4 Ways to Access a Dominican Beach

1. Step out of your hotel room.
That´s what we did our first morning in the DR in a little town called Boca Chica. We were so excited about our situation that we didn´t do a good enough job applying the $10 bottle of sunscreen that we had just bought, and we both slightly fried. After 4 days, the little blisters at the top of my arms and the top of my legs are finally starting to peel. The pain was totally worth it because our little section of private beach was in a cove of warm, blue, 4 foot deep water that extended for about half a mile.


2. Walk 2.5 miles from your isolated farm house-hostel through town and down an unpaved rural road.
That´s how we got to little magical LaPlayita (located on the peninsula of Samana) where there were no other people except for a couple cuddling on the sand and a Dominican woman who made us lunch. On a covered table on the sand, we ate fresh fish, rice, beans, fried plantains and fried bananas that the woman prepared back in her little makeshift hut that doubled as a kitchen. It was delicious.

3. Take a little jet boat over churning, stormy waves into the middle of the ocean with a driver screaming ¨Quiero morir!¨ (I want to die!) every time he got air off a wave.
That was how we got back into the pristine cove of Playa Rincon with its 3 kilometers of white sand. The beach is apparently one of the most beautiful in the Caribbean, and its sand and backdrop of palm trees were stunning. On the boat ride on the way back, the sea was even rougher, and I devised a plan in my head about what I could leave behind in order to swim to shore in my underwear. (I was the saddest about the prospect of losing my TIME magazine.) Fortunately, neither my magazine nor my clothes had to be sacrificed to the great deep, but I did get a cramp in my arm from gripping the side of the boat. The video fails to depict the real treacherousness of the situation.

4. Drive down a steep, unpaved, muddy, boulder ridden road with a flat tire.
That was the road we had to take from our mountainous luxury camping place down to the popular beach town of Cabarete. Our tire wasn´t completely flat, but when some kids in a fruit stand yelled out ¨problema! problema!¨while pointing at our car, we became even more nervous. We made it slowly down to the mountain to a gas station, and after we filled the tire up with air, it was fine and it has been fine ever since. No holes. No obvious leaks. A miracle. The beach of Cabarete was lively with tourists and of course, stunning. (The video I posted above is of the bathroom at the luxury camping place where we were minutes before we got the flat tire. The video's connection to this paragraph is weak, but I just liked the bathroom a whole lot.)

Driving Dominican Style

Greetings from the Dominican Republic where I am spending my spring break with my dear friend Jen Keng and risking our lives behind the wheel of a white Mitsubishi Lancer. For the first time in my international travels, we have rented a car. (In keeping with my travel habits, I didn't bring my driver's license, just my passport, so the car is in Jen's name, but I've asked to do most of the driving. Fortunately, highway patrol here seems pretty lax.)

The first sign that the driving would be difficult was the fact that the windshield has a foot of dark tinting along the bottom and two feet of dark tinting along the top, giving us approximately two feet of clear visibility. This visibility is reduced to about a square foot when it's raining and we use the decade-old streaky wipers at full speed, which has been every day. I can see through it really well when I lean up against the steering wheel, granny style.

Once we find the peep hole out of the windshield, we focus on swerving around the man-size potholes that could possibly consume our vehicle. In some undocumented part of history, the DR must have been the victim of its own Blitz. At a particularly ugly set of potholes, some entrepreneurial teens were taking advantage of the situation by demanding a toll from the slowing cars.

Other road obstacles include:
- The luxury buses that pass us on two-lane roads, completely covering us in their wet slosh. (Normally I would be embarrassed to admit that I was getting passed by million-pound buses, but these dudes are crazy.)
- Gorgeous ocean views.
- 70% inclines. With potholes. Good thing our automatic can shift down to first gear. RRRRR.
- Puddles that reach halfway up the car doors.
- Yelling "hola" to all the children and families hanging out on the main streets as we pass by. (see picture above)

Don't worry, Mom and Dad, I feel perfectly safe!

Another reason I love being a student at UW

Free roller skating every Friday night at the university gym!

Tearing up the gym floor with my friend Kurt.

Laney, Marissa and I practiced purposeful falls before we hit the main drag.
Laney has a nice video of one of her falls here.

Juvy

One of my kids got shot last weekend.

I'm interning as a probation counselor at juvenile court two days a week for the practicum requirement of my program. I currently supervise 9 kids who are on probation which means that I: check in with them to see how they're doing, talk to their parents about their behavior at home, get school attendance and academic records, check their restitution payments, offer them suggestions for community service opportunities, etc. Most of my kids have done more trivial crimes like keying 20 cars (restitution payment of $20,000 after negotiations) and walking a burglarized flat screen TV through the woods.

I love it because I get to spend most of the day talking on the phone to people, because I get to observe some riveting court proceedings (law school? law school?!), and because it's all about narrative. It's slightly thrilling to open a new file - they are literally green cardstock filefolders - and start reading all the police reports, court reports and personal interviews to try to piece together that kid's story. Some of them I get to meet in person, like the 13-year-old I visited last week at a children's home. He was cute, goofy, and a little immature for his age. He has molested his little brother.

One of the kids I have connected with the most is Chuck*, a big and friendly 16-year-old. He's the only one of my kids who has my cell phone number, and last week we had this nice text-messaging conversation that he initiated: (All spellings are authentic.)

CHUCK: Dis is Chuck. Just checkin in.

ME: How are things going?

CHUCK: Good. Im straight.

ME: Good work. Stay straight. I still need your community service hours please.

CHUCK: Yea. I got you.

When I called him yesterday, he groggily tole me that he had just been treated at the hospital for a bullet wound. On Saturday night, he and his buddy went out to Jack-in-the-Box when a group of boys jumped his friend. Chuck jumped into the middle of the fight and then got shot in the pelvis. His friend got shot twice in the leg. The doctors can't take out his bullet because it's too close to a nerve.

When I called to get the police report, the investigating officer said that it was a gang-related incident. I was sad about the shooting, but devastated by that particular piece of news. His mom has now put him on lock-down. He'll be done with his probation in 2 months. I hope he still calls me.

*Name changed
**Sorry about the heteronormative language!

Obama Day Flashback

Even though I wasn't in D.C. on Inauguration Day, I still got to attend a ball to celebrate the historic day. A pub in Seattle's Fremont neighborhood called The Ballroom hosted in a very generous fashion: free appetizers, free drinks, free chocolate, free DJ. It seemed like the owners just honestly wanted us to share in their excitement, rejoicing and relief.

Between the radio and a TV at juvenile court, I was able to catch most of the ceremonies that morning, and I was teary throughout. I was especially moved by the quartet that played John Williams' arrangement of Simple Gifts. I taught that melody to my fifth graders a couple years ago, and we all sang it together. It would make me so happy if they remembered it.

My ever-so-talented roommate Cassie did my hair and make-up, and then took pictures. It kind of felt we were going to the prom, but Obama wasn't president when I went to the prom. Booyah!

We danced with a bunch of our friends. 

Laney and I danced in a cage. I like to consider it a symbolic statement about women's freedom to engage in democracy and elections. Women for Obama!

We ate delicious free local Theo chocolate. One of the their specialties has curry in it. When you come visit, I'll take you on a tour of the Seattle chocolate factory.

Back at my house, we broke out the Obama chocolates that my friend A. Middy gave me for Christmas. The sticker on my chest was a gift of The Ballroom and is now in my journal.

Obama at our fingertips.

NYC Has Ruined Me!

I just got a ticket for jaywalking.

There are a bunch of pointless lights on UW's campus, and I run through them every day going between the institute and the social work building. A campus cop on a mountain bike saw me run through one today and pulled me over (can you say that when you're not driving?) next to a light post. At first I wanted to laugh. In fact, I had to consciously refrain from giggling. Then he told me that the infraction cost $56, and I had to refrain from crying.

The biggest irony of this situation is that literally an hour earlier, I jaywalked with a friend across that very same intersection and complained to him about how uptight Seattleites are: "It boggles my mind how people in Seattle obediently stand and wait at a crosswalk when there are obviously no cars for miles." Those were my exact words an hour before I got a 56-dollar ticket.

I tried to tell the cop that for the past three years I had been living in New York City where jaywalking is a beautiful and accepted way of life. He didn't seem to care.

It took me what felt like 10 minutes to walk the final 2 blocks to my destination. I looked on with envy at the few rebellious souls who darted through the empty intersections.

Next time I'm going to cross a street illegally (for example, as soon as I leave this building), I will look out not only oncoming cars, but also for uptight bike cops.

Sugar Fasting

I haven't had any refined sugar for the past 2 weeks! I'm refraining all the way until my birthday, March 20th, the first day of spring. I am eating natural sugars like fruit and honey as well as things that are made with natural sugars, like some breads and tortillas, but that's it. Not even Dorritos or WheatThins count because even though they aren't sweet, they are made with (cue evil background music) high fructose corn syrup.

I successfully completed this same challenge last year and liked it so much that I decided to do it again. I really love living like this. I feel more energized, less sluggish in the afternoons and evenings, and less moody. It also simplifies a lot of decision-making. Should I order dessert? Nope! Should I get those Peanut M&M's out of the vending machine? Nope! Should I have one of those donuts that are getting passed around the class? Nope! It's such a relief.

A friend of mine is going without sugar for an entire year and is blogging about it every day here. I'm not quite that ambitious, but when I tell friends about how good I feel right now, they've asked, "Why stop in March?" The answer is corn bread, pancakes, brownies, sour gummy worms, gooey chocolate chip cookies, and pumpkin bread. I can't really imagine life without them permanently.

Yet when I studied up on sugar, I learned that it is actually the root of all evil. It's addictive, it causes obesity, diabetes and cancer. One author even compared it to crack: both are refined white powders.

Last year, I commemorated the end of my fast with a red velvet cake birthday cake (see delicious picture above) that I bought for myself at my favorite Harlem bakery. This year I plan on celebrating by learning how to make my own red velvet cake.

I am confident that I can conquer these months of extremism again, but my next challenge is a bit more daunting: moderation.

P.S. I'm making an exception on Inauguration Day to eat the Obama chocolates that my friend Amy gave me for Christmas. Surely this day calls for all sorts of exceptions!

Newsflash: you don't have to be normal to get married

I stumbled across this quote yesterday in my class readings:
The key to a happy marriage isn't having a 'normal' personality but finding someone with whom you mesh. - John Gottman, 1999.
Being normal is not required! Two crazies can be perfectly happy together as long as their psychoses are complementary. I find this humorous and yet strangely comforting.

It finally happened

My car ran out of gas last night.

This may not be a surprising revelation because I have been known to run my gas tank low. In the '89 Oldsmobile that I drove in high school (Clarence was his name), I knew that I was in trouble when I would make a right turn and the engine would stall. I think that the gas was "swooshing away" from the engine on right turns because it wouldn't stall on left turns.

When I was driving my brother from San Diego up to BYU last August, we (I ?) let the gas get so low that in order to preserve our precious fuel, we turned off the AC and rolled down the windows in the middle of the Nevada desert. Driving with my body sticking to the seat wasn't motivation enough to change this bad habit.

I always thought that running out of gas in a critical moment would be an adventure - a crazy life experience to tell my kids about some day. When it finally happened, it was undramatic. My friend Kurt and I went and saw Slumdog Millionaire in a cool old theater in Capitol Hill, and when we got back in my car, it wouldn't start. I was parked and it wouldn't start. Boring, right? The slight hill my car was parked on made me think that the gas would be "swooshing in," but it was not so.

To make it even more convenient, there was a gas station only two blocks away that sold lovely gas containers like the one featured in this picture. We walked the two blocks back to my car, filled up, and were off. It was all too easy. When I finally filled all the way up, I recorded my statistics as 15.3 gallons (a new record!) and 413 miles.

Now that I have an emergency gas can in my trunk, I can run my gas tank low all the time. Yet that would make running out of gas a terribly convenient inconvenience, so really, what's the point?

I've been published...

...on someone else's blog! http://theapronstage.com/ Some women I know joined together to create a blog called The Apron Stage. Each have a specific day of the week on which they post (there are 4 of them) and on Fridays they have a guest blogger. Last Friday, it was me! The post is the Peanut Butter Tears one that I posted here, so it's not new reading, but I definitely suggest that you check out their blog - they are talented and insightful writers.