaving me
exhausted but the ease at which each person enters and then abruptly leaves my
life. It’s the </span>dichotomy between
the almost relentless connections we maintain on social media and the jarring
transience of our dating life.<span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I dated my last boyfriend for only 4 months but Facebook
still shows me his picture every day.
Linked in tells me he got that new job he wanted and Instagram tells me
it wasn’t in my head, he really did like her, love her?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And while it’s totally messed up that we can’t move
on, that I know he ate a banana for breakfast, it’s also sort of
comforting. There remains a connection
that justifies the days and dreams and anxieties I shared with him. It’s not just gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If Facebook anchors me to past loves, online dating
has me throwing lines out again and again just to leave me baitless and hungry.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I am so sorry you still love your ex-girlfriend but
please do not cry on our date. It’s
embarrassing. And I know you’re excited
but please don’t reach over and honk my boob 30 minutes into our first beer. Because that’s sexual assault and the guy
before you tried it already.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And although it’s fun to always have a story about a
crazy to share over brunch, I would give up the laughs to share a cup of coffee
with someone who has lasted through the season.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And so I reach out and lean in and learn about your sister’s
new baby and how you also just want a connection, something to sustain past
this drink, the now. And then it
ends. Facebook told me that the guy I
dated in college for 2 months rode a horse in his wedding but I’ll never see
you again. After two more dates I won’t remember if you were you from Kentucky
or Tennessee? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We love to live for love and love for life. So how do I rectify an online life where I’m
almost forced to attach with a dating life of first chapters? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A few weeks ago I met up with Matt, a man I had been
texting with for days. Both curly
haired Italians, we hotly contested how my Brooklyn sawce would beat his Boston
sahce. When we met, we didn’t stop talking until I hit him in the face with my
talking hands. But neither of us felt
the romance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Would he be just another Matt OkCupid in my phone to
be erased in a month?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yesterday, I went on a date with someone who didn’t
believe in Gay people. Didn’t believe
they existed. I immediately called Matt. “That’s nothing,” he said. “I went on a date with a girl who asked me to
spank instead of kiss her at the end of the night.” I smiled because 1) good for her and 2)
because I knew I would see Matt again when he posted on Facebook tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-5846415114892810712015-11-15T10:57:00.002-08:002015-11-15T10:57:23.212-08:00First Field Trip in Ethiopia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up at 6 am and met my coworker downstairs for
breakfast. We were going to a rural town
in West Ethiopia called Assosa. I would
be visiting the clinics in my project to see, for the first time, how they were
running the programs I only read and wrote about. It was a 1 ½ hour plane ride and I knew I was
getting close when the captain said, “we will be landing after some time and
some time and the weather in Assosa is fine.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Assosa is bright, primary colors. Red dirt and green bushes
and women with yellow and blue head scarves.
We drove for hours in a bumpy land cruiser to get from clinic to
clinic. Every time my jaded eyes glazed
over “this looks like Uganda” something would jar me back to Ethiopia.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mud hut. Mud hut. Mud hut. MAN RIDING DONKEY. Mud hut. Mud
hut. Mud hut. CAMEL.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The differences are subtle but I make myself savor them
because I don’t want to be so world-weary at 26 that my eyes barely flicker.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the clinics we asked the health care workers and a focus
group of mothers how they felt about the calendar we developed to help them
remember their Antenatal Care and immunization visit dates. The interviews had to be translated from the
local language to Amharic to English.
They would talk for an hour and by the time it would get to me the
translator would tell me “they love it.” During all this translation I had time to
squeeze a lot of baby cheeks. It was
damn cool to hear what they think about a tool that was so abstract to me
before. That I had helped convince
donors about and yet had never seen actually being used. Many of the women had deep tribal scars on
their face that made them look like they were perpetually crying.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We visited women at their homes and they showed us how they
used the calendar to remind them of important dates. The mud walls and straw roofs make their
homes very cool. There is usually a tarp
separating the kitchen area (coal fire, a few bowls and pots), and the main
part which has 1 or two big beds for the family to sleep on. They sometimes hang dried corn from the ceilings and paint pictures on the walls. The women
told us how even their kids and husbands read the calendar and help them remember important dates.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back at the office, I ran to the squat toilet because I had
been holding it in all day. Just as I
was congratulating myself for aiming properly, I realized I didn’t have toilet
paper. I had to inconspicuously waddle around
the office until I found some.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day we traveled to a remote hospital to see the new
infant warmer they had installed. I have
learned to guard myself when I go into clinics. There are always things I don’t
want to see. And if I don’t see them,
then I don’t have to look away. <a href="http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2014/05/a-moment.html">http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2014/05/a-moment.html</a> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the delivery room I saw the newborn warmer. My colleagues oooed and ahhed at the
wonderful advancement. The room looked
like a scene out of Jacob’s Ladder. Beds
were falling apart and the delivery bed looked like a medieval torture device. I’ve seen maternity wards in these countries
hundreds of times. But my friends in the US are starting to have babies. Recently on
Facebook, a friend took us through her experience giving birth to a premature
baby. Every day she posted pictures of
the baby hooked up to all sorts of machines, fighting for life. And she looked
so small. Here, a baby must look
microscopic. I can’t imagine how hard it’s
going to be to come back here once I have children of my own. The guilt just might do me in. We congratulated the clinic staff on their
new machine and got back in the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I ended my field trip with honey wine, communal eating and a
scary butcher that posed for a photo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-57097730192453808532015-11-09T06:09:00.000-08:002015-11-09T06:09:33.919-08:00Hello from Ethiopia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I landed in Addis at 1pm, plenty of time to get to the hotel, shower, and hit the town so that I could write an adventurous blog post. Instead, I saw the bed and my eyes watered up like I was seeing an old friend. So instead of exploring, I drank cup after cup of silky Ethiopian coffee and played Adele's new song on repeat.<br />
<br />
Hello from the other siiiiiiiide.</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-55592964038520712592015-11-02T08:51:00.001-08:002015-11-02T08:51:33.510-08:00Cupid Drinks a Coffee<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Immediately
off the plane from Uganda, I noticed the men. And the big grocery stores.
And oh my god the men in the grocery stores.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I
had spent a year and a half without a second date (you can read about my Uganda
dating experiences here: <a href="http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2014/12/the-science-of-dating-in-kampala.html" target="_blank">http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2014/12/the-science-of-dating-in-kampala.html</a>
) and was definitely going a little cray cray. I immediately revved up
the old dating sites: Tinder, Ok Cupid, Coffee Meets Bagel, Cupid Drinks a
Coffee, and set up my profile. Twenty something girl seeks a real live
boy. Must have teeth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I
met a real live boy and we started to date. We ate pizza and took walks
during the last NY summer days and I texted him when I traveled. “Dude,
I’m going to get such massive thighs from all of this pooping in the squat
toilet at the office. How was your day baby?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I
was stuffing myself with affection because I remember what it was like to be
malnourished. Four months after we started dating, it ended. I was
sad so I called Val.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Vallie,
I think I wore my heart on my sleeve and it hemorrhaged all over us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You
got laid and cuddles for 4 months? How dare you be upset when people are
dying in Africa from lack of snuggles?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And
she’s right. I’m in the land of plenty, no need to mourn. But now that
I’m feeling less like I need to pack on the kisses for the long winter, I can
breathe and actually explore New York. Next up: New York Snuggery <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/new-york-snuggery-offers-cuddles-hour-article-1.1173154" target="_blank">http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/new-york-snuggery-offers-cuddles-hour-article-1.1173154</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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(maybe
not)</div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-21135603712471334772015-10-20T12:18:00.002-07:002015-10-20T12:18:43.599-07:00Sensory Deprivation Tank<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I want to explore things in New York like I do in other
countries. I may not be able to go on a
quickie safari but there are tons of crazy shit New Yorkers do that would make
even a lion’s head turn. Like, pay $100
to be locked in a pod that deprives you of your senses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I heard about the sensory deprivation tanks from the book I’m
reading, Hallucinations by Oliver Sacks.
The book shares examples of how people who lose their sight, hearing, or
even who have an extended period of lack of stimulation in their landscapes
(desert, solitary confinement), can start to hallucinate. Charles Bonnet syndrome is found in people
who can hallucinate whole scenes in front of them but do not have sight. Musical Ear Syndrome is when there is loss of
auditory function and yet the person can hear music or people talking. People can even hallucinate feelings if they’ve
lost their sense of touch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In an experiment to test hallucinations, people were put in
a sensory deprivation tank for a long period of time and many started to
hallucinate. So I signed me and my
friend Hannah up for back to back hour sessions at a sensory tank in Gramercy. Because New York and Adventure and
Hallucinations and Africa Doesn’t Have This.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I got to the “spa” early.
Hannah had already started her tank time and I wanted to hear about her
experience before I went in. The spa was
basically this old dude’s house with women and their long grey hair sitting in
various corners participating in the spa services. Such services included: Cem Tech-
Communicates with the Body’s Cellular Structure Use Millimeter Wave Technology,
Biomat- The Combination of Far Infrared Light, Negative Ions and Amethyst
Quartz Crystals Opens the Channels for Intelligent Cellular DNA repair and
Total Body Wellness. There was a women
behind a curtain sitting on a full body vibrator. It was awkward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When Hannah came out she looked all zenny. Thing is, she is zenny. She’s a meditator who’s done silent retreats
and stuff so she was able to completely zone out and lose herself in
there. I didn’t have such high
expectations for myself. My goal was just to not get too bored and hopefully
hallucinate a medieval carnival.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When it was time, I was led into a small bathroom, given
earplugs, and told to shower before entering the tank. The “tank” was an oldish bathtub with sliding
doors painted black to block out all light.
The temperature was regulated at 93 degrees Fahrenheit to closely match
body temperature. The water was filled
with pounds of Epsom salts to keep the body floating. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I started out by trying to cheat the system by trying to not
float. It’s nearly impossible! You’re
completely buoyant. It is a strange
sensation. You can’t see or hear
anything and you start to lose your sense of self. As a dancer-atheist-scientist, I see myself
as my body, not as something inside my body.
But this somewhat falling apart, lukewarm bathtub challenged that. I couldn’t feel a body or a space and was
completely my mind. And so my mind
drifted. “What if I were a corpse
floating in a vat of embalming fluid?” Was my main thought. And when I got bored of that I thought about
what I wanted to eat for dinner. 45
minutes passed relatively quickly and then I got bored of not hallucinating so
started to play games. What if I wiggled
only my pinky. Would that be enough to
propel myself into the tub’s wall on the left.
YES! <o:p></o:p></div>
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When my time was over, I showered and put on my clothes and
stepped outside. I felt like I was still
floating and was very calm. My mind completely
serene from lack of senses. And then I stepped
down the stairs and into the subway and saw a man jacking off to the Bible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-7HMW6yfWjTbSZ2aKzuBtJAi5EgymVMzix45eS4UjQU5lq5L52PtbkESukrlnKnoLVj7NYmvuuLyOIFXXYJO9s4LtbsE4gDEqe58jYrp0Ect7ZAKwoCGhnaABJywxKEjYj9SPJ76JTXz/s1600/Camping+069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-7HMW6yfWjTbSZ2aKzuBtJAi5EgymVMzix45eS4UjQU5lq5L52PtbkESukrlnKnoLVj7NYmvuuLyOIFXXYJO9s4LtbsE4gDEqe58jYrp0Ect7ZAKwoCGhnaABJywxKEjYj9SPJ76JTXz/s640/Camping+069.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">I did not "come home"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-65212552820675256742015-08-31T10:48:00.001-07:002015-08-31T10:48:27.149-07:00Back in Uganda<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We packed into 1 Land Cruiser, 10 adults, 1 baby, for a 9
hour trip to Kitgum, 1 long and bumpy dirt road, 0 air-conditioning. Upon arriving, my hotel had no hot water and
no electricity. It’s a cup water, soap
up, splash-water-on-self kind of shower and a no fan night. I lay in my bed without a sheet, covered only
by a blanket of buzzing mosquitoes. A
rooster wakes me at 5 am and there is no hot water to make coffee. I get to work at 8:30 and wait for the
training which doesn’t start until 2 hours after it is supposed to. Remind me again why I left New York?<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I got off the plane in Uganda, I felt different. It felt different. I breathed in the thick air and didn’t feel
at home. I have only been in the US for
a month, I’ve visited home for that long before, but I guess, a part of me has
closed the door on Uganda. I met up with
friends and danced and drank but it was in an ecstatic way, the kind you reserve
for vacations. Not the kind of prudent,
I better not really let go because that guy at the bar is kind of cute and I
have to do my laundry tomorrow, kind of way.
(Just kidding I never did my own laundry in Kampala.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is the first trip I’ve made after having moved back to New
York. My contract says I will travel 45%
of my time to Uganda, and soon, Ethiopia and Liberia. Part of me wants so much more. I still want to work at a refugee camp doing
research on outbreaks, or to do emergency research on epidemics. But part of me wants so much less. I missed my friend’s wedding and I started to
date a really cute man.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I took a walk after work through the village. The sun was setting and damn beautiful. Nothing particularly profound occurred to
me. No eureka moment. But in this moment I was happy. So I guess we’ll see. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-26776154667054622022015-07-18T10:55:00.001-07:002015-07-18T10:55:10.264-07:00Jews for Jesus in Gulu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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While eating dinner at the hotel, in walks a rabbi. Very strange, I had never seen a Jewish man
adorned with a kippah and tzitzis in Uganda let alone in rural Uganda. He joined a table of people bent over bibles.
I moved my chicken a little closer. The
Rabbi ordered some fish and shared how he preached about the good lord Jesus
Christ today at a local Ugandan church.
I picked up my wine glass and joined their table because it was a Friday
night, in a town with no electricity, and this was too good.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Rabbi had his own TV show in Ohio and was traveling to
African countries to film and preach the word of Jesus. He was joined by 2 young (maybe early
twenties) camera handlers and an older man.
In Gulu, Uganda, I had found my very own Jews for Jesus. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Do you believe in the good lord’s word? Have you been saved?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“No, sorry guys. I’m an artificially inseminated, daughter of
lesbians, haver of pre-marital sex, approver of abortion, worshipper of no god,
true heir to the iron throne.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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“No I have not been saved.
But I’m open to the idea!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rabbi S believed that Jewish people are the chosen people,
Jesus was after all a Jew, but the bible doesn’t end with the Old Testament and
Jesus is our true lord and savior.
He’s a preacher with a yarmulke. A pastor with Chanukah. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I moved to the other side of the table, because the rabbi
kept putting his hand on my head and praying for me, and started talking to the
young cameraman. He was nice in a pasty,
long nailed sort of way and I talked with him for several hours. He had some very good points as long as we
stayed away from morality. But is where I always trip up when someone is trying
to convert me. I don’t have faith. I don’t believe in God, and I don’t have
faith.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I explained that to cameraman and he said, “Chelsea, just
come to the Crusade tomorrow night.
You’ll see miracles and then you’ll get faith.” (They thought it was ok to call it a Crusade? Yikes.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next night I take a boda to the Crusade Arena (…) and am
shocked to see Rabbi S on a stage overlooking tens of thousands of
Ugandans. And I’m not exaggerating. Tens of thousands. I walk through the crowd and take pictures
and videotape. The rabbi is being
translated by a Ugandan Pastor who shouts his words and stomps his feet. It was fun, like a Jewistian field day. People brought their kids and women were
selling roasted maize. And then it
started getting dark and Rabbi’s preaching took a darker tone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Homosexuality is the greatest sin and Obama is the
anti-christ!” The crowd clapped their hands and whooped. I felt a chill run down my spine. There was a lightning storm in the distance
and the clouds lit up over the faces. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHnlz2YYEebWwhtCnuVXdlleqJsusYSqM_AJLS1SXXVgEpsBCxppbY_43MiFfJcwzo06XGRXLHWqxFP_9wfNbHyAjpDnpPewEfuRh26rD4GNYeVA9hGTYqq5BsPFczqxJ1yY9U-JSEaiq/s1600/11073070_10106941630149351_9159738527833443766_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHnlz2YYEebWwhtCnuVXdlleqJsusYSqM_AJLS1SXXVgEpsBCxppbY_43MiFfJcwzo06XGRXLHWqxFP_9wfNbHyAjpDnpPewEfuRh26rD4GNYeVA9hGTYqq5BsPFczqxJ1yY9U-JSEaiq/s640/11073070_10106941630149351_9159738527833443766_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want you to put your hands on your head. I am going to bless you all now. Get RID of the evil spirits that reside
inside of you. Cast away the devil. Be free now!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8f7FyUCRkuaP4560xFPok9p7IEvRtK0loZAYBgw1IewGKX8BQOSeJwclRDGxAluCz288yiLeByZ6TcMJv-HoTIq5KYnJVDgp_g0ncvXHXbJExx-O1YNJMMELzGUuUWEjSmdKZRg1wASW/s1600/11234861_10106941630473701_1399284999844531431_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM8f7FyUCRkuaP4560xFPok9p7IEvRtK0loZAYBgw1IewGKX8BQOSeJwclRDGxAluCz288yiLeByZ6TcMJv-HoTIq5KYnJVDgp_g0ncvXHXbJExx-O1YNJMMELzGUuUWEjSmdKZRg1wASW/s640/11234861_10106941630473701_1399284999844531431_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman next to screamed and sank to the floor. Her arms and legs were writhing. People around her tied her hands and legs and
shouted at the devil inside of her “You shut up! You shut up!” And then another woman fell
down beside her. It was terrifying. I
kept filming. I pushed through the crowd
and walked right onto the stage. I was
staring at thousands of faces completely enraptured by the man next to me. A young girl was brought up onto the stage
who was foaming at the mouth, her eyes rolling back into her head. This girl was having a seizure.
The rabbi comes up to me “This is how it all happens in the book of
Acts. Women falling down screaming,
having seizures.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/bvzj_tZyCMI/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bvzj_tZyCMI?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went home freaked out, the women still screaming in my
head. What was that? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I opened the Bible. I
put down the Bible. I opened up
Google. I was most interested in that young
girl who was foaming at the mouth and having a seizure. How is that possible? Is there such a thing as a psychological
seizure? Google’s not super helpful on
the matter but I did find this: <a href="http://www.macalester.edu/academics/psychology/whathap/ubnrp/tle09/Religiosity.html">http://www.macalester.edu/academics/psychology/whathap/ubnrp/tle09/Religiosity.html</a>
Temporal Lobe seizure, a seizure invoked by a strong emotional reaction
controlled by the temporal lobe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cameraman was wrong.
The Crusade did not bring me faith.
I am not a Jew for Jesus. Or
Jewish. Or Jesus. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But damn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-40129826255581899302015-07-15T13:43:00.000-07:002015-07-15T13:43:12.855-07:00Ebola<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were given 72 hours to leave to pack a bag and fly across
the world and fight Ebola. When they got
there, the disease was already rampant.
Traditional burial practices and fear had made this disease spread
faster than anyone had ever imagined and they had to hit the ground
sprinting. An alphabet of NGO acronyms
competed to put their letters on the isolation tents and the efforts were
disjointed and competitive. Their task
wasn’t just to move in and cure Ebola. They
had to figure out how to change the behavior of burial practices so people
would not wash the dead before burying. They
had to work with anthropologists to connect with traditional healers and to
learn about community practices. They
had to figure out how to set up isolation units when people feared that they
would get Ebola if they went to them.
They had to teach local staff how to properly put on and take off
protective equipment so that they would not infect themselves. How do you turn over beds when Ebola has such
a long infectious period? How do you motivate health workers to come to work when their peers are dying from the disease all around them?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend talked of a major spread in one of her villages in
Sierra Leone because two gang members got into a bloody fight. One died in the
fight and the other contracted Ebola from blood contact. He went into hiding because he was now
running from murder. In the process he
infected hundreds of people and would not surrender to the hospital for fear of
being jailed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now the questions are, how do you prevent a future outbreak
if we do not know the animal reservoir?
And what are the long term effects the disease on Ebola survivors? What about how we know Ebola can stay in the
semen but we have no data on how long it lasts for? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-39686823701124795962015-06-19T02:59:00.000-07:002015-06-19T03:08:30.558-07:00Rock Climbing in Railay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked Krabi, Thailand for my vacation because of the
world famous rock climbing on the nearby island of Railay. It was perfect, I could spend 2 days
luxuriating at the spa resort, listening to my new favorite thing in the world:
Serial, and one day climbing limestone cliffs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up at 7:30 and took a car to the dock. My driver, Ali, told me his story. In 2004, when the Tsunami hit Thailand, Ali
was out on his boat. He saw the wave
coming. The first wave he rode on his
boat but the second pulled him and the boat into the middle of the sea. It took him 2 days in a leaky boat to make it
back to shore. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whether or not he was telling the truth was irrelevant. Although the city was mostly built back up,
the wave was still present in everyone’s eyes.
Signs warned that you are in a tsunami zone and to please seek higher
ground. If I die in a tsunami, I’ll be
furious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I boarded the wooden boat and sat between a girl with a
Hello Kitty cat headband and a Thai man with dreadlocks and tattoos of
Buddha. The plank from boat to beach was
made of old water jugs strung together.
I joined a small ground and guide and we walked through a few beaches
before stopping at our rock. A sky high
limestone face that jutted in to little caves and out into arching
overhangs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it was my turn to hook in, I ran up an easy wall,
stretching out my muscles and warming up my hands. Some of my holds were literally
stalactites. I summited in a cave at the
top and gave myself a second to look down at the blue green water and the
inselbergs that looked like a tectonic plate collide had just made them. I repelled down making sure not to swing into
a cave. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRdkvrfqqVXGbhEaXlNgJOBcX2MwggFIH0TyqS1zSvzrvTT0VzDhMNfrQsMQ5NkX4JZZnsKGfdhHwOZscch5XDrKtezdn_06Rs4lRF6NZEUO8KQHfMq69yL9HQr_gqsojt5hNQpZX7u8Ss/s1600/Bangkok+132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRdkvrfqqVXGbhEaXlNgJOBcX2MwggFIH0TyqS1zSvzrvTT0VzDhMNfrQsMQ5NkX4JZZnsKGfdhHwOZscch5XDrKtezdn_06Rs4lRF6NZEUO8KQHfMq69yL9HQr_gqsojt5hNQpZX7u8Ss/s640/Bangkok+132.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mY1GKbzLome6E6gn59hPGJ9bUZMma6aMBAoovX23pa7AUlQ1D6LnmJuuC3079nWmyODn_Fx2B5gUT75zarTa8vfGXi4GplVoScgsR3Li6GriIUY2nA9wDMcWmtAIvpsxQZsEjTlHOGHe/s1600/Bangkok+227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5mY1GKbzLome6E6gn59hPGJ9bUZMma6aMBAoovX23pa7AUlQ1D6LnmJuuC3079nWmyODn_Fx2B5gUT75zarTa8vfGXi4GplVoScgsR3Li6GriIUY2nA9wDMcWmtAIvpsxQZsEjTlHOGHe/s640/Bangkok+227.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A crowd had formed where we were climbing and I felt like a
rock (climbing) star. I climbed until
the sun made the rocks hot to touch and I was told I had time for one more
climb. This one had a cave right a the
beginning. You had to hoist yourself
onto a platform above your head with very few footholds before. No way could I do that: essentially a pull up
then push up mid air. I squirmed and
wriggled, then blanked my mind, breathed deep and did it. Unbelievable adrenaline rush. And this is why I do this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of the climb I had to chimney up this cave crack
which was fun. I looked down at my guide
belayer and saw he didn’t have his hands on the rope and was deep in
conversation with the friend next to him.
Comforting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqk8cUH28ljsbPy-Lr2ju8_KxpdjIORiff7fPiQ9Kd0mX6ujmyUH4UYVlDyrMxE8NxpcmC0_7knMVpG8gTUeQencV4FV77Rf4YzJABHWBhhGHS0O7YU4UmjxXuHYjNDabEjwapWNFvROho/s1600/Bangkok+257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqk8cUH28ljsbPy-Lr2ju8_KxpdjIORiff7fPiQ9Kd0mX6ujmyUH4UYVlDyrMxE8NxpcmC0_7knMVpG8gTUeQencV4FV77Rf4YzJABHWBhhGHS0O7YU4UmjxXuHYjNDabEjwapWNFvROho/s640/Bangkok+257.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">No hands.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the climb I found this blonde Adonis of a shirtless
German man and watched him climb to “learn his techniques”. What?!?!
But I was getting hungry (Food > Man) so I packed up my hormones and
looked for a place for lunch. Along the
way I saw a sign : This Way to the Viewpoint and Lagoon. “Oh cool, I have time for this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The path started easily enough, slippery but relatively flat
except for a few boulders you had to climb over. Then the trail was like “Sucker! Climb this!”
and I had to climb a high vertical, grabbing onto ropes to not slip down. I reached the view point out of breath,
looked around for a sec, took a picture, and saw another sign “Shortcut to
Lagoon”. Cool, might as well, I got this
far. The trail slopes down and now I am
holding the ropes to walk down over steep rocks. I keep passing people on the way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Am I close?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not really.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the trail took a turn for impossible and I was now
climbing down vertical, slippery rocks with just a rope and a few unreliable
grips. I did this down many cliffs, one
of which I had to climb through hole in a cave.
Flip flops from failed tourists littered the ground like forgotten
dreams. I saw a few hikers climbing back
up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s worth it, you can do it, keep going!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks! …fuckyou.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An hour, so many bruises, I reached the lagoon. It was very silent except for birds echoing
between the walls of the valley and up into the blue circle of sky above. I was the only one there. I lay in the water on my back and looked up
serenely until I crashed my leg into a rock and cut it open. Which, of course.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_ltZFWiVkOgCVINQE2FYf9CXK8MrgYtmRn1CvD7ch9qx_fQ5qsdxkaOqj21NSm0lf_QqTEMAebhlzqkkdhcS4LgH1YQfvhYQb5pk4RaC02OK-fpn2o33UA1SrcFaMRrv-rsgyqEsH-Cl/s1600/Bangkok+274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_ltZFWiVkOgCVINQE2FYf9CXK8MrgYtmRn1CvD7ch9qx_fQ5qsdxkaOqj21NSm0lf_QqTEMAebhlzqkkdhcS4LgH1YQfvhYQb5pk4RaC02OK-fpn2o33UA1SrcFaMRrv-rsgyqEsH-Cl/s640/Bangkok+274.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Viewpoint</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFN4i7uXuJWcvYTDjJ0dzrMFkh0w6WBK2KICbCvEVXvGtzkgM46myYE6jW2rmsVKO01Y6LAQfQOggaH1KcvqCVI3CR7Vx8_ViGFZdwOgYpTD4KKwivSdmcttSe8tiIEhUvxiRrWzWMDKF/s1600/Bangkok+275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFN4i7uXuJWcvYTDjJ0dzrMFkh0w6WBK2KICbCvEVXvGtzkgM46myYE6jW2rmsVKO01Y6LAQfQOggaH1KcvqCVI3CR7Vx8_ViGFZdwOgYpTD4KKwivSdmcttSe8tiIEhUvxiRrWzWMDKF/s640/Bangkok+275.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ropes down to the Lagoon</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJWFtzK3wwvx9OyT4GqzGH2rloNKN7ZDchnuxaVLr7LoH1ANPcqLlGzKBgXriTt3UvJJIVgs_XsFUK7RORXItXXn3rahvYY9NhkqGZ91TKlnJLb2dl8LON0hXIoS1QwEVRufakWVGl653/s1600/Bangkok+277.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJWFtzK3wwvx9OyT4GqzGH2rloNKN7ZDchnuxaVLr7LoH1ANPcqLlGzKBgXriTt3UvJJIVgs_XsFUK7RORXItXXn3rahvYY9NhkqGZ91TKlnJLb2dl8LON0hXIoS1QwEVRufakWVGl653/s640/Bangkok+277.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Lagoon</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I climbed back out of the lagoon and literally pulled myself
back up the walls. When I rain into a
couple in flip flops who asked how much longer, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’ll be fine, you can do it!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Covered in mud, I drank two coconuts and made it back just
in time for the last boat.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-65648162034354470232015-05-31T06:02:00.000-07:002015-05-31T06:02:19.904-07:00Love and Thailand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
My work has been non-stop.
We’re in the field from 6am to 6pm running around in the bleeding heat,
thrashing between tall grass to get to households, only to come home, analyze
the data, have a debrief call and plan for tomorrow. But this isn’t a post about my work. (There will be a post on that later.) This is a post about how I currently find
myself on another bizarre adventure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was invited to a conference in Bangkok, so naturally, I
realized this was the perfect excuse to spend a few days detoxing from my field
work and deep cleaning my feet from swamp.
(I literally had to cross a swamp to get to one household. More on that later.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fly from Uganda to Bangkok and then straight to the beach town of
Krabi. I ask to see the travel book from
a guy next to me on the plane and
quickly read up about the place. I did 0
research except pick a hotel and realize that there is good rock climbing
nearby. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been to Bangkok before. Traveled here when I was 22, stayed in a
hotel that had no hot water and was rented by the hour, and explored the red
light district with a man I had just met:
<a href="http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2011/12/red-bangkok.html">http://chelseatosea.blogspot.com/2011/12/red-bangkok.html</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This wasn’t going to be like that time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hotel I picked is unreal. Elephant statues spitting water, little
pretty women always turning up with cold towels and shots of guava juice, 6
pools, and a view of the cliff beach. I
smooth talk/hustle ?Smustle?, my way into getting a room with a Jacuzzi tub. The room has its own porch, and a Jacuzzi in
the freaking bathroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel so clever and pretty and even though I keep having to
check in with work, well rested. Until I
get to the restaurant and realize, I’m not wearing any clothes. Or rather I’m the only single person around
for miles and miles. Couples of all
nationalities sit near me, holding hands, kissing in the pool, cheersing to
their honeymoon/wedding/anniversary/affair.
And I’m alone. So I order a drink
and call Valerie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why the hell are you not here.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I invited her but she couldn’t join me because she’s
going to Rwanda or some shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m stuck at home with Giardia or something. I can’t move.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Serves you right. I
have a Jacuzzi tub damnit, and no one to share it with.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What was just before a dream vacation was now tainted by all
the loving whispers all around me. I
start to make flirty eyes with the waiter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I heard one couple say “I can’t believe we’re here
honey, all this planning, I love you so much.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All this planning? I
jumped on a plane and barely knew what I was doing until I landed. How ridiculous am I? How could I wish it to be any different? Why would I want to be that couple?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope our adventure will be right in the middle of all the
others we will make for ourselves. And
when we look back on our honeymoon, at the amazing time we stayed on the
beaches of Thailand, we’ll laugh and wonder “which time was that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtBpeeSuefoZNqbnRN8tkS9a2VE0mnMI2tXnh4ea1RILHNvQGFBR57GQodnoosjN8DMcWfez17B0Q2C1vao36sN-Lt9udfmH27g9a0JELw3vvf43O-Fsj9WQqSUSTX9yH2FfFWu2HmegV/s1600/IMG_3162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtBpeeSuefoZNqbnRN8tkS9a2VE0mnMI2tXnh4ea1RILHNvQGFBR57GQodnoosjN8DMcWfez17B0Q2C1vao36sN-Lt9udfmH27g9a0JELw3vvf43O-Fsj9WQqSUSTX9yH2FfFWu2HmegV/s640/IMG_3162.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cheers</span></td></tr>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-79286644404844323192015-05-13T07:28:00.002-07:002015-05-13T07:28:33.637-07:00Gorillas in my Midst<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The thing left to do in Uganda was to see the gorillas. The thing I was told about when I first
firstly first got to Uganda and the thing I was told I could not leave before
doing. </div>
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I know about the gorillas.
I watched Gorillas In the Mist. I
wanted to be Dian Fossey. The Gorilla
exhibit was my favorite part of the Bronx Zoo.</div>
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So I gathered up my partner in travel, Val, from Tanzania, joined
together with 4 other women friends and went to the Impenetrable Forest
bordering the Congo to see them. </div>
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There are only around 700 gorillas remaining in the world
and they are only found in two places: in the Virunga Volcanoes of Rwanda, Uganda and
the Congo, and in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest in Uganda.</div>
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Our car tilted on the
large cavern that separated us and the forest.
We carried our packs and walked, with armed guides, down the almost
vertical wall into the canyon. My legs
shook and I fell an obscene number of times.</div>
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And then there, just
ahead in the clearing, just casually loping along was a family of gorillas. My breath caught and I started to cry. But quickly pulled my shit together to take
the following pictures. The rest of the
journey we whispered to ecstatically to each other, thrilled and terrified that
they might charge us. There was a 1 year
old baby and an infant in the family and 2 silverbacks. Valerie and I gripped each other as one of
the gorillas brushed my leg. Please see
video for proof.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXxsN2QsxGeHMPyz4MhruMSXfWH78l9x7qI2xCKDBX5fV12azA2dfujbuIVQCZTwsVg6Ibn3nc9S9TqeVPm-6_yH5mBryv9_ilL8F_MRIN7UHEolMjqmlsYjiBz9XUvx1GjCJwHlWiQTv/s1600/Gorillas+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHXxsN2QsxGeHMPyz4MhruMSXfWH78l9x7qI2xCKDBX5fV12azA2dfujbuIVQCZTwsVg6Ibn3nc9S9TqeVPm-6_yH5mBryv9_ilL8F_MRIN7UHEolMjqmlsYjiBz9XUvx1GjCJwHlWiQTv/s640/Gorillas+002.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">My first sight of the gorillas in the clearing</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBno2Zxte3jBuDKuP9NsCgQW4j7sxNTTVdQ6HDhq4dF-0XPZzfEi1bKii8BkBgoGjrixz0M_6PcOBuGoa2iCD-12VB9uvrewIPxqv40oEhcj0RjjdSObMq-b3DHBjA_SROW4dxZA4A5bR7/s1600/Gorillas+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBno2Zxte3jBuDKuP9NsCgQW4j7sxNTTVdQ6HDhq4dF-0XPZzfEi1bKii8BkBgoGjrixz0M_6PcOBuGoa2iCD-12VB9uvrewIPxqv40oEhcj0RjjdSObMq-b3DHBjA_SROW4dxZA4A5bR7/s640/Gorillas+003.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of the brothers</span></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL84B61yhfYcaRebnOwgmBX_Y6PmAbb0L-VI3qSMSH57FJCBr_Zfzl9B84wAMmz2hAucISFuH49MC3fqCbqdWNEmDk-4T8Jjiz7ta22Ypkd-PJHzSesMHLaFFHkPCGgiEgG_yX2xK7i4sz/s1600/Gorillas+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL84B61yhfYcaRebnOwgmBX_Y6PmAbb0L-VI3qSMSH57FJCBr_Zfzl9B84wAMmz2hAucISFuH49MC3fqCbqdWNEmDk-4T8Jjiz7ta22Ypkd-PJHzSesMHLaFFHkPCGgiEgG_yX2xK7i4sz/s640/Gorillas+012.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The non-leading silverback</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcXw6fHS2OObEvHMDltwSGjJemmk_cXMlwuFDxUsSAuQXC-1e8KpABL6YBG9Yg5LBqHPUZ08MUD609lIhd9-wmNgWa3nANz78_aIDicB6vv4A64Qg_QPnBqGvNubFON1FS6zt9H9m8Wz5/s1600/Gorillas+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcXw6fHS2OObEvHMDltwSGjJemmk_cXMlwuFDxUsSAuQXC-1e8KpABL6YBG9Yg5LBqHPUZ08MUD609lIhd9-wmNgWa3nANz78_aIDicB6vv4A64Qg_QPnBqGvNubFON1FS6zt9H9m8Wz5/s640/Gorillas+025.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The gorilla family</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpNUaqTFVw5ePu5DmnFcVvDT1qagudANzBwYQ6BslufLXZGhqQgQTpYftSLyXvzw4iPnZpCxKBV3LdPjxl85VHX54VsYTvn-jU0J1QFx1h7vGMTXw1TLn-RxY7bvHa3UT6tkg2WkJ5T1s/s1600/Gorillas+032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrpNUaqTFVw5ePu5DmnFcVvDT1qagudANzBwYQ6BslufLXZGhqQgQTpYftSLyXvzw4iPnZpCxKBV3LdPjxl85VHX54VsYTvn-jU0J1QFx1h7vGMTXw1TLn-RxY7bvHa3UT6tkg2WkJ5T1s/s640/Gorillas+032.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thinking Man/Gorilla</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgViOzNgQ_vfGM05hX8b2cQOTqxblOf-D25U_GIILZn6ARKJhGuS4qqSqiWKG0HfK-IfMAAi1mFPDi2d1PozC3havIQ5H_hc89p-Bo-EoprqUowMT2Q58AiDSQx7SKOZ8X7edG1uD3TtfEZ/s1600/Gorillas+034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgViOzNgQ_vfGM05hX8b2cQOTqxblOf-D25U_GIILZn6ARKJhGuS4qqSqiWKG0HfK-IfMAAi1mFPDi2d1PozC3havIQ5H_hc89p-Bo-EoprqUowMT2Q58AiDSQx7SKOZ8X7edG1uD3TtfEZ/s640/Gorillas+034.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mother with her infant</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93S_Qv2cXp8CNbMt9AnZPyJVlTnaFS2Sezw3eLKdmRC3TgjIL6Jjdu8pRBigKEPhln0qK1fSFL9SgJoZzfPBen34eYIlqOilRiiI4dS6-5W_kWnT8wV07JWi3Cg8hmOJITDYVDjq-973T/s640/Gorillas+039.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Baby playing with his brother</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj93S_Qv2cXp8CNbMt9AnZPyJVlTnaFS2Sezw3eLKdmRC3TgjIL6Jjdu8pRBigKEPhln0qK1fSFL9SgJoZzfPBen34eYIlqOilRiiI4dS6-5W_kWnT8wV07JWi3Cg8hmOJITDYVDjq-973T/s1600/Gorillas+039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3f-Mmx9mr5M9lf3dtCV2YmMEKNSbXBcxaYiZ_xbwcmNBG5Js6eW1_h1PQRsRkFxNm9bDDAfzfFsr9kDkaAOX5N1fooQsyPVWI-UvhoBjOjvvDpAtkQOgl8yiUbbb-KRCS1vzbPzsAwQ2/s1600/Gorillas+041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin3f-Mmx9mr5M9lf3dtCV2YmMEKNSbXBcxaYiZ_xbwcmNBG5Js6eW1_h1PQRsRkFxNm9bDDAfzfFsr9kDkaAOX5N1fooQsyPVWI-UvhoBjOjvvDpAtkQOgl8yiUbbb-KRCS1vzbPzsAwQ2/s640/Gorillas+041.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xUopQgukbT5ovWaMsvsh2fVR2JDaPH88T3z4NFTMCj-v0iaVlP5YWrGgkO0hqDqW1tHuNtvKanNtc02u1jzEFLjP-r2nyOBiEtknm8iF4azweQDyK6TTKkvPW2Egxay0iF28LCioktHV/s1600/Gorillas+042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xUopQgukbT5ovWaMsvsh2fVR2JDaPH88T3z4NFTMCj-v0iaVlP5YWrGgkO0hqDqW1tHuNtvKanNtc02u1jzEFLjP-r2nyOBiEtknm8iF4azweQDyK6TTKkvPW2Egxay0iF28LCioktHV/s640/Gorillas+042.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Casual.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMW477KUhMydKH3uVLiIrpnQCQUV5dceNo0zuTEhfdueK_ZwJ3PR4nTjR4BV-ZxzKdWz6E-4KXOyHQqabZVficXNTCsnq5Y75iAUqkBQPypBLDXiCFrweJaV_ZW_9yWq8Q22n1xpOObm2/s1600/Gorillas+044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnMW477KUhMydKH3uVLiIrpnQCQUV5dceNo0zuTEhfdueK_ZwJ3PR4nTjR4BV-ZxzKdWz6E-4KXOyHQqabZVficXNTCsnq5Y75iAUqkBQPypBLDXiCFrweJaV_ZW_9yWq8Q22n1xpOObm2/s640/Gorillas+044.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Head silverback</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSCd-yTDfoguQINVgUSw6AGyY69l_LqxdKWbegUifKHZdlUAkkfRQiqaxFVssGuZUVlqeo0TW4CSnkqVv1neIRzClzwS39w-na1XJ7Ed1YVidHaYLIudx6DB7p88tpioJh99kDmoiYZhj/s1600/Gorillas+046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSCd-yTDfoguQINVgUSw6AGyY69l_LqxdKWbegUifKHZdlUAkkfRQiqaxFVssGuZUVlqeo0TW4CSnkqVv1neIRzClzwS39w-na1XJ7Ed1YVidHaYLIudx6DB7p88tpioJh99kDmoiYZhj/s640/Gorillas+046.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Baby!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8FSucLViPJRG-krOTFogYhKXRHrBs_aV5JEOFQ8ngGSFOC7TbTvT-WrmYrdswFLZpLbr0IxKb3mgf1SllONdHx0TfGimfPIs12eH2PBWsLZMuBfwb4I0y2VZhQuT-WJATh4Qo8NiSl1V/s1600/Gorillas+059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU8FSucLViPJRG-krOTFogYhKXRHrBs_aV5JEOFQ8ngGSFOC7TbTvT-WrmYrdswFLZpLbr0IxKb3mgf1SllONdHx0TfGimfPIs12eH2PBWsLZMuBfwb4I0y2VZhQuT-WJATh4Qo8NiSl1V/s640/Gorillas+059.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">WARRIORS</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcOTH0J6e6eKtbPl-3NAo-wQYCjhoYKvqJF-3Qz-W6f5Ym_VmtfATMVjcR3EZBepohYAcGMGB7L1g3bFbpmcVX-WjNYN0nw42EEGTP0UQNEfl8_UyObsC8LjafYcj5spXUdrNkfBvThSw/s1600/Gorillas+071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRcOTH0J6e6eKtbPl-3NAo-wQYCjhoYKvqJF-3Qz-W6f5Ym_VmtfATMVjcR3EZBepohYAcGMGB7L1g3bFbpmcVX-WjNYN0nw42EEGTP0UQNEfl8_UyObsC8LjafYcj5spXUdrNkfBvThSw/s640/Gorillas+071.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Impenetrable Forest</span></td></tr>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/MQUh0ZJbmVs/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MQUh0ZJbmVs?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7349432448729154384.post-61900371260150185892015-04-03T05:51:00.001-07:002015-04-03T05:51:38.692-07:00Tax Soul Suck<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm generally pretty proud of myself. I work hard, fill my life with interesting people who like spending time with me, go on many adventures. I'm exactly who I want to be at 26. But when it comes time to do my taxes every year, I dread it. Taxes make you take stock of the very tangible things that I do not have to show for myself.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxcy9F5AsUL2ldIrqT-KAIiFxBB32T3VoJQ6Xj2bLaafeWLEEaH6KH0dGiCY0pbloEFFfe3CZJgKqSi1kPQ1-G7bX-j9VyzjY2fXVUXNbgm4EJHhbwGvgUkcJKzTO76LJZulIElH8JxLo/s1600/Holland+Park+014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVxcy9F5AsUL2ldIrqT-KAIiFxBB32T3VoJQ6Xj2bLaafeWLEEaH6KH0dGiCY0pbloEFFfe3CZJgKqSi1kPQ1-G7bX-j9VyzjY2fXVUXNbgm4EJHhbwGvgUkcJKzTO76LJZulIElH8JxLo/s1600/Holland+Park+014.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah thanks, I'm well aware.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFkT5UqrnCfvgudJBN9-t943hH_WzUMdYRRvMxvjvTUaHZUp2RI2NOm2irgi4ECSm4us_RzzXeVdlSFxdpZCZ6gvfe6dvST_-6k9fVUBXskjUOKRU5aMlgkQHAQKLFqg8b4SDN3CDddoN7/s1600/Holland+Park+015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFkT5UqrnCfvgudJBN9-t943hH_WzUMdYRRvMxvjvTUaHZUp2RI2NOm2irgi4ECSm4us_RzzXeVdlSFxdpZCZ6gvfe6dvST_-6k9fVUBXskjUOKRU5aMlgkQHAQKLFqg8b4SDN3CDddoN7/s1600/Holland+Park+015.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">No investments</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmLUj-bb6HHvvRPFd8kNmt1P1Th9GYoP8Zxos_vaR0bbzyl1p_Jm_Ijk9S_NAGlkX8v9DhW3ClOjuc98PCj42HXLSFge8FMgATnvfNpg6-8JV7pJKopd6Zt-S-nS44ckmfvfS6iZ-GYfU/s1600/Holland+Park+016.JPG" height="480" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">NO property</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But I went to 6 countries in 2014?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Started my dream job?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Am happier than I've been in years?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But yeah, no, I don't have any dependents.</span></div>
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Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14585643104445468126noreply@blogger.com1