I Wasn't Looking At Porn!

I wasn’t looking at porn, although the staff at the Oregon State Valley Library may claim differently. The question up for debate in the matter was not what constitutes pornography but rather, what exactly constitutes looking?” Now I accept that everyone sees a situation from their own point of view, but I maintain that the following events are true to the best of my recollection and I leave the judgement of this matter up to you, the humble reader.

It was December 2004 and I was sitting in the library computer lab, terminal 84 to be exact. I had just finished a 22 page paper on conflict resolution – albeit the dumbest and worst paper I had ever written. The assignment: explain in detail a conflict currently going on in one’s life and explain through the use of various conflict resolution and mediation techniques the methods one could use to resolve the matter. Since the only conflict I had at the time was my conflict over writing a 22 page paper on a conflict I opted to write about my conflict over being assigned to write a 22 page paper about a conflict I wasn’t having. (I got an A.)

At any rate, there I sat, putting the finishing touches on my paper. I hit print and walked, with a rather robust spring in my step for someone who had been up for over 2 days, to the printing kiosk. I actually managed to smile as I pulled my paper from the printer and put a staple, just so in the top left hand corner. I walked back to terminal 84 and checked the time. I had 10 minutes before I was meeting my boyfriend Jensen so I figured I’d check my email one last time.

In my exhaustion and delirium I typed the web address wrong. Simple mistake, easily corrected most days. But today was not most days. Today, I typed hotmale.com instead of hotmail.com. And instead of being greeted by the nice blue and white MSN log in page and reports from my mom of the latest case of my grandfather's gout and a box of cookies being sent in the mail, I was greeted by the largest manhood I had ever seen. Not only was this man’s “hood” displayed ever so abundantly on my screen, surrounding what I assumed was a doctored picture, was one of those obnoxious flashing yellow boxes with the words, “YOU WANT IT NOW” flashing over it in a sunshine array of colors.

Now, the logical thing to do would be to simply and quickly navigate away from the page. But that didn’t work. Ok, so I hit the little x on the top right corner and still nothing. I tried to remain calm, I did. But I’m an east coast girl in a west coast world. So, I began to panic. I quickly thought to simply log off the computer. I went to the START bottom on the bottom left and the dialogue box opened and I thought, “I’m home free – only to have my hopes dashed by that stupid arrow. You know the little arrow, the little arrow that guides you on your journey through cyberspace – it was locked and now the log off box was stuck open on the bottom of my screen too. Unfortuneatly the box was not large enough to cover the cock flashing in the middle of my screen. I quickly turn to the pimply young man next to me and I tell him my computer screen is stuck. He says try to hit Escape. I hit that button like 30 times and …nothing. I tell him it’s not working. He says let me take a look and he pokes his head around the corner of that divider wall that pretends to issue privacy to co-eds as the work but really only serve to post memos by librarian staff that read, “Any student caught looking at porn in the computer lab will have their computer usage privledges revoked.” This young man’s head pokes around the corner of our divider wall and he says, “Whoa, lady you’re like hard core!”
“No I’m not, it just came up on my screen and I want it gone.”
‘He just laughed and said ask the help desk.
The help desk, the help desk, yes, this was a solution. A desk designed for the sole purpose of helping people like me – those us non savy computer type people. Those of us who don’t spend their nights playing dungeons and dragons and grad theft auto, yes the help desk would help.

I got up from my chair and quickly and calmly walked up to the help desk, only to have my hopes of an easy solution to my dilemma being delivered by some nerdy computer geek dashed. I was instead confronted by Constance – the white- haired old lady librarian who wore those squeaky shoes and rather tight cordoroy pants for a old lady librarian. Constance the women with pictures of her 20 grandkids and her latest trip to the Grand Canyon on display on her desk. Constance who had a hard candy dish on the desk for those of us seeking her guidance and assistance in the wee hours of the morning. Constance, the women who I was about to ask to remove the porn from my computer screen. This was really not going well. I swallowed hard. I quickly explained that my computer was frozen. I didn’t provide any other details. Constance asked what happened and I said I didn’t know. I told her I was trying to navigate to my email site and it just froze. She then delivered doom, “That’s been happening lately”, she cackled. “Let’s go over there and see what I can figure out. “
• “Noooooooooo”, I bellowed. “Can’t you just tell me how to fix it and I’ll go take care of it.”
• “Well, I can’t tell you how to fit it without seeing it. Let’s just go over there. What’s your station number?”
• “Really it’s no big deal”, I replied. “I’ll just come back later.”
• “Well, if you leave I still have to fix it for the next person” she said as she came around the counter and started heading in the direction she saw me come from. “What computer were you at?” she asked over her shoulder.
• “Number 84” I mumbled almost inaudibly.
Constance’s shoes made that muffled squelching sound that squeaky shoes will make on carpet as she padded over to my terminal. She came around the corner to walk down my aisle with me schlumping behind her. The young boy sitting at the terminal next to mine had this silly grin on his face. I wanted to kill him.
Constance turned around and said to me, “Don’t worry, we’ll fix this together. Let’s see what we have here.”
And she turned around only to be confronted by “the neon yellow, you want it now picture of the that mans hood”.
• “Oh my god. Oh my, oh dear, Oh my. Young lady”, she stammered, “You are NOT allowed to look at pornographic materials in the library.”
Now, when a little grey-haired old lady says the word porn, the world stops. Everything grew suddenly quite and I felt the eyes of every co-ed in the room on me.
• “I wasn’t looking at porn,” I declared
• “Yes she was”, said the pimple young man seated next to me, a smile escaping from his acrid mouth.
• “You shut up” I yelled.
• “I’m going to have to revoke your library privledges young lady”, Constance declared.
• “Please don’t. I wasn’t looking at porn. I was trying to check my hotmail account to see if I got any emails and I just typed the address wrong. It was a simple mistake. I really need to use the library. I’m a grad student for Christ sake” I pleaded.
• “I’m sorry but rules are rules”, she said as she wrote down the username on the bottom of my computer screen. She then tried to turn off the computer but it wouldn’t work.
• “I tried that already”, I told her.
• “Well, it looks like we are going to have to put in a work order for this and just leave it for tomorrow.”
• “WHAT????” I seemingly yelled.
• “Well, I can’t fix it. It’s stuck, we’ll just have to turn off the screen and put a do not use sign on there until the morning.”

Turn off the screen. Why didn’t I think of that? So simple, so basic, so genious.
"Follow me", Constance barked.
I grabbed my satchel and things and followed Constance back to the desk. I gave her my name and she told me my privledges would be revoked and that I would get a letter in the mail and my account would be turned off tomorrow. I begged, pleaded asked to appeal – she was unmovable. I slumped away angry, down trodden, exhausted and just pissed. I met Jensen at the doors to the library and he was like,
“Why was that little old lady yelling at you?”
I told him she took away my privileges for looking at porn. He cracked up.
"Really, you were looking at porn?"
He said this with the magical lilt in the voice that only a 24 year old man can muster when the topic of porn comes up. I told him the story and how I had to appeal this b/c I needed to use the library to write my thesis, to grade papers, to do everything! We walked home with Jensen trying to comfort me under his secretly proud eyes that it was his girlfriend who just got kicked out of the library for looking at pron.
That night as I flip flopped in bed the irony of my situation finally hit home. I was in a conflict, and finally had a 22 page worthy topic to write about.

This Ain't Fear Factor!

We simply went out to dinner. And this night was no different from the other 23 nights that we went out for our evening meal as we travelled the Camino through Spain. It didn't matter the location, the appearance or how busy the resturant/bar was, the pilgrim menu was always the same. A three course meal of soup,salad or pasta, followed by a plate of meat with a side of french fries, and a dessert of either flan, an orange on a plate, or rice pudding. In over 500 miles of walking the menu was always the same and roughly cost eight euros. 

So on our 23rd evening of taking our evening pilgrims menu we didn't expect anything much different. That is until Max and Jim noticed that the menu card had advertised a three course meal special featuring local, traditional delicacies. And at only 10 euros it seemed like a nice change of pace. Given that Max and Jim didn't speak Spanish, it fell to Emily to translate the waitress's description of the menu. It went exactly like this: First course is a meat dish of mostly pork, the second course is of vegetables, the third course is soup and the fourth is a dessert of your choice. Max and Jim were excited, four whole courses for only two euros more! They quickly opted for the special menu. Emily, Dan and I opted to stick to the traditional pilgrim menu. A fortuitous decision in hindsight. 

As Emily, Dan and I dug into our first course of pasta noodles drenched in red sauce and cheese, the waitress arrived with Max and Jim's first platter. She placed before them a large white bowl, filled with animal parts. A look of horror crossed Max and Dan's faces, followed shortly by a look of confusion. Max was the first to speak. "

"What is that?", he exclaimed while pointing towards the bowl of animal parts.

"More over are we supposed to eat that?", Jim wondered aloud.

Emily quickly grabbed the waitress and asked her what type of meat was in the bowl. The waitress cheerily explained that it was boiled pig parts. She kept smiling at Max and Jim and indicated that they should dig in.

"Boiled pig parts! Boiled pig parts! What does she mean parts? What parts?", Max loudly whispered. 

"Well for starters, here are some pig ears", Jim said, while spearing a boiled ear with his fork and waving it in the air for all of us to see.

"Ok, I'm eating here. You got to put that down", Dan stated. "Really, that is just gross."

"Come on, eat an ear! Or wait, look, there's a hoof. Is that a fingernail on that hoof?", Jim speculated as he prodded a hoof in the bowl.

"Holy shit! I can't eat that. That is seriously a bowl of pig trotters", Max yelped.

"Ok, we have to eat something from the bowl", Jim conjectured.

"This ain't fear factor and I'm not eating shit from that bowl!," Max declared.

"Look, this is a perfectly good piece of bacon right here. So it's gray, it's still bacon. Why don't you eat that?", Jim said as he placed a piece of boiled pig on Max's plate.

"No way! I can't do it."

"Max, it's just bacon."

"That's not like any bacon I ever ate. Besides what are you going to eat?"

"I'm going to dig into that trodder."

"Oh, that's just wrong dude. There are still nails on that shit."

This went on for about five minutes. Jim happily tucking into a pig trotter, Max picking at his bacon, while the rest of us dined on steak and french fries. As Max and Jim finished their first selection they began to ponder the feasibility of finishing the bowl of pig parts. On one hand they didn't want to feel rude by not eating the bowl of pig, on the other hand, Max was becoming certain that he was being secretly taped for an episode of Fear Factor - Spain. So, it came down to this. 

Fifty euros paid in cash to the person who would eat at least two larger parts out of the bowl.

Jim laid down this offer, probably not thinking anyone would do it. But Dan, my fellow American hailing from the "We eat road kill" state of Alaska, quickly accepted the challenge. 

Because a good sum of money was being thrown down, the following rules were agreed upon after heated negotiation. 

1) Dan had to eat one hoof (or trotter as the English call it), one ear, and one unknown bacon like substance.

2) Dan would be able to wash down the food with beer, wine or any beverage of his choice.

3) He was not allowed to regurgitate the food for at least 5 minutes. 

Dan anxiously agreed and began to eat. And after the longest and most tedious 7 minutes of his 26 years of life he finished his three items. He pocked the money Jim placed on the table, checked his watch, indicated 5 minutes had elapsed and politely excused himself from the table. The rest of us finished up our ice cream and paid the bill. 

We met Dan outside the bar and began our walk back to the alburgue in silence, each contemplating all that had transpired in the course of one evening out to dinner. The special menu never held the same allure for Max and for the remainder of the trip he stuck exclusively to the pilgrims menu. Jim continued to explore the Spanish daily specials but none were as interesting as that first night. Dan recovered from his fear factor meal but he could never look at a pig the same again. As for Emily and me, we spent the last 15 days on the Camino reminding the boys that the Cambridge Dictionary defines "special" as "that which is better, greater or otherwise different from what is usual."

A Walk in Spain - a photo memoir

Photobucket Album

Starbucks Encountered

     Apparently, my beauty is mesmerizing. Or at least that is what the man who handed me his email address scribbled on a piece of scrap paper said to me. I saw him staring at me at the Starbucks, where I sat typing new stories for my blog spot. Every time I sat back and looked up from my screen he was there staring at me. I offered a weak smile and looked away, appearing engrossed in my work. When I saw him leave I felt relieved and then I felt bad for having felt relieved. But my feeling would be short lived as I looked up and there he was standing next to my table, my mystery man in a blue Carhart type work jacked. He walked up to me and said, "I felt compelled to come back and take a chance. Do what you feel is right by you but your beauty is mesmerizing and I wanted to take my chance and give you my email."

     He said his name was Mike and I said I was Annie and that was that. He walked away. The older gentlemen sitting across from me gave me one of those knowing smiles and I just laughed. Mike's actions were flattering, humorous, bold and brazen - two qualities I admire. Too bad he was born under the wrong name, I thought as I tore up his email address. I mean, after all, I've never met a Mike that wasn't a dick. I should know. I've dated 12 of them. 

(p.s. - this does not mean that I don't have friends named Mike or that Mike's are not good people. It just means that I shouldn't date them. But maybe you should. Anyway, I mean no offense to Mike's around the world.)

Scrambled Egg on the Onion, Turkish Honey and Other Mistranslations

     The small table placard sandwiched between the salt and peppers shakers and the napkin holder proved to be an interesting read. Blazoned across the top in big, bold letters were the words, "Breakfast Options".  I decided to peruse my options since it was breakfast time and I was hungry. My eyes reached the fourth option on the list, when my brain seemingly stopped processing. I had to shake my head a few times to decode the English translation of this mystery breakfast item. The menu read, "Scrambled Egg on the Onion".  

"What?", I said aloud as I read the entry again.

     "Jochen, does that really say, "Scrambled Egg ON the Onion"?"

Jochen took the sign and read to where I was pointing. He nodded his head and laughed and said, "Yeah, that says Scrambled Egg on the Onion."

     We immediately began trying to decode this translation. Was it merely a typo and meant to read scrambled egg with onion? Or if it was an accurate translation would I, if I dared to order it, really be served a whole onion topped with one scrambled egg? Was the onion cooked we wondered? Was the onion chopped and sauteed before the egg being placed on top or was it just scrambled eggs with sauteed onions mixed in? 

     We read the rest of the breakfast card searching for clues that would unravel the mystery of this translation. To our surprise we noticed that the other translations were seemingly accurate. The menu items read, "Scrambled Eggs WITH Bacon", "Scrambled Eggs WITH Toast". Not ON Bacon or ON Toast but WITH. Therefore, how could the translation for Scrambled Egg On the Onion be wrong? Obviously, whoever translated the menu items knew On from With. Even the German translation on the card read On and not With. Jochen and I were stumped. Moreover, since neither of us was willing to order item number 4 to solve the mystery, Jochen and I were forced to concede that the translation was accurate and "Scrambled Egg ON the Onion" was indeed a valid breakfast description.

This was not to be the last of my encounters with translation faux pas on my travels through Europe. A mere two days after the Scrambled Egg on the Onion episode, I found myself spitting my non-fizzy water into the sleeve of my sweater when Jochen, at the wheel of our green, road trippin, Skoda automobile, turned to me and said, "Can I have some of your Turkish Honey?"

Pppfffttt, was the sound the water made as it hit the glove box in front of me. "Excuse me", I said as I gave Jochen a very curious look mixed with laughter.

"What?", he said. "I just want some of your Turkish Honey."

"I know what you said but don't you have a girlfriend for that?" I argued back. 

After a second in which confusion passed over Jochen's face, he began laughing and said, "Annie, I want some of the candy you bought at the store. What do you call it?" and he pointed to the little compartment in the passenger side door where I had put the nougat. 

"Uh, we call that nougat in the states," I laughed as I pulled out the nougat and handed him a piece.

"What did you think I meant?", he asked me.

"Well, I thought you were getting frisky and that you were using the term "Turkish Honey" as a euphemism for fooling around."

Now it was Jochen's turn to almost spit out water. He just shook his head at me, laughter erupting sporadically from him as he continued to drive down the road. 

We continue our road trip for two more days before arriving back at his apartment in Saarbrucken.  We were making ourselves at home and unpacking our things when Jochen walks into the kitchen and says to me, "What does get your freak on me?"

Water again spews from my mouth and my eyes fill with the tears of laughter. 

"Ok, I'm done!" I say.

"What? What does this mean?"

"Jochen, where did you hear this phrase?"

"It's written on the letter enclosed with my bike parts. What does it mean?"

"Hmmm, well...."

As I stood there in front of Jochen trying to figure out how to explain what "Get Your Freak On" means I was suddenly overcome with a strong desire to be home in the states where things made sense, where things didn't need to be translated for me. But as I fumbled for a way to explain to Jochen this simple phrase I realized that I was at a loss for a translation. In fact, I needed my own slang dictionary/thesaurus to decipher the correct meaning. Maybe the linguistic errors encountered on my travels were not isolated to travelling outside the U.S. but maybe there were a part of my everyday life experiences, in which I translate for myself the meaning of words, things, actions, etc. Maybe, just maybe, Scrambled Egg on the Onion, Turkish Honey and Get Your Freak On were subject to individual interpretation. Or maybe not.... 

Making Much Water

He appeared as though a mirage. I first noticed him as a blue figure in the distance, clearly a fellow pilgrim as no locals walked this stretch of road. The gravel path, scratched out of the edge of a farmers field, paralleled the highway leading into Sahagun. It was a wet, splashy, dreary day and I was cold. I wanted nothing more than to be out of the rain, sitting in a nice warm cafe with my hands wrapped around a hot mug of ColaCao (cheap hot chocolate powder.) These warm thoughts were broken by the movement of the man in blue. He had paused and turned back to look my way. The motion took only a second but it was enough to break me of my thoughts. As I walked on the figure paused two more times, each time seeming to mark my location. This simple act made me feel safe, protected even. I liked knowing that someone was looking out for me, encouraging me to press forward on this rainy day. As I entered a bend in the path I lost site of my distant pilgrim. A sudden wave of panic flooded over me and I picked up the pace in hopes of seeing my emotional safety blanket on the horizon once again. As I cleared the bend there he was, not 1/4 km in front of me, peeing into the bushes on the roadside, with little shelter from the eyes of passing cars. I stopped walking and looked away, trying to grant some semblance of privacy. As I waited for him to finish, I laughed at myself as I realized that the pilgrim I heralded as watching over me was in reality just timing my distance so he could go to the bathroom. He finishes and walks on with me not too far behind.
I catch up to him, my pilgrim stranger, in about 10 minutes. We smile, say hola, and walk on together in silence. We walk together this way, neither saying anything for about an hour, when suddenly a eerie sounding moan escapes from my pilgrim and he races, doubled over at the waist, into the bushes once again. From the bushes I hear the sounds of someone suffering from "pilgrims revenge". I move away to grant him some privacy, but I opt not to press on in case he turns out to be seriously ill. After a long time, he emerges from the bushes, pale and clammy. I hand him some of my water and a hanky.
"Merci", he says and smiles weakly.
"You ok?", I ask.
"Not ok, but walk now", he says in thick French accent.
We walk on.
Ten minutes later, another moan, followed by another bolt into the bushes. Again, I wait to offer water and a hanky. This routine continues for another 5km. Each time a moan, a mad dash, the sound of a backpack hitting the earth and a buckle being undone.
He emerges yet again from the bushes. He obviously feels embarrassed and tries to explain.
"My stomach makes much water."
"I know", I say with a laugh. "You ok to keep walking?"
"Not ok, but we keep walk."
Eventually, we reach Sahagun. He says he will stop at the alburgue (pilgrim hostel) and he points to his stomach. I smile, offer a hug and my last hanky and I walk on.
I reach my destination of Calzadilla de los Hermanillos as the sun was setting and a early evening storm was threatening to break. I meet up with some pilgrim friends at the alburgue and I ask if any of them were feeling ill. All of them recount some type of stomach ailment and we conclude it must have been the food from the alburge the previous night.
The next morning, I begin walking to Leon, a mere 20km away. After about 8km a sharp pain grips my abdomen and I launch into the bushes. I emerge pale and clammy with my Frenchman pilgrim from the previous day standing before me.
"Your stomach make much water", he says with a smile.
"Yes it does", I manage to respond, as he hands me some water and a hanky.
"You ok?", he asks.
"Not ok, but we walk", I say, as I shrug into my backback.
We walk on this way for another day, our roles reveresed.
And so it was that an unknown American and an unknown Frenchman walked the Camino de Santiago de Compostela together for two days, each taking turns making too much water and offering a hanky.