Even though I'm not a fan of making resolutions on New Year's, the end of the year is still a good time to look forward, right?
If I'm neurotic about anything, it's planning ahead. For me, part of the fun of any new adventure is having time to work out the details in my head and get excited about it. Plus, by planning ahead, I can usually avoid that awful "I have no idea what's going on/where I'm going" feeling. So I search early and often for plane, train and bus tickets, haunt the websites of papers local to a potential new destination, buy a guidebook as soon as I know I'm going somewhere new, think about possible life scenarios years in advance and always have a backup plan. Or two.
As a result, there's a new guidebook on my shelf this month, and it's called The Rough Guide to Australia. (And I'll be adding Living and Working in Australia - thanks Santa! - and In a Sunburned Country - thanks big brother and sis-in-law! - to the travel shelf when I get back to DC next week.) Why? Because in 13 and a half months - February 2011 - I'll be starting my grad school program at Macquarie University, located just outside Sydney.
(I've said or typed some version of that statement at least a dozen times since I received my official "letter of offer" earlier this month, but it still makes me want to jump up and down, shrieking.)
So, why am I going down under, not for a vacation, but for a degree? The answer to that starts somewhere in my senior year of college, when I decided that pursuing a career in translation was a definite possibility. I hoped. Actually, the answer starts with my English to French Translation professor during my junior year abroad, Francesca Manzari - one of the most broad-minded, encouraging, quietly brilliant people I've had the pleasure to meet - but that's a longer story.
I looked at programs in Paris and Geneva, but the red tape for non-citizens of the E.U. was daunting. Added to which, translation is a much younger profession in the U.S. (well, much more recently recognized, anyway) than in Europe, and American companies and individuals tend to have a blended definition of translation (written) and interpretation (oral), while in Europe they're two very distinct disciplines. Given that I want to be able to work in the U.S., it made more sense to try to study both.
So I started looking for combined T&I (a common abbreviation for the two industries) programs and found one at the Monterey Institute of International Studies. It sounded like an amazing program, although the price tag made me nervous about the loans I'd have to take out. T&I is one of the sectors that's actually expected to continue experiencing job growth for the next decade or so, but it can still be difficult to break into, especially in the U.S., where people are sometimes convinced that a machine can do the job just as well. (Which it can't - machines and nuance don't mix.) What if I came out of school with a Master's from a stellar program, close to $100,000 in loans...and no job?
By poking around the web, I found another combined T&I program at some school called Macquarie in Australia, and kept it in the back of my mind as a less expensive option. I mentioned both schools to a friend from my study abroad program, and he found another program at Macquarie: a dual Master's in T&I and International Relations. It was the perfect combination of disciplines for me, since translating and/or interpreting for NGOs and international organizations is one of my top career choices. And it was still a two-year program and only marginally more expensive than Macquarie's T&I program alone.
Throughout the last year and a half, I've argued with myself countless times about whether to consider Macquarie or Monterey my first choice. They're both well-rated schools with international reputations. Monterey is more expensive; Macquarie is literally on the other side of the world. Monterey is closer to my family and friends than I've lived in a long time; Macquarie would be an unparalleled experience for me. This summer, I finally sat down and did some serious research. Annual tuition costs and cost-of-living estimates, average annual tuition increases for the last few years, plane ticket prices at various times of the year, average prices of apartment rentals listed near campus, internet and cell phone prices, the cost of buying a car in California vs. the cost of a bike and public transportation (and possibly a car) in Sydney...
Somewhat surprisingly, Macquarie came out as the less expensive option, even with two Transpacific trips per year. And since the program fits more exactly with what I want to do than Monterey's, I finally decided a few months ago that I would apply to Macquarie first, and to Monterey only if I wasn't accepted.
The school year in Australia runs from February to December (logical, when you consider the weather puts that at something like August to June in parts of the U.S.) but I didn't want to start in early 2010, so I asked if I could apply insanely far in advance for the 2011 school year. I collected my transcripts, got a copy of my diploma notarized, filled out the few pages of the application and sent it all off, mentally wringing my hands. With no letters of recommendation, how would they know I'm a good student, a dedicated one? With no résumé, how would they know what I've been doing with my life? Without a personal essay, how could I explain how completely the lone translation course on my transcripts changed the direction of my life? (On the other hand, not having to run around getting all of those things together felt really good, if I could ignore the nerves.)
Two weeks after the school had notified me that my application had been received, I opened my inbox to find an email titled "Macquarie University - Conditional Letter of Offer for Jessalyn Pinneo." My heart jumped into my throat. They wanted me! Sort of? I had to take a French language exam, and as long as my scores were acceptable, I would be admitted to the program. I tried not to get too excited, because it seemed like just the sort of thing that could jinx me into failing the exam.
Not quite two weeks later, I got another email that sent me jumping around my apartment with my hand clapped over my mouth to muffle the elated shrieking that might alarm my neighbors. It began, "Congratulations from Macquarie University!" and pretty much made my year right there.
So, Australia is what's next for me. Thrillingly, nerve-wrackingly, somewhat surprisingly next. There's still a lot of time before I go - a lot of planning to do (woo hoo!) and a lot of changes to make. Some days the fact that I'll be most of the way around the world in a little more than a year doesn't seem real. Other days, I can't believe it's still so far away. Either way, tomorrow is one day closer to my next new start, and I'll be taking today's lessons - and all of yesterday's - with me.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Making Connections
The general pattern for winter weather forecasts in Washington, DC is as follows:
This year, however, Snowpocalypse 2009 actually arrived (on December 18th/19th - I know, I'm very late and have been very bad about posting lately) and sent the area into a frenzy with about 16 inches of snow in less than 24 hours. Which happened to be the same 24 hour period in which I was attempting to leave the area to visit my parents for a couple of weeks.
The snow started Friday evening, but it was drifting down so slowly and looked so pretty that I wasn't worried. Until I tried to schedule a pick-up for my 7:00am flight on Saturday and was told by every cab company in Arlington, VA that they weren't accepting reservations for Saturday - I would have to call as soon as I was ready in the morning and take my chances. Okay, so the cab companies were spooked. No big deal, they were overreacting, just like the weather forecasters, right?
Wrong. I woke up to a terrible scraping noise at 3:00am and looked out my window. A pick-up truck with a plow attached to its grille was clearing my building's parking lot of the four or five inches of snow that had accumulated. (Yes, for normal people in places that acknowledge that they get winter weather, that amount of snow is nothing to worry about. In DC, which - when it comes to weather and food, at least - is adamant that it's Southern, two inches is enough to shut down the streets and send people into a panic.) Oh good, I thought, the city was (inexplicably) starting with my parking lot, but then they'd start plowing the streets and everything would be fine in a couple of hours. I got up a little early and got ready to leave, spent 10 minutes on hold with a cab company and, at 4:50, was given a pick-up time in 30 minutes. A little long for a company whose drivers often park/idle next to my building at night, but no big deal.
By 5:30, I was worried. No cab yet, no call from the company telling me when the cab was coming and their lines were now so jammed I couldn't get anything but a busy signal. I took all of my stuff downstairs (Did I mention that my cat, a total stranger to air travel, was included in my luggage?) and flinched when I looked outside. The wind had picked up since I'd gotten out of bed, the snow was coming down harder and it was quite clear that the streets had not been plowed. Another resident was pacing around the lobby, trying to get through to any cab company while the security guard on duty looked up bus schedules for him. I offered to share my cab, if it ever arrived, and paced in the opposite direction, on hold with the cab company again.
By 5:50, my partner in panic (his flight was also at 7:00) had decided to give either a bus or one of the nearby hotels' shuttles a try. I was ready to walk at that point - DCA is literally down the street from my apartment, 1.7 miles by car according to Google maps - but I had no idea what Nala's tolerance for cold might be and I didn't want to risk giving her hypothermia by spending more than a couple of minutes either walking or waiting for a bus in the snow. I promised my fellow traveler that when (if) the cab showed up, we'd circle the block to look for him.
Shortly after he left, a woman came downstairs headed for the J.Crew sale at the nearby mall, which apparently started at 6:00. She was debating driving or walking and I was desperate enough at that point to offer her $20 to drive me to the airport. She decided she'd rather avoid driving in the snow and opted to walk to the mall.
Another resident pulled into the lot just after 6:00 and I briefly debated physically throwing myself in front of his Jeep and begging for a ride (without letting go of my cell phone, of course - I was still on hold with the cab company) before deciding it was on the edge of too late anyway. He came in as I was debating running back upstairs to call the airline from my land line to ask about a later flight, and the security guard - who had been on hold with another cab company for about half an hour at that point - asked if he would consider driving me to the airport, since she knew him. He was clearly reluctant, having just finished work and a long, snowy drive home, but when he looked at me his expression wavered (I have no idea what my face looked like, but it was probably painful to look at) and I pressed my momentary advantage, launching into a series of - polite, I hope - pleas interspersed with explanations of why I wasn't already outside dragging my luggage through the snow.
This gentleman turned out to be the nicest person on the face of the planet and said he'd drop his work gear upstairs and come back down to drive me to the airport. We left at 6:15, with me thanking him profusely approximately every 12 seconds.
It took Mr. NPE (Nicest Person Ever) and I 15 minutes to drive that 1.7 miles, and we only saw one cab (not from the cab company I was waiting for, which, incidentally, never did call to tell me they weren't coming), trying very hard not to slide backward down the ramp into the airport. Everything else on the road was SUVs. After thanking him one last time (okay, maybe it was more like six last times), I gave Mr. NPE my apartment number for anything he might need in the future - cereal, a cup of sugar, a kidney - and dashed into the terminal at 6:30, crossing my fingers and trying not to jostle Nala.
I got checked in with no trouble thanks to the minuscule size of Reagan National and at 6:45 tore off in the direction of the escalators and the security line, which turned out not to be a line at all, thanks again to the tiny size of DCA and the fact that a number of people were having the same trouble I had getting to the airport. (And, I found out later, to the fact that Delta had canceled all its flights the night before.) I scooped up a confused and fairly terrified Nala and clung to her for dear life while TSA ran her carrier through security, coaxed her back inside, grabbed a bottle of water and pelted down the concourse to my gate, stopping just long enough to hand my boarding pass to the gate agent, who was in the process of opening up all the unclaimed seats on the flight to stand-by passengers.
Fortunately, the woman sitting on the aisle in my row liked cats and cooed over Nala as much as the flight attendants had while I got her situated under the seat and we exchanged "getting to the airport" stories. One of the stand-by passengers claimed the seat between us and joined the conversation. While we laughed with relief over our good fortune in having made it onto a plane that was apparently going to take off, the stand-by passenger looked thoughtfully at Nala and said, "You know, I think I was on a shuttle with one of your neighbors. This guy was trying to get the driver to go past this apartment building because there was a woman there who couldn't make it to the shuttle because she couldn't take her cat outside. He even offered the driver $15, but he couldn't deviate from his route." My partner in panic hadn't forgotten me!
Neither of my seatmates nor I had eaten breakfast, but once we had been de-iced, anti-iced and cleared for take-off, they each bought snack boxes (which, when it came my turn to ask for one, turned out to have been the last two on the plane) and our row had a mini-party with them and the magazines we'd all brought. In between snatches of sleep, it was definitely the most fun I've had on a plane since high school Model UN trips. And although we took off an hour and a half late (de-icing takes a while, and before that the taxiway had to be plowed), we arrived a mere 27 minutes behind schedule.
That Saturday started with the potential to be the worst day in recent memory, but through the kindness, generosity and good humor of strangers, it turned out to be one of the best. Nala and I will definitely be baking a batch of "thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" brownies for Mr. NPE when we get back to DC. And I'll be happily paying forward all that good cheer with every stranger I meet for a long time to come.
- Forecast snow.
- Predict that it will be the biggest storm in a decade, liable to keep everyone at home for days and make it impossible to get anywhere or do anything.
- Send broadcasters to report on every single snowflake that falls on or near the District.
- Make it sound like the world is coming to an end once the first quarter-inch is on the ground.
- Pretend nothing was ever mentioned about a snowstorm once the snow stops after reaching a total accumulation of approximately half an inch.
This year, however, Snowpocalypse 2009 actually arrived (on December 18th/19th - I know, I'm very late and have been very bad about posting lately) and sent the area into a frenzy with about 16 inches of snow in less than 24 hours. Which happened to be the same 24 hour period in which I was attempting to leave the area to visit my parents for a couple of weeks.
The snow started Friday evening, but it was drifting down so slowly and looked so pretty that I wasn't worried. Until I tried to schedule a pick-up for my 7:00am flight on Saturday and was told by every cab company in Arlington, VA that they weren't accepting reservations for Saturday - I would have to call as soon as I was ready in the morning and take my chances. Okay, so the cab companies were spooked. No big deal, they were overreacting, just like the weather forecasters, right?
Wrong. I woke up to a terrible scraping noise at 3:00am and looked out my window. A pick-up truck with a plow attached to its grille was clearing my building's parking lot of the four or five inches of snow that had accumulated. (Yes, for normal people in places that acknowledge that they get winter weather, that amount of snow is nothing to worry about. In DC, which - when it comes to weather and food, at least - is adamant that it's Southern, two inches is enough to shut down the streets and send people into a panic.) Oh good, I thought, the city was (inexplicably) starting with my parking lot, but then they'd start plowing the streets and everything would be fine in a couple of hours. I got up a little early and got ready to leave, spent 10 minutes on hold with a cab company and, at 4:50, was given a pick-up time in 30 minutes. A little long for a company whose drivers often park/idle next to my building at night, but no big deal.
By 5:30, I was worried. No cab yet, no call from the company telling me when the cab was coming and their lines were now so jammed I couldn't get anything but a busy signal. I took all of my stuff downstairs (Did I mention that my cat, a total stranger to air travel, was included in my luggage?) and flinched when I looked outside. The wind had picked up since I'd gotten out of bed, the snow was coming down harder and it was quite clear that the streets had not been plowed. Another resident was pacing around the lobby, trying to get through to any cab company while the security guard on duty looked up bus schedules for him. I offered to share my cab, if it ever arrived, and paced in the opposite direction, on hold with the cab company again.
By 5:50, my partner in panic (his flight was also at 7:00) had decided to give either a bus or one of the nearby hotels' shuttles a try. I was ready to walk at that point - DCA is literally down the street from my apartment, 1.7 miles by car according to Google maps - but I had no idea what Nala's tolerance for cold might be and I didn't want to risk giving her hypothermia by spending more than a couple of minutes either walking or waiting for a bus in the snow. I promised my fellow traveler that when (if) the cab showed up, we'd circle the block to look for him.
Shortly after he left, a woman came downstairs headed for the J.Crew sale at the nearby mall, which apparently started at 6:00. She was debating driving or walking and I was desperate enough at that point to offer her $20 to drive me to the airport. She decided she'd rather avoid driving in the snow and opted to walk to the mall.
Another resident pulled into the lot just after 6:00 and I briefly debated physically throwing myself in front of his Jeep and begging for a ride (without letting go of my cell phone, of course - I was still on hold with the cab company) before deciding it was on the edge of too late anyway. He came in as I was debating running back upstairs to call the airline from my land line to ask about a later flight, and the security guard - who had been on hold with another cab company for about half an hour at that point - asked if he would consider driving me to the airport, since she knew him. He was clearly reluctant, having just finished work and a long, snowy drive home, but when he looked at me his expression wavered (I have no idea what my face looked like, but it was probably painful to look at) and I pressed my momentary advantage, launching into a series of - polite, I hope - pleas interspersed with explanations of why I wasn't already outside dragging my luggage through the snow.
This gentleman turned out to be the nicest person on the face of the planet and said he'd drop his work gear upstairs and come back down to drive me to the airport. We left at 6:15, with me thanking him profusely approximately every 12 seconds.
It took Mr. NPE (Nicest Person Ever) and I 15 minutes to drive that 1.7 miles, and we only saw one cab (not from the cab company I was waiting for, which, incidentally, never did call to tell me they weren't coming), trying very hard not to slide backward down the ramp into the airport. Everything else on the road was SUVs. After thanking him one last time (okay, maybe it was more like six last times), I gave Mr. NPE my apartment number for anything he might need in the future - cereal, a cup of sugar, a kidney - and dashed into the terminal at 6:30, crossing my fingers and trying not to jostle Nala.
I got checked in with no trouble thanks to the minuscule size of Reagan National and at 6:45 tore off in the direction of the escalators and the security line, which turned out not to be a line at all, thanks again to the tiny size of DCA and the fact that a number of people were having the same trouble I had getting to the airport. (And, I found out later, to the fact that Delta had canceled all its flights the night before.) I scooped up a confused and fairly terrified Nala and clung to her for dear life while TSA ran her carrier through security, coaxed her back inside, grabbed a bottle of water and pelted down the concourse to my gate, stopping just long enough to hand my boarding pass to the gate agent, who was in the process of opening up all the unclaimed seats on the flight to stand-by passengers.
Fortunately, the woman sitting on the aisle in my row liked cats and cooed over Nala as much as the flight attendants had while I got her situated under the seat and we exchanged "getting to the airport" stories. One of the stand-by passengers claimed the seat between us and joined the conversation. While we laughed with relief over our good fortune in having made it onto a plane that was apparently going to take off, the stand-by passenger looked thoughtfully at Nala and said, "You know, I think I was on a shuttle with one of your neighbors. This guy was trying to get the driver to go past this apartment building because there was a woman there who couldn't make it to the shuttle because she couldn't take her cat outside. He even offered the driver $15, but he couldn't deviate from his route." My partner in panic hadn't forgotten me!
Neither of my seatmates nor I had eaten breakfast, but once we had been de-iced, anti-iced and cleared for take-off, they each bought snack boxes (which, when it came my turn to ask for one, turned out to have been the last two on the plane) and our row had a mini-party with them and the magazines we'd all brought. In between snatches of sleep, it was definitely the most fun I've had on a plane since high school Model UN trips. And although we took off an hour and a half late (de-icing takes a while, and before that the taxiway had to be plowed), we arrived a mere 27 minutes behind schedule.
That Saturday started with the potential to be the worst day in recent memory, but through the kindness, generosity and good humor of strangers, it turned out to be one of the best. Nala and I will definitely be baking a batch of "thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!" brownies for Mr. NPE when we get back to DC. And I'll be happily paying forward all that good cheer with every stranger I meet for a long time to come.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
What happened to "Girl Power?"
I've been thinking about this since my Metro ride this morning. I averted my eyes from the girl standing across from me after one glance, because I didn't want her to think I was judging her. She was probably 16 or 17, was wearing more makeup than I used to wear on stage, had intentional bedhead hair - perfectly curled and carefully tousled - and wore a push-up bra that was beyond extreme and showcased by her shirt, which was unbuttoned to the top of her ribcage.
As I stared out the window, wondering why so many young women feel the need to call attention to themselves in such negative ways, I started to feel sorry for her, and then to feel sad. Teenage girls like her have a sense of self-worth that's obviously wrapped up in their looks, and I feel like they're in the majority these days.
I went to middle school and high school with some girls who dressed similarly to the young woman I saw on the Metro, but the majority of the girls I grew up with valued their minds and personalities above their perceived attractiveness or sexuality - at least most of the time. We came of age with The Babysitters' Club, the first wave of American Girl dolls and books, Jewel's first three albums and Martina McBride's powerhouse voice and feminist message.
Yes, we felt immense pressure to be thin, to be pretty, to fit in, but we were encouraged at least as often to be ourselves, whatever that looked like. We embraced female artists with individualist tendencies, like Natalie Imbruglia and Dido, and snickered at cookie-cutter pop divas like Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson (even if we did sometimes sing their songs). We were still figuring out who we were, but we celebrated the parts of ourselves we knew and did our best to accept the aspects we knew were still changing.
One of my strongest memories that evokes the positive message I remember growing up with is from my 14th birthday party. My girlfriends and I were at my house and, having pushed the dining room table and chairs out of the way, were taking turns lip-synching/singing and dancing to our favorite songs, blasted on my parents' boom box. Five of us got up to do a Spice Girls favorite (I don't remember which one, but best bets are "Wannabe," "Spice Up Your Life," or "Stop"), arms around each other, singing at the top of our lungs into plastic spoon "microphones," grinning and laughing the whole time. Someone snapped a picture and every time I look at it, I remember how strong and happy and loved I felt at that moment.
The Spice Girls' motto was "Girl Power!" It's a pretty good expression of society's attitude toward young women in the 90s, and the women I know who grew up during that time took it to heart and remember it fondly. I haven't been a teenager in a while, nor do I know many anymore, but that positive, affirming outlook doesn't seem to be as evident in today's society. Gender equality was never in question for me, and I think that holds true across most of my generation; the idea that being women meant we had to look or dress or act a certain way never occurred to us. Our mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers had fought to be fully-functioning, completely equal members of society and had won (back then, I didn't hear much about women earning less than men). We were lucky enough to live in a time when all we had to do was enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Now I wonder if we're forgetting, as a society, what those women fought for and why. Women's suffrage and women's lib aren't subjects that are often covered in history classes. In fact, I only learned about the history of the women's rights movement in a classroom twice: when I selected women's suffrage in the U.S. as my topic for a history project in eighth grade, and when I studied Roe v. Wade in American Government in high school. Combine that lack of attention with the number of Americans who identify as anti-choice actually increasing and girls being inundated with air-brushed images of chemically and surgically altered models and performers, and I'm not sure how we can expect being a woman to continue to carry a positive message of independence and strength.
What happened to girl power, and why does it feel like we're slipping back to a time when a woman's face was more important than what went on behind it?
As I stared out the window, wondering why so many young women feel the need to call attention to themselves in such negative ways, I started to feel sorry for her, and then to feel sad. Teenage girls like her have a sense of self-worth that's obviously wrapped up in their looks, and I feel like they're in the majority these days.
I went to middle school and high school with some girls who dressed similarly to the young woman I saw on the Metro, but the majority of the girls I grew up with valued their minds and personalities above their perceived attractiveness or sexuality - at least most of the time. We came of age with The Babysitters' Club, the first wave of American Girl dolls and books, Jewel's first three albums and Martina McBride's powerhouse voice and feminist message.
Yes, we felt immense pressure to be thin, to be pretty, to fit in, but we were encouraged at least as often to be ourselves, whatever that looked like. We embraced female artists with individualist tendencies, like Natalie Imbruglia and Dido, and snickered at cookie-cutter pop divas like Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson (even if we did sometimes sing their songs). We were still figuring out who we were, but we celebrated the parts of ourselves we knew and did our best to accept the aspects we knew were still changing.
One of my strongest memories that evokes the positive message I remember growing up with is from my 14th birthday party. My girlfriends and I were at my house and, having pushed the dining room table and chairs out of the way, were taking turns lip-synching/singing and dancing to our favorite songs, blasted on my parents' boom box. Five of us got up to do a Spice Girls favorite (I don't remember which one, but best bets are "Wannabe," "Spice Up Your Life," or "Stop"), arms around each other, singing at the top of our lungs into plastic spoon "microphones," grinning and laughing the whole time. Someone snapped a picture and every time I look at it, I remember how strong and happy and loved I felt at that moment.
The Spice Girls' motto was "Girl Power!" It's a pretty good expression of society's attitude toward young women in the 90s, and the women I know who grew up during that time took it to heart and remember it fondly. I haven't been a teenager in a while, nor do I know many anymore, but that positive, affirming outlook doesn't seem to be as evident in today's society. Gender equality was never in question for me, and I think that holds true across most of my generation; the idea that being women meant we had to look or dress or act a certain way never occurred to us. Our mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers had fought to be fully-functioning, completely equal members of society and had won (back then, I didn't hear much about women earning less than men). We were lucky enough to live in a time when all we had to do was enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Now I wonder if we're forgetting, as a society, what those women fought for and why. Women's suffrage and women's lib aren't subjects that are often covered in history classes. In fact, I only learned about the history of the women's rights movement in a classroom twice: when I selected women's suffrage in the U.S. as my topic for a history project in eighth grade, and when I studied Roe v. Wade in American Government in high school. Combine that lack of attention with the number of Americans who identify as anti-choice actually increasing and girls being inundated with air-brushed images of chemically and surgically altered models and performers, and I'm not sure how we can expect being a woman to continue to carry a positive message of independence and strength.
What happened to girl power, and why does it feel like we're slipping back to a time when a woman's face was more important than what went on behind it?
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