tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4203798176379287602024-03-21T13:10:24.172-04:00kristi columbustrivial musings about going places and doing thingskristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-73903654188348008442011-08-22T18:37:00.006-04:002011-08-22T19:12:52.773-04:00better luck next time, columbus.<div>After accepting the fact that I'd be chained to a desk in a gray office all summer long, I found solace in the fact that my boss brought up sending me away for training at some point. Oh, training: a week-long, 9 to 5 gig, where I'd be chained to a desk...but only in a different location. The idea made me happy. </div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>First, they tried to send me to Columbia, South Carolina. "Awesome," I thought. I have a friend who lives in North Carolina, maybe he could drive down and meet me. No such luck. After I signed up for the course, I couldn't find a flight, so I was sent back to square one. All right, the next training was in Steubenville, Ohio. "Awesome," my boss tried to convince me, "The birthplace of Dean Martin!" As much as I have a particular affinity for the Rat Pack, the thought of Steubenville didn't thrill me. Then, I found out about the flight--New York to Boston to Pittsburg to..wait, a second. You mean I have to get off a plane in Pennsylvania then find a taxi driver who is willing to take me across state lines in a 50 mile cab ride to Ohio? I don't think so. </div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Luck suddenly hit me. The business trip gods suddenly smiled upon me. The next training session happened to be hosted by, get this, WEST PALM BEACH. It was a miracle. It was a twist of fate. It was my big break. Here I am stuck in an overly air conditioned, windowless office that has furniture duller than my high school charcoal drawing set, and my boss is offering to send me on a week long, all expense paid trip to West Palm Beach. I booked the flight, I booked the hotel, I even booked a taxi to take me from point a to point b. I packed my suitcase--half business clothes, half swimwear--and I was all set to embark on my first adventure since returning from South America in the spring.</div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Until I wasn't.</div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Yesterday, a few hours before I was about to leave, as I was jumping into the tub to take a pre-departure shower, my phone dinged, notifying me of an email. (I know what you're thinking, but yes, I'm one of those weirdos that brings her phone into the bathroom with her.) I opened the email from JetBlue and began to weep. My flight had been cancelled.</div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>WHAT?</div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>I called JetBlue. I called Delta. I called whoever flew from New York to Florida and wasn't a bird or a military aircraft. I Expedia-ed, Travelocity-ed, and Googled. I cried, I screamed, I begged. "Please help me! I need to get to Florida!" I pleaded with the agent on the other end of the line. Delta offered me a $500 one way ticked from LaGuardia to Fort Lauderdale. Not quite where I'm starting nor where I'm suppose to end up--and it leaves in 40 minutes? Sorry, can't do that. Newark to Boston to Orlando? Now that's really not where I'm starting, nor where I'm ending. The earliest you can get me to Palm Beach is Wednesday?! What do you mean you're all booked?! Who are these hoards of people and why are they getting to Palm Beach and I'm not?!</div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>I texted my boss. Apologized to the poor soul(s) who had to deal with me on the phone, then began my mass cancelling. Called the hotel, cancel. The taxi, cancel. The insurance on my trip, cancel. I left voicemails for my training--sorry, the I have to cancel. My summer of no travel went to the summer of insanely awesome travel to summer of no travel once again. Sigh.</div><div> </div><div>
<br /></div><div>But at least today is Monday, which means I can live vicariously through Anthony Bourdain on the travel channel. </div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-14111370439841716952011-03-28T09:57:00.008-04:002011-03-28T16:24:33.012-04:00unBOLIVIAble<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRuA5eqsgHGGQhxfFHT9ezmig7BM8WdS5GegkhGgaFZOG4mJCx4J6Kejk0GzjkneoI6LimAvviY9fv7LLESeXDxjUQ4TDzyiarSTi__5POVqC_gXj52IBayLSo5Tm26RaQ1UJoV4T5mx2v/s1600/k.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589132196925062034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRuA5eqsgHGGQhxfFHT9ezmig7BM8WdS5GegkhGgaFZOG4mJCx4J6Kejk0GzjkneoI6LimAvviY9fv7LLESeXDxjUQ4TDzyiarSTi__5POVqC_gXj52IBayLSo5Tm26RaQ1UJoV4T5mx2v/s320/k.bmp" /></a> <br /><div>"How long are you staying in Cochabamba?" Asked the shoeshine man. "You can't leave now," he said. "Look. I brought this just for you." He held out a can of cordovan shoe polish. It must have cost him a day's wages, and for a moment I had a vision of myself forced to stay in Cochabamba until the polish ran out. And then perhaps he would buy another can, and I would be compelled to stay even longer." </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><em>In Bolivia,</em> by Eric Lawlor </div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It is really hard to believe that my time in this country is coming to an end. I feel like I have not been here long at all. Maybe four weeks isn't that long of a time in the grand scheme of things, but usually by week three spent away from home, I start to lose my mind. The only time in the past 28 days that I've wanted to be somewhere else other than where I was, was when I was sitting on the cold, white examination table in the Clinica Los Olivos, awaiting my examination. (And in reality, if I were in a hospital in New York, I wouldn't want to be there either.) </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Bolivia is unlike anything I've seen before, but at the same time, it feels so familiar that I never really want to leave. Since the very first night, I've dreamed in Spanish and since the very first morning, never did I wake up not realizing what hemisphere I was in. I have absorbed as much of this country as I could in the time I have and in turn, it has given me stories, photos, memories, and inspiration. I have learned to navegate the chaotic transport system of Cochabamba, braved the bumpy (lack of) roads from one city to another, learned to love potatoes (at every meal), and overcame a terrifying tropical illness. I don't want to leave this country because it has become a part of me. I have Taquiña in my veins and Cumbia in my soul And really, Bolivia is unbelievable (un<strong>bolivia</strong>ble).</div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-48022141817047913252011-03-24T11:10:00.015-04:002011-03-24T11:59:04.357-04:00Quillacollo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xQLHqIfOK6sGc_HOvd9b5RAEYOlZ0-7wC1sAMEitz0D2-SLVyi3mX3HFVyuuqYsaqnlXsROKm7uFCtklLVF_I9-iTtDFQuCKbMbcIN8vVRZ3YqgEuoJ6SxXSjg1ILvLekJKb3fad9eUF/s1600/bolivia.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587664350647338626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xQLHqIfOK6sGc_HOvd9b5RAEYOlZ0-7wC1sAMEitz0D2-SLVyi3mX3HFVyuuqYsaqnlXsROKm7uFCtklLVF_I9-iTtDFQuCKbMbcIN8vVRZ3YqgEuoJ6SxXSjg1ILvLekJKb3fad9eUF/s320/bolivia.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><em>Women lining up to receive water and other supplies after the massive floods that hit Quillacollo, a municipality to the west of Cochabamba.</em></div><div><br />As I've said before, when you're walking down the leafy streets of Cochabamba, it's very easy to forget where you really are. With rolling, verdant hills and large, ornate (and when I say ornate, I really mean mafia-style...you know what I mean) homes, Cadillacs and Mercedes Benzes, you might as well be in Staten Island. (Seriously!) There is a lot of money that comes through Cochabamba, one, because of the intense legal commerce (electronics, clothing) that goes on--and we know money always makes money--and two, unfortunately, because of the illicit commerse that goes on. Ever seen Scarface? <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Scarface_characters#Alejandro_Sosa">Alejandro Sosa</a> counts the city as his provenance.<br /></div><div>Bolivia? A poor country, no way. It's way nicer than Argentina, the Dominican, wherever. Come on, I have hot water in my shower and my internet works! The point is, that, up until my trip to Quillacollo, to me, this country did not really represent the Latin America I've known.<br /><br />Quillacollo is an hour bus ride outside the city limits and is known for its devout Catholicism and various religious festivals that occur throughout the year. We didn't visit the area with hopes of attending a festival or a party; we visited to bring water, clothes, and any supplies we could muster on very short notice. This season has been particularly rainy for the province and many homes could not withstand the immense inundations that result. Over 3,000 families have been left homeless or with homes that are virtually inhabitable. (This being said, most families are comprised of 5-7 people.) These people, who already have very little, have been left with nothing. And although there exists a sort of Bolivian red-cross and a FEMA-like agency, the government was only able to provide a handful of tents and very few bottles of water to the population. Most of the Quillacollans are hanging on by a thread, dehydrated and packed like sardines in government-issued, temporary lodging. </div><div><br /> </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587669448524625106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEice2GMymnpwN9PTHOW2ieVJmHzuseyF_JItSPfbwRXiKiJuNjMYIrZ3XDO5HMLvL-TJ_p-0UMCGFonLSj5gw49PMnuvM8Pvy0GY5CHIFYektOtRxSw8xhDk30erAxWDfkfd-5O8lhvTHsP/s320/bolivia.jpg" /><br /><p align="center"><em>A home destroyed by flooding in Quillacollo</em><br /></p><p>So, we went, brought our tools, and tried to make the best of a dire situation. Some came armed with liters of water; some, pajamas; some, baby shoes, and one girl, from Japan and who is probably still mourning the drama in her own country, brought paper. Paper? These people need clothing and food and liquids and she brings paper? Let me tell you that this wasn't any paper, this wasn't generic lined looseleaf or bright white computer paper, the paper that belonged to the Japanese girl was small, square, and multi-colored. I once heard a story about a psychologist who treated victims of the Cambodian genocide and was bracing herself to talk endlessly about the pain and suffering that the people underwent. After meeting the survivors, however, she was completely surprised that they barely wanted to talk about the aches of war, but rather their personal drama, seemingly petty things--like, who went out with so and so's boyfriend and who is gaining too much weight. Gossip. Fun. Chit-chat. Here we are, a group of seemingly wealthy foreigners (or at least wealthy enough to pay for an extended trip to a third world country) preoccupied with supplies and practical items. And here is the Japanese girl, a girl who cannot return to her country because of radioactivity, bringing paper for what reason? To teach the children origami. </p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHBE2HzfE7M-bkCMZ83zvI4ddTJENY7H8z3xnVvODp-EOln7KgxvS4zQpjXt8iWy-x4O5Cv_HhKyDlVvRwogi34WtCHQuclfCSXle9LUAGcVOiPcuRTHkX_6bMbmlDWeVcScEyVYEVYyP/s1600/bolivia.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587676321269475762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHBE2HzfE7M-bkCMZ83zvI4ddTJENY7H8z3xnVvODp-EOln7KgxvS4zQpjXt8iWy-x4O5Cv_HhKyDlVvRwogi34WtCHQuclfCSXle9LUAGcVOiPcuRTHkX_6bMbmlDWeVcScEyVYEVYyP/s320/bolivia.jpg" /></a><br /><p>Suddenly, a crowd of several hundred desolate faces burst into smiles. These brightly colored little papers began to take the form of lotus flowers, cranes, and pinwheels, all while the Japanese girl sat quietly on the curb, folding and folding, as the kids shouted, "My turn! Make me one!" and chased each other around, laughing, and playing. We all became origami experts out of necessity. The demand superceded supply. The paper airplane you learned to make in second grade? There are five boys over there that want one. Fold, fold! The paper box you learned to make during recess at age 10, make twenty. Keep folding! The smiles grew, the laughter continued, and our hands got tired.</p><br /><p>We stayed at Quillacollo until our paper ran out and still, the children (and adults) asked when we would return. Puzzled faces and broken hearts, we realized we had to do something, and arranged a community clean-up every Tuesday and Thursday evening until our supplies (and ourselves) are exhausted. </p><p>It is very difficult to think about the consequences if all is lost. You always make a mental list of the things you would take out of your house if there was a fire--the important things, passports, money, photographs. But being prepared and being saved often times transcend the "important" things, because what is truly important is being able to smile and maintain a personal normalcy through stressful tribulations.</p>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-47650348906994305242011-03-21T11:06:00.001-04:002011-03-21T11:08:15.094-04:00The city of Sucre, my $8 bus ride, and the time I yelled at a Bolivian.When Bolivians pray, their appeals hit the ears of three beings—the Catholic God, the Andean goddess Pachamama, and the Bolivian bus driver. There are very few times in my life that I’ve had to put as much faith into a single person as I had to put into the masterful motorist that held my destiny and the destiny of 50 other passengers on the 12 hour long trip from Cochabamba to Sucre… and then back again. A 12 hour long trip is not bad. 12 hours gets you from New York to say, Bolivia, on American Airlines. 12 hours gets you from New York to North Carolina on I-95. 12 hours of transport is commuting back and forth on the Long Island Railroad every day for a week. 12 hours on an unpaved, treacherous road that corkscrews through the mountains, and at some points leaves you as vertical as the awkward take-offs at LaGuardia and as nauseous as riding through Space Mountain with a hangover, those twelve hours? Those are pretty bad.<br /><br />Obviously heeding Dr. Jaime’s advice of “taking it easy,” or rather, temporarily discarding all drops of reason that I could have possibly had left, I decided to make the notorious journey from Cochabamba to Sucre, the capital city, a day after being admitted to the hospital because of a parasite. (And yes, the journey is very notorious—there’s even a line on Sucre’s Wikipedia page about how hard it is to get there from Cochabamba.) Having chose seat #51, the center seat at the back of the bus, because of the extra leg room, proved to be a problem, because the one Bolivian that is taller than me also wanted it.<br /><br />“No,” I insisted, “This is my seat. I chose it when I bought the ticket.” I lied. Well, I didn’t lie. I had chosen the middle seat when I bought the ticket but the number of the seat on that map didn’t match the number of the seat on the actual bus.<br />“No, it’s mine. I HAVE to sit there!” He pushed back.<br />“NO. THIS IS MY SEAT. I AM ALREADY SEATED AND READY TO GO.” I raised my voice and noticed the other seat, to the right, with no one in it.<br />“THIS IS YOUR SEAT, HERE. SENTATE ACA!” I screamed, pointing to the free space.<br /><br />And would you imagine, the tall Bolivian, who now seemed not-so-tall, listened to the gringa, and took his place, even though his ticket rightfully said seat #51. (I did wind up moving to the window seat at one point, to stick my head out the window and cure the conga line congregating in my stomach.)<br /><br />After what seemed like eternal damnation, my faith in señor bus driver (and other beings) had returned when the glowing cross that sits atop the hill overlooking Sucre, came into view. Cue the angelic chorus, hallelujah. I wouldn’t say that my $8 ($60 boliviano) bus ride was a great value, but I got to and fro in mostly one piece. My total transport and lodging costs for two full days in the capital of this country rang in to under the grand total of, wait for it, $20. Twenty American dollars! What can that get you in Washington DC? A cup of coffee? Okay, maybe not just a cup of coffee…maybe a cookie too.<br /><br />The city of Sucre is beautiful. It differs entirely from Cochabamba in the fact that when you’re in Sucre, you know you’re in the Andes. There is beautiful white-washed colonial architecture, cobblestone streets, and more importantly, everything is on a slant. You find that your lower back and thighs start to ache for what seems like no reason, but then you realize that you’ve been walking at a sixty-eight degree angle for the past ten blocks. There are a lot more tourists and backpackers in Sucre, which isn’t hard to say because there are virtually none in Cochabamba and mostly everyone has a smiling happy face and isn’t baffled as to why a blond is in Bolivia. The attitude is relaxed, the altitude is high, and the sun is very strong even though the air is freezing.<br /><br />Saturday was spent strolling the streets of Sucre, drinking tea in European-style cafes, visiting museums, and being relaxed. Maybe it’s the fact that the air is so thin at these heights, but it almost seems like everyone has had a tranquilizer or two. No one really has a place to be or a time to be there. My stomach was still bothering me at this point, so the change of pace was a welcome respite.<br /><br />Sunday I placed my faith in another bus driver, this time on the much shorter, two hour trip to Tarabuco, a traditional town outside of the capital. I arrived just in time for the Pujllay, a ritualistic festival that celebrates an indigenous victory over the Spaniards (the town’s population is mostly indigenous) as well as drawing a connection to the gaiety of Carnaval. The fact that is occurs during Lent makes me smile because it almost seems like it’s another way for the indigenous people to stick it to the colonizers. It’s as if they’re saying, “Here’s our party during the time you have to be good! Na-na-na-na-na!” Being taller than the average Bolivian does have its perks, however, when it comes to parade time—I had a clear, bird’s eye view of all the costumes and traditional dress.<br /><br />After buying a pair of alpaca slippers (!!!!) and eating my first vegetarian meal in the country (soy patties with cucumbers, beans, and fries, SERIOUSLY!), I cut it close by leaving the festival at 4:30 in order to catch the bus back to Cochabamba at 7. Dios te bendiga, bus driver, because that two hour trip back to Sucre did not take two hours! By 7:30, I was on my way back <em>home</em>, the Bolivian moon glowing huge and silver like a $2 peso coin in one corner of the sky and the gleaming cross in the other, a shining beacon of faith in God and a reminder to all who visit Sucre, to have faith in everything, bus drivers included.kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-75417428396761954442011-03-17T09:33:00.003-04:002011-03-17T09:50:34.598-04:00Ella quiere su medicinaWith paved streets, luxury cars, and large homes, it's very easy to forget that Cochabamba belongs to a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_World">third world</a> country. There's the occasional Latin American chaos--water deliveries several days late, municipal protests, street blockades--but nothing that you would consider out of the ordinary in any extrenuating circumstance in any part of the world. This is all until you come down with a mysterious illness that has you clutching your stomach in pain, being unable to scarf down the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pique_macho">Pique Macho</a> you once loved, and losing your handle on any language you might be able to speak. Spanish? English? I speak OwMyStomachHurtsAndICantThink. Thus began my foray into the world of third world medicine.<br /><br />Having been sick for several days and starting to dread the consequences, I finally mustered up enough courage to visit the Clinica de los Olivos, which is a very nice, clean, hospital down the street from my house--not close enough to walk to, especially when you're writhing in pain, but close enough for a five minute taxi. There I met with Dr. Jaime, who assessed my symptoms, poked my stomach, and injected me with a massive syringe of clear Bolivian medicine. I still don't know what was in the needle, but the fact that we're so close to the Amazon, the biggest natural pharmacy on this planet, cushoned my anxiety. After some preliminary tests, Dr. Jaime suspected that I had a parasite (or two) probably caused by something I ate under not-so-stellar sanitary conditions. (Oh, you mean that empanada that cost me 5 cents isn't good for my digestive system?) I was advised to return the next day for a blood test. WAIT, I HAVE TO COME BACK?<br /><br />So, lo and behold, the little gringa went back to the hospital at 8 o'clock this morning for the blood test. This was after anxiety woke me up at 6 and inspired me to clean the bathroom and wax my eyebrows, as well as refold all my clothes in the wardrobe. The second visit was not nearly as frightening; the nurses giggled at the fact that I only had one last name and didn't know my own cellphone number. My blood was taken, I was sent home with three prescriptions, and I'll know my official results later this evening. As for now, I feel great. I don't know what was in the clear syringe, but I really, really want to start importing it.kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-85858299018374051252011-03-13T19:23:00.002-04:002011-03-13T19:39:25.188-04:00Estamos en CochabambaImagine New Year's Eve in Times Square. The St. Patrick's day parade (the drunk part). The Brazilian day parade (and any Caribbean pride parade as well). Now Mardi Gras in New Orleans. The Fourth of July. And the Native American festival that takes place at Floyd Bennett field in Brooklyn. Okay, now, mix them together (if you can imagine something of such an intense, insane size.) Make sure you have plenty of waterguns and cans of foam. Add some beating drums. Some more feathers. And the Bolivian flag. What have you created? Carnaval in Cochabamba.<br /><br />Yesterday, I went to the Corso de Corsos, which is an 8 hour long parade that snakes through the narrow streets of the city. There are dancers from all parts of the country--caporales from La Paz, morenadas from Oruro, even traditional Incan dancers who wear long dresses in neon colors and dance with stuffed llamas on their heads. I kid you not. Never in my life have I felt so terrified, so thrilled, so excited, and so alive. People pushing you at all angles. People screaming in Spanish, Quechua. Little black-haired boys shooting you with water guns. Not-so-little black-haired boys shooting you with foam. It's war. It's love. It's the biggest party I've never and always wanted to go to.<br /><br />You hear about Carnaval in Rio and the running of the bulls in Spain. My suggestion? Carnaval in Cochabamba. To say that this country is the understatement of the century, is the understatement of the century. One taste of silpancho, one sip of chicha, one slow cumbia, and you'll never want to leave.kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-29791361893446161942011-02-21T11:09:00.005-05:002011-02-22T11:18:02.972-05:00<div style="text-align: center;">"Nothing is unchangeable but the inherent and unalienable rights of man." </div><div style="text-align: center;">-Thomas Jefferson</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My favorite US president and who is not only one of the founding fathers, but also the father of modern human rights in the US. Happy President's Day!</div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-38790686380952022162011-02-14T21:10:00.004-05:002011-02-14T21:23:09.092-05:00Llamas, Alpacas, Vicuñas, Oh My!<div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">"What embassy?" I said.</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">She turned pale and crossed herself. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," she said. "Are you saying you haven't told the embassy you're here?"</span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">"It never occurred to me. Is it really necessary?" </span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">"Necessary? Do you know how many people come to Bolivia and are never heard of again? Suppose you disappeared! Forever!" </span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">Taken from </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">In Bolivia</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'courier new';">, by Eric Lawlor</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Monday, I heard from them.</div><div>Tuesday, I booked my flight.</div><div>Wednesday, I took visa photos, went to the bank, got vaccinated against Yellow Fever, Typhoid, Influenza, and started taking Anti-Malarials.</div><div>Thursday, I waltzed into the consulate first thing in the morning with all my papers, only to be told that I didn't have all my papers. Except that I did. Yes, even the photos. Yes, even the bank statement. Yes, even the invitation letter. Yes, even the vaccinations. What? It doesn't say I need a criminal background check. That's new? But it isn't on the website. Oh, that's a new rule you implemented this morning between the time I walked in the building and when I was riding the elevator up to the 10th floor. Bueno, gracias. I'll come back tomorrow.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will be spending some time in Cochabamba, Bolivia. And so the travel bug strikes again.</div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-45201804750816321182011-01-30T11:46:00.000-05:002011-01-30T11:46:44.811-05:00K'Naan ft. Nancy Ajram - Waving Flag [FIFA World CUP 2010]Late to the party on this one, but nonetheless, SO GOOD!<div><br /></div><div><iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LDrkU0rzFu8?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-20789552590652290712011-01-11T05:51:00.003-05:002011-01-11T05:54:21.253-05:00<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A little late, but...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Happy New Year!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLGqS-BU8tr-8uEstyqlznvTVtFY7BEXkh3JbmS6hdw7GpJHsMugg4NsS5rdYno3G3AsH2ZgxZOZHXeM_Wy7lHbYaXiOf1N5alKYu8tCKC5n8M9Mr14elX65waGHmE1O8n8vkdz34clf8/s320/163948_589062492246_36504673_33928199_3736295_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560879693531475538" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm hoping 2011 brings very, very great things! (And less snow)</span></div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-42377624290205874012010-12-29T22:42:00.006-05:002010-12-29T23:13:44.976-05:00<div>Growing up, one of my favorite chapters in social studies class was when we got to study Native American history and culture. Having gone to a very small, private school, it seemed like we studied the same things at the same times of the year, every year, (Budget restrictions? Textbook limitations? Who knows?) so it seemed like every year at the end of winter, beginning of spring (sometime around my birthday), we would study the Native Americans.</div><div><br /></div><div>In third grade, I had to do a project on the Anasazi Pueblo and I remember thinking that the culture was SO COOL because the population lived in complex cave-like housing in the southwest and most of their culture still remained a mystery. (I think the mysterious part is really what got me.) So, you can only imagine my excitement when I observed in several fashion magazines that Native American & Indigenous style has gone mainstream into mode. Okay, okay, I know this is a slippery slope. We must maintain a certain level of respect for all cultures and not make frivolity out of ancient tradition. As Nelly Furtado croons in <i>Powerless</i>, "Now it's moccasins we sport//We take the culture and contort," it is easy to take certain anthropological mainstays for granted. However, I think that if we respect art and design for being art and design and honor its origins, it makes us more educated on its history. In this case, it also makes for amazing fashion. </div><div><br /></div><div>These are some of my favorite Indigenous-inspired items:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaSSh7HLHoldyIVBKwdvNp7WhgGhQGbmHl34Vfkpz74SZ72cyyqghHXJ71RKcPcHO7ZqaD1HRCYS3RefWyTPUBlopTGdLka3iRRYWBXqA829rli7z4POV8tkQXXLgcZCkhNzI9msbVwlu/s1600/minnetonka.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaSSh7HLHoldyIVBKwdvNp7WhgGhQGbmHl34Vfkpz74SZ72cyyqghHXJ71RKcPcHO7ZqaD1HRCYS3RefWyTPUBlopTGdLka3iRRYWBXqA829rli7z4POV8tkQXXLgcZCkhNzI9msbVwlu/s320/minnetonka.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556320059194637042" /></a><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAHwO3qwE5iMCN8FEq4oK8N9Yuv6ppbDiye7bbxB4SnjBxBjJtx4pPggC4lD_JwFpeuCAFQKggYIbGUij8radHEQNiScg3D7SKbN44CyVc1sYNpeABrQAgWaivjZO0NEcCaRmzsRhuSRY/s320/fringed+shawl+cardigan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556315836329984898" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 276px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX9puWgyUqQtDVPI2TdinNW8n0dEiga1t2qrGdNg4C1dvdOb4M68-GZJPB1ZjlvLGa-DRl0PgZ7hvCJwsk7uJpnamwYADkN6nhFWkMYY2buPlrhyphenhyphenBePeO7TyD6-Nqj6WfbS2LZd5iNSLK6/s320/Pendleton+3-Pocket+.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556315835755402306" /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZp40oVAV6aMyrqyQstEXziOSe87kMjF1YpGvqzdYzSS9MArbr8p556stepBmg84zgaPnj0TgCSe8A0JuyZ7exeLU5716CqaEN9nTgYlPt32Vgfw_dID89AEkpwt2WlGRonC98-ttjSZs8/s320/yuma+cardigan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556315839929952114" /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 328px; height: 400px;" src="http://www.forever21.com/images/large/00008492-02.jpg" border="0" alt="" /><br /><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_eAshyphenhyphenAZ_Cv3AxuisiLWRsrWGXTjUhXa27XFeNG7molZEKvoEBci7-MpyeTWgn42qAZREps9j2onJw605zoy-hDapdSlvlPfl4eFkcczMqCO2x8ZQkXYyo4Pn5TM2qMPmjQ3tJR1acvg/s320/peruvian+nights+hat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556315839342552434" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">From top: <a href="http://www.zappos.com/minnetonka-thunderbird-softsole-brown">Minnetonka Thunderbird Softsole</a> from<i> Zappos</i>; <a href="http://www.forever21.com/product.asp?catalog%5Fname=FOREVER21&category%5Fname=sweater&product%5Fid=2068174188&Page=2&pgcount=100">Fringed Shawl Cardigan</a> from <i>Forever 21</i>; <a href="http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=18459578&itemdescription=true&navAction=jump&search=true&isProduct=true&parentid=SEARCH+RESULTS">Pendleton 3-Pocket Keeper Wristlet</a> from <i>Urban Outfitters</i>; <a href="http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?subCategoryId=CLOTHES-SWEATERS-CARDIGANS&id=20102968&catId=CLOTHES-SWEATERS&pushId=CLOTHES-SWEATERS&popId=CLOTHES&sortProperties=&navCount=350&navAction=top&fromCategoryPage=true&selectedProductSize=&selectedProductSize1=&color=095&isSubcategory=true&isProduct=true&isBigImage=&templateType=subCategory">Yuma Cardigan</a> from <i>Anthropologie</i>; <a href="http://www.forever21.com/product.asp?catalog%5Fname=FOREVER21&category%5Fname=acc&product%5Fid=1000008492&showBACK=OK">Dream Catcher Pendant Necklace</a> <i>Forever 21</i>; <a href="http://www.luckybrand.com/Peruvian-Nights-Hat/LBA00876,default,pd.html?selectedColor=999">Peruvian Nights Hat</a> from <i>Lucky Brand</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-84330881185075789952010-12-17T18:49:00.005-05:002010-12-17T19:05:02.252-05:00boas festasBecause I've been spending most of my time in Anthropologie these past weeks (5 out of 7 days, the other two at my other job) I think it's only fair to mention about the AMAZING playlist that serenades the store! I think there's about four or five mixes that play on repeat, with a healthy mix of not-so-traditional holiday music and the usual, Anthro toned down pop rock--Elizabeth and the Catapult, Fleet Foxes, Simon & Garfunkel. What's on the not-so-traditional holiday part? A version of Deck the Halls in Portuguese! A Christmas Mambo! A French lullaby! (Maybe the only reason I haven't gotten tired of listening to the same music over and over is because I wait to hear the beachy holiday delight that is "Natal é Harmonia." <div><br /></div><div>I leave you with another Brazilian holiday classic: Boas Festas (Happy Holidays) </div><br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xn4krF81qG8?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xn4krF81qG8?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-19454075860290552842010-12-04T11:40:00.003-05:002010-12-04T11:57:26.979-05:00Dear Santa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kASDzuTTNOEEh50L4PGlXbAAKFu59uqs8sO7VclYZ-3WxM9d3QwzAEsImbGdyn1C5WoTsTl4XDx9HKOo-breOhIJ3_P_hHqz1EmGASk2skpJYTyeFHEa7B5xipmEyz3y7hMd3QXJo5fd/s1600/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kASDzuTTNOEEh50L4PGlXbAAKFu59uqs8sO7VclYZ-3WxM9d3QwzAEsImbGdyn1C5WoTsTl4XDx9HKOo-breOhIJ3_P_hHqz1EmGASk2skpJYTyeFHEa7B5xipmEyz3y7hMd3QXJo5fd/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5546872199128391314" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Bag from <a href="http://www.gap.com/Asset_Archive/GPWeb/Assets/Product/795/795672/main/gp795672-00p01v01.jpg">Gap</a> + Gloves from <a href="http://www.jcrew.com/womens_category/accessories/scarvesgloveshats/PRDOVR~30416/99102112183/ENE~1+2+3+22+4294967294+20~~~0~15~all~mode+matchallany~~~~~gloves/30416.jsp">J.Crew</a> + Cardigan from <a href="http://www.anntaylorloft.com/catalog/product.jsp?productId=29131&N=0&Ntk=KeywordSearch&Ntt=sparkle&Nty=1&Ntx=mode%2Bmatchallpartial&found=18&defaultSizeType=Regular">Loft</a> + Flats from <a href="http://www.net-a-porter.com/product/27527">Net-A-Porter</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-53634890711868295952010-11-29T10:50:00.007-05:002010-11-29T14:07:42.172-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">Cherish your solitude. </span></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">Take trains by yourself to places you have</span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">never been. Sleep alone under the stars. Learn how to drive a stick</span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">shift. Go so far away that you stop being afraid of not coming back.</span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">Say no whenever you don't want to do something. Say yes if your</span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">instincts are strong, even if everyone around you disagrees. Decide</span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">whether you want to be liked or admired. Decide if fitting in is more</span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFCCCC;">important than finding out what you're doing here..." -Eve Ensler</span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Taken from Free People's <a href="http://blog.freepeople.com/2010/11/monday-quote-63/">Monday Quote</a>.</div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-61044528074423891262010-11-28T07:00:00.000-05:002010-11-28T11:04:34.088-05:00American exports (imports?)<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/">BuzzFeed</a> made a list of <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(34, 34, 34); font-family:Georgia;font-size:34px;">"<a href="Http://www.buzzfeed.com/gavon/fast-food-items-not-available-in-the-us-that-sho">14 Fast Food Items Not Available In The U.S. That Should Be.</a>"</span>On the list are delicacies such as "The Nacho Whopper" (Netherlands, Burger King); "The McArabia" (Morocco, Mc Donald's);and "The Golden Fortune Pizza" (Japan, Pizza Hut). However, my favorite is not listed! What would that be? The classic McFiesta that was available at McDonald's in Buenos Aires in 2008.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnp76KeQGPdVN2yMOgie7ieGNGWmCWS3JStfms3cb3ZTGjI1SYFmNmZBoZUdgW18S6wt9q_SKr3MxXFcW7kewMjMtHom5LURWwna5sQhyo1k57tUoy0OKi1wwB5rJgn87Ob_6VZI2FkiNV/s400/n36504673_31473121_3370.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544631392834241922" /><div><br /></div><div>What do we think? Fried chicken, lettuce, mayo, and un poquito de <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salsa_golf">salsa golf</a>?</div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-11206612059281759272010-11-26T20:40:00.003-05:002010-11-28T11:04:50.831-05:00<div style="text-align: left;">The coolest people live in New York.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/12537679" width="400" height="265" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://vimeo.com/12537679">Bhangra in the East Village</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user4042119">Derek Beres</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-17363436499207349222010-11-25T09:01:00.005-05:002010-11-25T09:11:26.703-05:00what we have<div style="text-align: left;">First saw this poignant graphic over at <a href="http://apricot-tea.com/2010/09/29/note-to-self/">Apricot Tea</a> (although I remember seeing something very similar at work).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 248px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvA3PVwhxBHZ901L25Qe8yf7Nfs28fXRxxhACTw6Wz6oYF2n338q33vTfLxwYgAzrXFntuw2_oonRCcQ0uLflXVOp9Y6lPMYViD5IY1ZRMlcGCRoUqM9ZNiztFLAr4d6W2dK-LL2mlnJ3/s400/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543489558275479010" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://whatshername13.deviantart.com/art/PLEASE-READ-THIS-157578940">Click here for a larger version and the original source.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>I think we have quite a bit to be thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving.</div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-56767093379324696202010-11-24T20:26:00.009-05:002010-11-24T21:20:21.304-05:00International Pizza + 1st and 2nd Tuesday Taste TravelCheck out this really cool idea that I first read about on <a href="http://blog.craftzine.com/archive/2010/11/pizza_food_flags_of_the_world.html">Craftzine.com</a>! Jen, the writer of the food blog <a href="http://www.tinyurbankitchen.com/">Tiny Urban Kitchen</a>, was inspired by her travels to make <a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=420379817637928760">little International Pizzas</a> in the shape of different flags. HOW COOL IS THAT!? I wish I had thought of the idea...but then again, how frequently am I cooking something? Take a look at all her genius renditions of the world flags, which are not only inspired by the actual flags, but iconic dishes from the country. <div><br /></div><div>I really do love them all but I must say that my absolute favorite is the Canadian flag. The maple leaf made from Pepperoni (and maple syrup) is <i>so</i> creative (even though I don't eat real pepperoni these days.)<div><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinyurbankitchen/5090823532/" title="Canada by tinyurbankitchen, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4145/5090823532_4e5636c159_m.jpg" width="240" height="194" alt="Canada" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinyurbankitchen/5090823532/">Photo Credit</a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The international pizza and perhaps just the idea of food in general have inspired me to share my recent international food experiences. My cousin, who lives in the middle of Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan (aka Restaurant Row) and I have vowed to eat different type of ethnic cuisine every Tuesday for as long as our palates<i> and budgets</i> will allow. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Last Tuesday, I was walking across 43rd St. after work and saw a sign: "Taco Tuesday! Happy Hour!" Nostalgic for the days of summer and Taco Tuesdays at the Tiki Bar (which has since closed down, hopefully not for health code violations; it was<i> definitely</i> a place you'd expect to be serving $1 tacos) in Long Beach, I played with the idea in my head as I walked to the apartment. As soon as my cousin met me downstairs, the first words out of her mouth were, "Wanna get tacos?" and I literally squealed with joy. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Thus began our first foray into all the food that NYC has to offer--well, not our first foray; we've eaten crepes from the French creperie and curry from a Thai place, but this was our first official Tuesday Taste Travel. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our Taco Tuesday was held at <a href="http://www.reunionbar.com/">Réunion</a>, a surf-shack-themed place on 43rd street between 8th and 9th. It is certainly a place to have happy hour with half priced frozen Tequila Sunrise and Mojitos as well as amazing $3 tacos! I ate 3 fish tacos with my Mojito; my cousin, 3 pork tacos with her Sunrise. We split the <i>Coconut Mofos</i>, little square shaped churro type bites with vanilla and chocolate sauce, which weren't part of the specials, but decently priced nonetheless, for dessert. We spent a bit hanging out in the beachy atmosphere--the walls are bright colors, music from the Beach Boys blares, and old surfing clips play on the televisions. With very full tummies and feeling good about the taste (and value!), we would say that our first Tuesday Taste Travel was an absolute success. Now on to this week!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Our second TTT took place at a Restaurant simply called <a href="http://www.turkishcuisinenyc.com/">Turkish Cuisine</a>, on 9th off of 45th. When my cousin called and asked what I thought about Turkish, I said, "Oh, the cool looking place?" knowing exactly which one she had in mind. Kind of pricey, not gonna lie, but very worth it, especially after last week's budget adventure. We started out with a delicious appetizer of pita bread with hummus, babaganoush, eggplant, and a few other Middle Eastern dips. (But then again, you could sit me down with a spoon and a tub of plain hummus and I'd think it was great.) I branched out and ordered a Turkish beer, even though I normally don't drink it, and was happy I did. Tasty, not too heavy, and it complemented the spices in the food. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For dinner, Jenna ordered the Chicken and Spinach Special and I, the Chicken Beyti Kabob--an amazing Chicken Sausage wrapped in Philo dough. (Maybe in addition to the budget restraint, we should put a weight restraint too??) For dessert, my cousin had mint tea and Turkish rice pudding as I scarfed down apricots filled with walnuts and a rich Turkish coffee. No matter what time of day/night or where I am, if a place serves Turkish coffee, I am hands-down-100% always ordering it even if I'm battling insomnia and have a standardized test in three hours. <i>That's how much I love it. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i>The food from our Turkish Tuesday was thick, warm, and really filling--perfect for if you're having a rough day or if it's really cold out--yesterday was neither of these conditions, but awesome nonetheless. Like I said, the prices, <i>ka-ching!</i> but next time we'll just be mindful of what/where we're eating for our wallets' and waistlines' sake.</div></div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-39428492480771459372010-11-21T13:06:00.003-05:002010-11-21T13:23:16.228-05:00¡Hola a todos!<div><br /></div><div>I know I've been missing from the internet lately, but I've been keeping myself busy with work at the NGO, applications (of various sorts), and as of today, my budding career as a shopgirl! Today I started work at the amazing, amazing store <a href="http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/index.jsp">Anthropologie</a>! (Family members who may or may not be reading this blog can totally take advantage of this discount, cough cough) I was very nervous, never having worked in retail, [So many customers, so many clothes, so little time] however, as I was getting ready to go in the store, I ran into my high school friend, Duveltson, who was starting his first day at Guess/Marciano, near my store. Running into him calmed me down a bit, so I was sound of mind for my first Anthro experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first thing they had me do was fold--I immediately had flashbacks to my kindergarden class where I won the award for "best folder." See?! The most important things in life, you DO learn in <a href="http://www.peace.ca/kindergarten.htm">kindergarden</a>. I eventually moved on to the register and thank God all of the customers were so so patient with my slow counting and number entering. I better speed things up for the holiday season! I was only there for a little bit today, the real crunch will </div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 224px;" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:Vqk3he0V6LplgM:http://charmingwords.com/shop/catalog/images/Santa%20Vintage.jpg&t=1" border="0" alt="" /><div>start later on in the week--black Friday, anyone? But I'm very excited for all the new things to come. Christmas is just around the corner. Today, as I was walking out to my car, I could have sworn I heard jingle bells...but then I realized it was just my coat's belt buckle clanking against a button...or was it?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://www.livelovegoods.com/index.php/shop/catalog/peace-comes-from-within-ring-p-551.html">photo credit</a></div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-1967766242798439742010-10-11T10:10:00.002-04:002010-10-11T10:20:22.698-04:00I never took a statistics class because I'd be too afraid I'd do so poorly in it. I wouldn't do well not because of my fear of math (I <i>did</i> get a near-perfect score on the SAT math section) nor because of my hate of it (Arabic is quite algebraic, you know.) I wouldn't do well because I have a hard time wrapping my head around statistics in general. "The odds of this happening are a million to one.." Well, guess what? I'm always that <i>one</i>. I'm always the one number that defies the odds. And, I know, this is a very dramatic thing to say, but at least twice a day, I step back from a situation and say, "What are the <i>odds</i>?"<div><br /></div><div>In other (or possibly related) news, the LSAT went well! I can't say anything more about it because I'll get in trouble, but let's hope I had a lucky Saturday! Now I can be a real person again. </div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-65750052536467894082010-09-26T23:28:00.000-04:002010-09-26T23:29:17.048-04:00not okay.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://gothamist.com/attachments/byakas/91010citi.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 435px; height: 640px;" src="http://gothamist.com/attachments/byakas/91010citi.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>via the <a href="http://gothamist.com/">Gothamist</a>.kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-23096893951968711512010-09-14T10:40:00.002-04:002010-09-14T10:44:40.432-04:00Discovered this interesting article via the New York Times about Voodoo: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 10px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 15px; "><h1 class="articleHeadline" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 2.4em; line-height: 1.083em; font-weight: normal; "><nyt_headline version="1.0" type=" "><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/14/world/africa/14benin.html">A Beninois Priest Seeks New Respect, and New Practitioners, for Voodoo</a></nyt_headline></h1><div><br /></div><div>Very interesting to see the connection to both Christianity and Islam. </div></span>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-58029447804834644662010-09-04T19:08:00.002-04:002010-09-04T19:19:34.769-04:00My LSAT review is making me crazy. Graduate school looks a lot more appealing right now than Law school.kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-78447151147021503312010-08-23T22:36:00.005-04:002010-08-23T23:02:30.302-04:00A lesson in tolerance.This is going to be a ridiculous post, but this evening I was watching The Simpsons (okay, don't hate) and the episode centered around the premise of unwanted immigrants. Preliminary research tells me that it was a repeat, but here's a brief synopsis:<div><div><br /></div><div>Norwegian Immigrants from the fictional Ogdenville "invade" Springfield when the economy worsens. Soon, there is an abundance of blonde-haired hardworking folk who, as Homer puts it, "will do the work that none of the Springfield residents want to do,"--i.e. installing new gutters on the roof and other such manual labor, etc. One of the skate borders at Bart's school jumps off the railing on his board and does an Olympic-like ski jump, the bar flies start drinking Aquavit in place of beer, and Marge hires a Norwegian nanny who feeds Maggie lingonberry jam to soothe her stomach. The residents of Springfield are happy with the newcomers until, when Bart falls off his skateboard and needs to go to the hospital for a broken arm, the waiting area is completely filled with Norwegians "sneezing funny" according to Homer. The turning point is when the nurse says that they have run out of hospital forms in English and the Simpsons must fill one out in Norwegian. (Sound familiar?) Marge finally breaks, when the following <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZS3iZIyuPQ&feature=related">scene</a> occurs...<br /><br /><b>Marge:</b> "Haven't we always taught the children to make friends with those who are a little different?"<br /><b>Lisa:</b> "Yes."<br /><b>Bart:</b> "Yeah."<br /><b>Maggie: </b>"JA!"<br /><b>Marge:</b> GASP<br /><b>Maggie: </b>"JA! JA! JA!"<br /><b>Marge: </b>"Maggie's first words are in Ogdenvillese!"<br /><br />This reminds me of the scene in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0369441/">Fun with Dick and Jane</a> when Dick is accused of being undocumented by the INS and his kid answers the phone in Spanish because his main caretaker is his Mexican nanny.<br /><div><br /></div><div>The other day, there was an episode of The Simpsons (once again, I'm not making a habit of it) where Bart befriends a Jordanian boy who moves into the neighborhood with his Muslim family. I must say, I am very impressed with the tolerance lessons and initiative (even though these are older episodes) that this show has taken. I've been absolutely appalled at the misunderstanding and absolute ignorance that public opinion has adopted in the past few months. It is an issue to not know, but it is a problem when you don't want to know. Of course, the Norwegian immigrant episode was comical for me. 1) I can understand the mockery and social commentary on the immigration debate and 2) My mother is of Norwegian descent, which makes all the cultural jokes five times funnier. Nonetheless, it is refreshing to see that there is hope. There are many children and adults who regularly watch this show, and, as elementary as it sounds, if a cartoon needs to teach America lessons in humanity, then let the education begin.</div></div></div>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-420379817637928760.post-70416045544350994112010-08-21T09:42:00.000-04:002010-08-21T09:43:47.952-04:00I love these guys. Can't find a cd stateside, though.<div><br /></div><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/dOKujeIiQMQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/dOKujeIiQMQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>kristi columbushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12702226653458287882noreply@blogger.com0