My blog isn’t even two months old, and I’ve already broken the (self-imposed) rule of updating it on a weekly basis. But this lack of activity isn’t because I’ve lost interest in blogging, nor am I suffering from a severe case of writer’s block. It’s just that I’ve been busy planning a little something I like to call the rest of my life.

Ironically, the language barrier has proven to be a bit of a problem. Are grants, fellowships and scholarships the same? Do I qualify as graduate or undergraduate? Should I go for a minor or a major? What's more, the world of academia is all about acronyms. Am I looking for a BA, MA, MFA or MLA? What do GSAS and GRE stand for?  What is the difference between the PB, the CB and the IB versions of TOEFL? So all my extra time and energy have been spent on thinking, researching, planning, dictionary-consulting and email-sending. 

But all this work hasn’t been without reward. My mental crossroads has morphed into a more recognisable form, that of a map of the United States. I have thus narrowed down the once numerous possibilities to a handful or so.  So, what’s next?

1) Sit for TOEFL and ace the damn thing.

2) Pray that at least one of the dozens of scholarships that I’ll apply for consider me worthy of their money.  

3) Pray that at least one of the dozens of colleges that I’ll apply for consider me worthy of their high educational standard.

4) Hope that immigration doesn’t realize I’d do anything for a green card (just kidding! Or am I….?)

I solemnly swear I am up to no good

Warning: the full understanding of the following anecdote, its lexicon and references depends entirely on extensive knowledge of all things Harry Potter. Failure to comply with this criterion may result in puzzlement, head-scratching and loss of interest in the author’s work. Therefore, e-readers who lack Potter literacy are strongly advised to look the other way –or down, as the case may be– to more conventional posts in this blog.

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The end of term was fast approaching, and with it came the NEWTs – Nastily Exhausting Writing Tests. This was the only reason why the creative writers found themselves working hard in the junior common room one Saturday night while the rest of the student community engaged in more traditional –albeit health-detrimental– nightly activities.

The monotonous sound of quills scribbling away on scrolls of parchment filled the otherwise silent room, until overpowered by the more appealing sound of dance music, which was coming from somewhere within the school grounds. Unable to resist the temptation, and ever eager to procrastinate, two of the students set off on a quick recon mission and found out that a wedding reception was being held in the Forbidden Forest. At the mention of this information, four of the ladies there present exchanged impish glances and, without uttering a single word, rushed out of the room.

The fantastic four reappeared only ten minutes later dressed to the nines, wearing posh gowns and high heels fit for the occasion: they were up for some serious wedding crashing. Some compliments and a few warnings later, a tap at the marauder’s map told them the exact location where the joyous (?) union was being celebrated. With a look of unflinching determination off they went.

Once inside, so gorgeous and so beautifully dressed was one of the girls –let's call her Bethany– that she attracted the attention of a handsome young gentleman the minute she set foot in the dance floor. He approached her and after exchanging greetings, to the sound of music, their conversation ensued: 

“What’s your name?” asked the man pleasantly.

“I’m Bethany. And you?”

“I’m Travis. Are you here alone Beth?”

“No, I’m with my girl friends.”

“And who are your girl friends?”

“These right here,” she said pointing in their direction.

How confident her demeanor, and how friendly her manner. But had Bethany taken another look at the map, she would have realized that she was talking to none other than the groom, who was quickly joined by the bride herself. Luckily, the couple was too happily in love to make a fuss, and simply explained that that was a private event which they couldn’t attend. Embarrassed beyond belief, and upset that their mischievous adventure had been cut short, they turned back and ran in hope of finding a portkey that would apparate them right into a hole in the ground. Sadly, they found none, and had to sprint their way back up to the common room, where their assignments awaited, still undone.  

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Disclaimer: all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons (ie: Stephanie, Camilla, Lorenza and yours truly),  is purely coincidental. 

Life after Oxford: the good, the bad and the unthinkable

Had you been in Oxford, you would have heard me grunt and curse miserably as I reluctantly rolled my suitcase down the stairs on the rainy Saturday morning of my departure. Yet luckily for my mental well-being, my Eurotrip didn’t end then and there. After leaving Oxford, I met two of my closest friends - who had been studying in that other place – and the second and more hectic leg of the journey thus began: six cities spread across three different countries and hundreds of miles travelled in every means of transport known to man – plane, train, subway, ferry, cab, water cab, car and gondola – all in a staggering two weeks. 

Next in the itinerary was Paris, which became the undeserved recipient of all my anguish. However, once I got over my feelings of (non)homesickness, I enjoyed myself tremendously. Despite being rainier than Oxford and London combined, the so-called city of romance proved to be as posh and compelling as it is said to be, but offered no romance whatsoever. Rome and Venice, though not as elegant but equally quaint, awakened an unprecedented interest in my Italian roots, the Italian language, Italian history, and basically anything Italian. And it was impossible to hate the sunny beaches of Santorini and their crystal clear waters, in which I scuba-dived and over which I parasailed. 

Argentina, on the other hand, proved far easier to despise. Upon setting foot in my homeland, I was welcomed by a freezing cold wave, torrential rain and the worst traffic the highway has ever seen at four am in the morning. Having taken a month and a half off work, I was asked to resume my teaching position at once, thus plunging headlong into the hectic pace of my routine b.o. (before Oxford)

And that’s how life’s been since then. My European extravaganza left me in dire straits, thus keeping me from reducing my workload to a normal amount. Those Exeter cookie binges finally took their toll on me, and now on top of watching my pocket I also have to watch my weight. Not that looking well really matters, since the men here pale in comparison with their European counterparts...

Granted, the Oxford experience made me realize writing is what I want to pursue, and I’m looking into the possibility of doing an MA abroad (yet another reason why I can’t quit any of my multiple jobs). In the meantime, I’ve started this blog, in the hope that I write more regularly. And last but not least, I now walk on grass guilt-free, not just because I can, but because it is not nearly as green as on the other side of the Atlantic.

Photo by Ma. Eugenia J.

The sky is the limit

Having seen the millennial buildings of the ancient Greek capital, my travelling buddy and I decided to ferry our way down to the sandy beaches of Santorini – a seven-hour boat ride south of Athens.

It was day three and we had already seen the must-see views (Perisa’s dawn, Ia’s sunset, the caldera view); done the must-do things (scuba diving, wine tasting, parasailing) and hit the must-go places (the lighthouse, the capital city, the white, the red and the black sand beaches). With still two more days ahead (more than what we had spent in the Colosseum, the Eiffel tower and the Parthenon combined, and more irrefutable evidence of our limited itinerary-planning skills) we decided to rent a car and see those forsaken spots tour guides fail to mention. With a cloudy day ahead, we felt like something more cultural was in order.

We set off to the Santorini monastery in our unusually bright yellow vehicle. We came to the road we were looking for after asking for directions from three different locals, which none had warned us would be as winding, as steep or as narrow as the one we found. The already complicated ascent was further aggravated by the sight of oncoming cars going at a brisk speed, their drivers on cellphones, the fact that there was no guard rail, and the realization that attempting to make a U-turn would equal crashing headlong into the abyss. There was no way to go but up. 

Some nerve-wrecking twenty-odd minutes later, and thanks to my friend’s outstanding driving skills, we made it safely to the summit and were welcomed by impressive views all around. To our right lay the 18^th century monastery, perched on the apex of the mountain. Above us, there was the most magnificent deep-blue sky. Down below, an imposing view of the island. And all around us, the clouds, piercing through our bodies before making their way to other patches of sky.  

After we got over the excitement of literally being in the clouds – and the paralysing fear of being as high as the clouds – we began the descent. Looking back on the experience, my friend found comfort not only in the fact that she had once again conquered her fear of heights, but also that she couldn’t think of anything else that our adventurous spirits – or our small brains – would compel us to do that would be as reckless or as kamikaze. But I begged to differ. “There’s that volcano we haven’t’ checked out yet...”

Culture Shock

In the international scene, saying you were from Argentina triggered all sorts of replies. The most common included the mention of a talented, albeit notorious, former football player. Others registered an element of surprise: apparently it is that hard to believe that one of us should be a proficient English speaker. Granted, at least they knew English is not our mother tongue. Some others proved ignorance is a global problem by asking where Argentina was. For others, words were unnecessary (yes, mimicking the smoking of pot will definitely get your message across). I was offended when I was asked if we’d been blessed with the gift of electricity, and flabbergasted when asked if we had literacy.

Admittedly, most people got over their prejudice once they started talking to me and realized that a) I was not illiterate and b) that not only do we have electricity back home, but also cell phones, computers, iPods – the works. Yet my dear Australian acquaintance Lawrence, apparently more informed about my country than the other foreigners I encountered along the way, made no comments, asked no silly questions and passed no judgment. He had nothing but a simple request: “Argentineans, stop kidnapping people: it is not a job.”

And what now?

My whole life has been about the next move. I always made myself look forward. There was always something at the end of the road waiting for me to go get it. Sometimes my endgame was long term, and along the journey the objective deviated from the original. But I always got there. I always had a road to follow. I always had a plan.

  

I’d never felt at a crossroads before. I content myself by thinking that this not all bad, that it’s not a dead end, that I have options. Or maybe the sheer number of possibilities is part of the problem. But having multiple opportunities has never boggled me before.

There’s so much I don’t know right now. What is my true calling? Where do I see myself in five years’ time? What is it that I want out of life? I don’t have answers for these questions. But I do know that I will never have them if I don’t have new experiences, if I don’t dare act upon my whims and make mistakes along the way. There’s much I don’t know except for this: ACT. DO. LIVE.