It was about a week before my trip to Kyoto, Japan that I began to seriously consider where I was going to sleep at night. After all, I was going to be visiting for five days; finding somewhere warmer than the streets to sleep was somewhat a priority. On the other hand, I was a college student, just wrapping up a semester abroad in Tokyo. Spending hundreds of dollars a night for the rare opportunity to eat twenty-cent ramen in such a cultural capital was about as appealing as wrapping myself in newspapers on a city bench.
There was, thankfully, a happy medium: a hostel that offered a single bedroom for 25 dollars a night. I took a quick glance over the location- Gion, geisha district, Memoirs of a Geisha, blah blah blah - before booking and printing the ticket.
About a week later, as I wandered aimlessly through a city I'd only seen before in postcards and travel channel specials, it occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about hostels. The only information I had on me was the location and the price of where I'd be spending the next five days. Even the location was vague; after riding a bus to a stop specified by the website, I had to spend several minutes wandering down little back alleys before finding my bed for the night.
Hostels have interesting connotations. The uninitiated may think of the horror films; veterans from hostels of the distant past may recall something far worse, especially in the case of bathrooms. Others yet may think of them simply as cheap hotels with no room service, or a drunken kids' dream hangout- Hey guys I just had my first beer in Munich am I cool yet?
This particular hostel was as quiet as the back alley I discovered it on, likely due to the small temple directly across the street from it. It also felt much more like walking into someone's home than a hotel; I was required to leave my shoes at the door, and was given my own key to access the premises any time I needed to.
My room, located on the second floor, was indeed a single. Barely big enough to fit one person, it held all of four standard features: the light, the A.C./heater unit, the bed itself, and a small nightstand. The nearest sink was in the hallway, and the nearest bathroom was two floors down in the basement, along with the showers.
As I headed downstairs to check out these facilities, I flashed back on a memory of my mother recalling her adventures in Europe- particularly about the big holes in the ground with a rope hanging over them for balance. I shuddered at the idea, but took heart in the fact that I highly doubted such conditions would exist inside without there being an obvious... fragrance to the place.
My momentary fears were unfounded. Not only did I find modern amenities, but heated commodes for those cold winter mornings. The showers, though available for the entire hostel to use, were private singles with locks and separate showering and dressing compartments. Satisfied, I made my way back upstairs for sightseeing.
Hotels- particularly higher-end options- tend to be as inclusive as possible. Laundry facilities, fitness centers, lounges, bars, cafes, swimming pools, and so on. Hostels do tend to have one or two of these, but very rarely do they try to cover all. The point of hostels- including the one I was staying at- was to give visitors a place to crash every night that didn't break the bank.
So because of that, the laundry facilities were available, but extra. There was a computer with internet connection, but it was slow and worked only half the time. There was a lounge of sorts, but it could fit no more than five people at once and had little more than a small bookshelf of old Lonely Planet travel guides and a television with a bright green line running down the middle of it. There was a kitchen available to cook meals in, but no food or cookware provided. All of these things together combined to encourage visitors to head out to seek entertainment.
But at the end of a ten hour day of getting lost, eating strange foods, asking for directions in a language you don't fully understand, giving Buddhist monks some spare change, and snapping photos, what does a person really need? A hot shower, a meal, a place to collapse? I grabbed one of those things at a restaurant along the way back 'home', and found the other two waiting for me.
There will be a time when I once again decide to visit a strange city where I don't have a friend or an obscure family member to crash with. When that comes, I plan to seek out another hostel. I'll leave the fitness centers and room service to those who use them, and stick to paying what I can afford for what I need.
(847 words.)
(Note: This is completely different from what I planned, I know. It's also all over the place; I hope to clean this up and focus it more on a needs vs. want scenario for my second draft.)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Profile Revision
(Still a work in progress, but I think it's a bit closer to where it should be... I may edit it one more time before class, but here's what I've got thus far.)
As I steal a seat in my sister’s classroom, I am suddenly struck by how big an age gap there is between the two of us. Jen is technically old enough to be my mother; and yet as her students for the semester began to file in to the classroom, none of them seemed to realize that she was going to be their professor for the next fifteen weeks. She may as well be a TA, albeit one in dated, almost frumpy, clothes.
The age difference between us doesn’t occur to me often, unless someone else exclaims, wow, she’s sixteen years older than you? I muse over that as the other kids my age start to settle in to their newly claimed territory, watching as they fiddle with pencils, text friends on their cell phones, and turn in their seats to chat to their neighbors. I overhear one of them mention Jen’s score on RateMyProfessor.com and fight the urge to laugh. I can’t help but smirk, however, as my sister clears her throat and starts the class. It’s too bad I’m in the front row, because I’m sure that the students’ expressions are noteworthy.
Even as she placidly takes over the class, I can already hear her after the class: at least they don’t think I’m an undergrad anymore.
Jen was blessed with a baby-face that, thus far, has only revealed an absolute minimum of wrinkles. But it’s funny how people tend to want what they don’t have, even when others would kill for that same thing. My sister’s of the firm belief that you should look exactly the age you are, and goes to war over her own looks every day to try and achieve that goal.
The students are silent as Jen passes out the syllabus. I take one, briefly entertaining the idea of being an undercover agent of some kind, and glance over it. Immediately I feel a rush of relief that my own days of taking gen ed classes are gone, even though the topic of this class—Intro. To Theater History—sounds vaguely interesting.
Jen’s been into theater for longer than anyone can tell, including her own parents. She took part in several plays in public school, from a casual walk-on in a Charlie Brown skit to a full-blown tour around the state in Nunsense when she was in high school. Dad likes to tell the story of my sister’s getting into college, and how after a semester of politely obeying her mother’s wishes to study business, she just as politely switched to drama, and hasn’t looked back since.
With her experience acting comes endless knowledge of makeup and costume design. Years of dressing up, down, backwards and diagonally have taught her how to look the part in any given situation, from the Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night to a nervous-ecstatic bride in her own wedding. The only time she can’t seem to get her act together is when she wants to the most: dressing herself for work. Two decades of mastering foundation, blush, and matching colors completely escapes her to the point where she is left looking not like a collected forty-year-old, but instead a thirty-year-old who might have stumbled into her mother’s wardrobe. Granted, the clothes would probably look classy on a lady in her fifties; on her, however…
I admit to myself as I watch the class that it’s funny I never think about our age differences much, except when we’re introducing each other. But then, maybe it’s the source of her chagrin that keeps me from thinking about her as older. After all, she’s been older than me from the start, so in my mind, nothing has changed. She’s still the ageless big sister I used to wave at during her performances amusing (and annoying) the theater at large with my declarations of that’s my sister!
A student asks a question, and Jen’s eyebrows lift with a silent question in turn as she listens to him. Then, she tells him that yes, it would be best if you showed up to class as often as possible. Then, with that twinkle in her eye, she adds in the same mild-mannered tone, I’d also recommend doing the homework, too. It should be pretty painless for both of us that way.
The student laughs a little, because he can’t tell if she’s joking or not. When she offers him a brief, close-lipped smile and then resumes discussing the syllabus, I turn my head in time to see him glancing at one of his friends as if to ask is she serious?
I smile to myself and pretend to return my attention to my sister’s words, but I’m far more interested in watching her move. Before class had started, I’d asked her if she ever felt nervous about beginning each new semester. When she’d agreed, I’d half-joked that maybe she should treat the first class as yet another play. However, as she moves to write her name and office hours on the board, I can’t help but wonder if she doesn’t already do that.
Her movements have always been deliberate, as though she calculated every flick of the wrist and the light squeak of the marker against the whiteboard. She doesn’t stumble or bump into anything as she paces back and forth along the front of the classroom, either; she takes a couple of steps, then stops for a beat before resuming.
Jen’s speech is as deliberate and thought-out as her moves. Her response to the student, her discussions with me, all begin and end with pauses as she considers the best angle to tackle something. Mom says Jen’s done that since she was a kid; rather than admit how awful dinner tasted, she would instead tactfully inform her parents that the peas made her knife smell funny and that she’d very much prefer if she could have, say, carrots instead.
That’s not to say that Jen is slow by any means, or that she’s low-energy. Really, each movement seems to be restraining energy more than summoning it; she only appears to release unexpected bursts of it if she laughs or is thrown out of her calculated behavior by an unexpected question.
And yet, with all of this careful thought put into her action, she still can’t manage to look like a thirty-nine year-old professor.
The syllabus was the only activity on today’s schedule, so when they finish reading it, Jen excuses the class. The room erupts in a series of sounds, from chairs scraping away from desks to the buzz of cell phones and the zip of closing backpacks. In less than a minute, the room is empty save for the two of us.
So, were you bored? Jen asks me, as she hunts for a whiteboard eraser.
I rise to help her look, shaking my head. Nah; I did kind of space out though.
That’s fine; I’m sure my actual students were, too. Her lips curve into a faint smile.
Maybe. You know, they looked kinda confused about you being up in front.
She blows a bit of hair out of her face, then sighs. At least no one asked me if I was the TA this time. But I really thought I’d dressed right this time.
I look over her stuffy cardigan, and offer a noncommittal Yeah; maybe you should just tell them how old you are upfront, or wear a nametag with your age on it or something.
Instead of taking my teasing for what it is, Jen decides to take it seriously for a moment, tilting her head as she pulls a paper towel out of her bag and uses that to wipe the board down instead. Maybe you’re right.
(Word count: 1295)
As I steal a seat in my sister’s classroom, I am suddenly struck by how big an age gap there is between the two of us. Jen is technically old enough to be my mother; and yet as her students for the semester began to file in to the classroom, none of them seemed to realize that she was going to be their professor for the next fifteen weeks. She may as well be a TA, albeit one in dated, almost frumpy, clothes.
The age difference between us doesn’t occur to me often, unless someone else exclaims, wow, she’s sixteen years older than you? I muse over that as the other kids my age start to settle in to their newly claimed territory, watching as they fiddle with pencils, text friends on their cell phones, and turn in their seats to chat to their neighbors. I overhear one of them mention Jen’s score on RateMyProfessor.com and fight the urge to laugh. I can’t help but smirk, however, as my sister clears her throat and starts the class. It’s too bad I’m in the front row, because I’m sure that the students’ expressions are noteworthy.
Even as she placidly takes over the class, I can already hear her after the class: at least they don’t think I’m an undergrad anymore.
Jen was blessed with a baby-face that, thus far, has only revealed an absolute minimum of wrinkles. But it’s funny how people tend to want what they don’t have, even when others would kill for that same thing. My sister’s of the firm belief that you should look exactly the age you are, and goes to war over her own looks every day to try and achieve that goal.
The students are silent as Jen passes out the syllabus. I take one, briefly entertaining the idea of being an undercover agent of some kind, and glance over it. Immediately I feel a rush of relief that my own days of taking gen ed classes are gone, even though the topic of this class—Intro. To Theater History—sounds vaguely interesting.
Jen’s been into theater for longer than anyone can tell, including her own parents. She took part in several plays in public school, from a casual walk-on in a Charlie Brown skit to a full-blown tour around the state in Nunsense when she was in high school. Dad likes to tell the story of my sister’s getting into college, and how after a semester of politely obeying her mother’s wishes to study business, she just as politely switched to drama, and hasn’t looked back since.
With her experience acting comes endless knowledge of makeup and costume design. Years of dressing up, down, backwards and diagonally have taught her how to look the part in any given situation, from the Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night to a nervous-ecstatic bride in her own wedding. The only time she can’t seem to get her act together is when she wants to the most: dressing herself for work. Two decades of mastering foundation, blush, and matching colors completely escapes her to the point where she is left looking not like a collected forty-year-old, but instead a thirty-year-old who might have stumbled into her mother’s wardrobe. Granted, the clothes would probably look classy on a lady in her fifties; on her, however…
I admit to myself as I watch the class that it’s funny I never think about our age differences much, except when we’re introducing each other. But then, maybe it’s the source of her chagrin that keeps me from thinking about her as older. After all, she’s been older than me from the start, so in my mind, nothing has changed. She’s still the ageless big sister I used to wave at during her performances amusing (and annoying) the theater at large with my declarations of that’s my sister!
A student asks a question, and Jen’s eyebrows lift with a silent question in turn as she listens to him. Then, she tells him that yes, it would be best if you showed up to class as often as possible. Then, with that twinkle in her eye, she adds in the same mild-mannered tone, I’d also recommend doing the homework, too. It should be pretty painless for both of us that way.
The student laughs a little, because he can’t tell if she’s joking or not. When she offers him a brief, close-lipped smile and then resumes discussing the syllabus, I turn my head in time to see him glancing at one of his friends as if to ask is she serious?
I smile to myself and pretend to return my attention to my sister’s words, but I’m far more interested in watching her move. Before class had started, I’d asked her if she ever felt nervous about beginning each new semester. When she’d agreed, I’d half-joked that maybe she should treat the first class as yet another play. However, as she moves to write her name and office hours on the board, I can’t help but wonder if she doesn’t already do that.
Her movements have always been deliberate, as though she calculated every flick of the wrist and the light squeak of the marker against the whiteboard. She doesn’t stumble or bump into anything as she paces back and forth along the front of the classroom, either; she takes a couple of steps, then stops for a beat before resuming.
Jen’s speech is as deliberate and thought-out as her moves. Her response to the student, her discussions with me, all begin and end with pauses as she considers the best angle to tackle something. Mom says Jen’s done that since she was a kid; rather than admit how awful dinner tasted, she would instead tactfully inform her parents that the peas made her knife smell funny and that she’d very much prefer if she could have, say, carrots instead.
That’s not to say that Jen is slow by any means, or that she’s low-energy. Really, each movement seems to be restraining energy more than summoning it; she only appears to release unexpected bursts of it if she laughs or is thrown out of her calculated behavior by an unexpected question.
And yet, with all of this careful thought put into her action, she still can’t manage to look like a thirty-nine year-old professor.
The syllabus was the only activity on today’s schedule, so when they finish reading it, Jen excuses the class. The room erupts in a series of sounds, from chairs scraping away from desks to the buzz of cell phones and the zip of closing backpacks. In less than a minute, the room is empty save for the two of us.
So, were you bored? Jen asks me, as she hunts for a whiteboard eraser.
I rise to help her look, shaking my head. Nah; I did kind of space out though.
That’s fine; I’m sure my actual students were, too. Her lips curve into a faint smile.
Maybe. You know, they looked kinda confused about you being up in front.
She blows a bit of hair out of her face, then sighs. At least no one asked me if I was the TA this time. But I really thought I’d dressed right this time.
I look over her stuffy cardigan, and offer a noncommittal Yeah; maybe you should just tell them how old you are upfront, or wear a nametag with your age on it or something.
Instead of taking my teasing for what it is, Jen decides to take it seriously for a moment, tilting her head as she pulls a paper towel out of her bag and uses that to wipe the board down instead. Maybe you’re right.
(Word count: 1295)
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Three Features
( Note: The only periodical I really read on a regular basis is the Washington Post. I tend to like reading about travel to far-off places, as well, so enjoy.)
A New Wrinkle on Japanese Menus
This piece combines travel, health issues and food critique into one short article, describing the use of collagen in one Tokyo restaurant's menu items. The lead into the article- a reference to the search for the Fountain of Youth- gets the reader straight into the subject-matter, as it should be in any news-piece. Then, the author goes on to describe the reasoning behind using collagen, a "connective protein in bones, skin and cartilage". He also touches briefly on the Japanese culture and the pressure to look as young as possible for as long as possible.
The layout of this piece allows the author to touch on several larger topics while focusing in on the one situation of a restaurant owner adding a "secret ingredient" to his menu. The article is about two pages long online, but is chopped up into several small, easy-to-read paragraphs that take seconds to skim over. The language is straightforward and the author makes sure to inform the reader of what they may not know, i.e. what collagen is.
A Village, or a Zoo?
This is a longer piece- 3 pages' worth in the online version- regarding a more serious situation for a group of women in Thailand. We've all read situations about people altering their own bodies either voluntarily or due to tradition and demand before; this focuses on the Padaung, a tribe of people whose women wear heavy brass rings to elongate their necks.
The work asks us a question to consider for long after we finish the piece, rather than wrapping up the entire thing into a neat little package. It's a question of morals, of tourists and tradition, and whether we should support or boycott practices that leave women- like in the article- in such uncertain circumstances. The paragraphs are longer, and the story winds through the narrator's seeking a way to see these long-necked women for themselves. It reads more like an excerpt from a travel blog or book than as an article that stands entirely on its own.
Why Are the Danes So Happy?
This piece immediately starts off on a light note, where the narrator claims to have simply set up a large sign in a park with the question listed in the title. Then, he slowly eases us into the meat of the story: the idea that while the Danes seem to be the happiest people on the Earth (at least, as of the publication of the article), the U.S. lists as only the 16th happiest. He then takes us through the possibilities of why, though the narrator keeps the tone of the piece lighthearted with little anecdotes of his own conversations with the locals and their reactions to his comments.
A New Wrinkle on Japanese Menus
This piece combines travel, health issues and food critique into one short article, describing the use of collagen in one Tokyo restaurant's menu items. The lead into the article- a reference to the search for the Fountain of Youth- gets the reader straight into the subject-matter, as it should be in any news-piece. Then, the author goes on to describe the reasoning behind using collagen, a "connective protein in bones, skin and cartilage". He also touches briefly on the Japanese culture and the pressure to look as young as possible for as long as possible.
The layout of this piece allows the author to touch on several larger topics while focusing in on the one situation of a restaurant owner adding a "secret ingredient" to his menu. The article is about two pages long online, but is chopped up into several small, easy-to-read paragraphs that take seconds to skim over. The language is straightforward and the author makes sure to inform the reader of what they may not know, i.e. what collagen is.
A Village, or a Zoo?
This is a longer piece- 3 pages' worth in the online version- regarding a more serious situation for a group of women in Thailand. We've all read situations about people altering their own bodies either voluntarily or due to tradition and demand before; this focuses on the Padaung, a tribe of people whose women wear heavy brass rings to elongate their necks.
The work asks us a question to consider for long after we finish the piece, rather than wrapping up the entire thing into a neat little package. It's a question of morals, of tourists and tradition, and whether we should support or boycott practices that leave women- like in the article- in such uncertain circumstances. The paragraphs are longer, and the story winds through the narrator's seeking a way to see these long-necked women for themselves. It reads more like an excerpt from a travel blog or book than as an article that stands entirely on its own.
Why Are the Danes So Happy?
This piece immediately starts off on a light note, where the narrator claims to have simply set up a large sign in a park with the question listed in the title. Then, he slowly eases us into the meat of the story: the idea that while the Danes seem to be the happiest people on the Earth (at least, as of the publication of the article), the U.S. lists as only the 16th happiest. He then takes us through the possibilities of why, though the narrator keeps the tone of the piece lighthearted with little anecdotes of his own conversations with the locals and their reactions to his comments.
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