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damienthepious · 4 years

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i’m going to instruct you, right now, bplease listen to the podcast Inn Between and then maybe read this fic lmao

the dragon had really good penmanship

[ao3]

Fandom: Inn Between

Relationship: n/a

Characters: Princess Marie, Lydda, Seri, Min

Additional Tags: Character Study, Canon Compliant, (wrote this because i'm obsessed with marie basically she's so INTERESTING as a CHARACTER), (Mentions of canon violence), (implications of marie still bein' a bit... dragon-y), Friendship

Summary: Three little girls are in the dungeon. One little girl awaits the throne. None are free, just yet.

Notes: Title from the song Dragon, by Breathe Owl Breathe

Marie is thirteen, and she knows many things. She has been stolen, and cursed, and orphaned. She knows the taste of char, the feel of magic fire between her teeth. Her tutor says her skill for brewing poisons is remarkably promising, she knows two languages well besides her native tongue, and is studying a third. Her penmanship is impeccable. She knows what her own body looks like, with an ax embedded in her neck. She knows that Seri still wakes calling out for her father, most nights.

Marie is thirteen, and so is Lydda. Lydda, who knows many things of her own. Strange things, like how to predict the day’s weather by the sight of the clouds and the direction of the wind. Lydda, who is polite but speaks her mind regardless, who writes nearly as well in common as Marie does, who purses her lips and squints when she’s unsure, who can scoop her youngest sister into a piggyback without needing to look at her to do it.

Lydda, thrown into the dungeon with her sisters because Marie’s father is so steeped in fear that it is the only tool he still understands how to use. Marie knows that this is not her fault. The choices her father makes are not her own. She knows she has no true power, here. Marie knows, also, that guilt doesn't always follow logical paths.

There are some words, Marie now knows, that can only be passed in whispers, passed above hands clasped between the cold interruption of iron bars.

Lydda has freckles, a scattering of even darker skin across the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, her shoulders. Most of the nobles wear such thick layers of cosmetic that Marie isn’t sure she would even know if they had such marks. Marie has no freckles of her own. She does, on occasion, still feel markings on her skin, however. When the nights are dark, when she shakes with fury, she feels (or thinks she feels) the tightening of her skin, the rippling echo of scales, too familiar and too strange.

Lydda's freckles fade, the longer she and her sisters remain in the dark of the dungeons. Time shows its passing in strange ways. Lydda's freckles fade, and Marie imagines her former scales more and more often.

It isn’t that Marie is ungrateful, for having been twice-saved from her curse. The adventurers brought her home, and then they returned her to her own true form. She will remember that. She will never forget that debt, nor the debt that follows- her father’s knife-twist betrayal, the way he sent them away again-

Not Marie's fault, not Marie's mistakes. Guilt does not follow logical paths.

She does not think the adventurers know that they were never meant to win against the Bone King. She does not think they know that they were meant to be a distraction, the battering ram at the front gate to draw eyes away from the passages in the back, where her father’s own forces were meant to slip in like the fox into the coop.

(This is not a simile she would have been likely to use, before Lydda. It is not as if the castle is overwhelmed with foxes.)

It almost makes the betrayal worse, she thinks. Twice, the adventurers saved her. Twice they were betrayed. The false quest, and then-

The sisters. Stolen, held in trust. And then (as if merely keeping innocents as collateral were not cruel enough), then came the coup, and the dungeon.

It isn’t that Marie is ungrateful. It truly isn’t. But Marie thinks, perhaps, that if it just so happened that she were still under the curse- well.

No one would have dared attempt to behead the father of a dragon. She could have turned Lord Denetrah into nothing more than bone and ash.

Min always flinches from the rats that scramble along the edges of the cell, and Seri asks each day for news of their brother, her voice so very small and so very brave, and Lydda’s eyes are as tired as Marie feels, and Marie remembers what it was like to have claws. Remembers fire in her lungs. Remembers enormity, of both feelings and form. If she pulled the proper strings with the right degree of care, Marie could have Denetrah as dead as her father within the day, but it would not solve the true problem.

(It would not be as satisfying as the taste of the fire.)

Nor, Marie knows, would it guarantee the sisters' freedom.

They are as worthy as any princess, Marie thinks. She thinks this rather often. Lydda only ever stands like a rampart, noble and upright and still with the flash of humor in her eyes, despite the exhaustion, despite the weight of responsibility that Marie recognizes on her shoulders. Seri nearly thrums with excitement with each new book Marie smuggles in, her delight at the new stories nearly as vibrant as her relief at the distraction from her captivity. Min's laugh (rarer and rarer still) bounces and squeaks, echoing through the hollow stone chambers, far beneath Marie's home.

Marie knows they are her subjects, deserving of safety and freedom in her kingdom. Marie knows, in a way that feels much more urgent, that they are her friends, and she wants to see them safe, and free.

She burns with waiting, despising the way Lydda's freckles nearly disappear entirely in the gray of the dungeons, but Marie is patient. She knows which strings need plucking, and she knows when, exactly, the right time is to pluck.

The adventurers return, triumphant and bedraggled, and are turned summarily away, and in the dark of night Marie pulls on a too-large cloak, and pulls open the old servants' passageways.

Marie knows many things, and Lydda knows many things, and their areas of knowledge barely seem to overlap at all. Marie is fond of that fact, because it means that they always seem to have something to teach each other.

Marie teaches Lydda, Seri, and Min how to cross her city, silent and unseen.

Lydda, Seri, and Min teach Marie exactly what a reunion looks like, in a family built on love.

It is nearly dawn, when they finally part. Marie cannot afford to be discovered, of course, and it is only a small pain that she cannot say her goodbyes to the sisters in the daylight, or in anything but a furtive whisper.

Min, earnest and unselfconscious, throws her arms around Marie in the sort of hug she is unsure she has ever shared, before. Lydda laughs at Marie's surprise, not unpleasantly, and then she and Seri fold around her as well.

One last lesson, before they part.

It is better, wiser, that the sisters will be far from the city, now. It is unsafe, here. Marie stays because Marie has no choice. Because to abandon her throne is- unthinkable. Marie is thirteen, and she knows her duty, knows her responsibility. Helping Lydda and Min and Seri escape this place reminds her of that, in a way. Her father was always so afraid, and so angry. Lord Denetrah is worse.

Marie thinks that there is something, perhaps, to the idea of being afraid when one is a ruler, though not in the fashion of her predecessors. She is afraid often, though she is not the sort to dwell. Marie hopes that when it is her turn to rule, her fears will be noble. She hopes that she will still hold close to the fear of disappointing the people who rely on her. She hopes that her rage will be noble, too. Her own little dragon-fire, under her own control, this time. She hopes she will not rule like those who rule now, like those who ruled before.

It is safer for Lydda and her sisters to be far away, though Marie will miss them dearly.

Lydda will write, however. Lydda will write, and Marie still has people enough that she trusts in these walls. Lord Denetrah pays little attention to the servants and chefs and such help, but Marie knows them. Knows the servants passageways in all the castle, not only in her room, and she knows other secret places as well. She knows which of her handmaidens are loyal, which will help, and she knows her missives and the ones she receives in return will be passed without interference.

Marie writes the first of these letters by firelight, careful and precise with the familiarity of flames making her brave.

She does not write of her fears. She does not write of Lord Denetrah, except to mock him with all the attention of a roll of the eyes and away. She does not write of her guilt, for sending Lydda’s brother away from her again, of sending her family away to help restore her own. Lydda knows all of it already, regardless. It is better, to leave certain things unwritten.

Marie writes of small things. She writes of the way the city sounds from above. She asks if Seri has finished her latest book. She writes of the new inks her tutor gave her to practice with, and she sends some to share. She nearly asks if Lydda's freckles are returning in the sun, but this page she removes, and rewrites. She asks Lydda when the next rains will come, instead.

Marie’s penmanship is impeccable, but when she receives Lydda's first reply, Marie cannot help but think that Lydda’s quick and tidy scrawl is so, so much more beautiful.

She refolds the letter, careful as if holding a recently sharpened blade, and then she tucks the parchment in behind the false brick beside the hearth, in among all her most valuable secrets, the most coveted jewel in her hoard.

#elle's fanfic #inn between #princess marie #lydda innbetween #seri innbetween #min innbetween #shrug!!! shrug!!!!!!

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justsomeantifas · 7 years

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Canada doesn’t interfere much in the world, it doesn’t elect crazy nationalists, it doesn’t threaten to deport people. It champions multiculturalism and tolerance. Canada is exceptional. It has its problems like all places, but when the world was on fire in 2016, we were fine. We still have systemic issues and need to deal with it, obviously. Me stating that Canada has many good qualities compared to similar nations =/= there isn’t an issue w/ racism towards aboriginals, etc.

There is so much to unpack here.

“Canada doesn’t interfere much in the world”

Except when it’s selling weapons to repressive regimes like Saudi Arabia. Or when it’s overthrowing democracies in countries like Haiti and Honduras for its own benefit. Or when Canadian-owned companies are wreaking havoc in Latin America by trampling over indigenous rights there (because doing that in Canada isn’t enough for them).

Canada’s abysmal record as an arms dealer

Former Liberal cabinet minister calls for end to Canadian arms sales to Saudi Arabia

Canada admits in court that the armored vehicles it’s selling to Saudi Arabia could be used in the fighting in Yemen

Canada Helped Overthrow Haitian Democracy

Canadian foreign policy sees Latin America as a playground for its most voracious corporations.

Human rights violations at Canadian gold miners’ operations abroad have become harder to ignore, but that’s a strange thing to celebrate

Canadian mining and petroleum companies rank among the most world’s most abusive and destructive.

Left nationalism was always a mirage. Canada is a settler-colonial state with a subjugated indigenous population. The old nationalist narrative is insufficient to deal with an imperialist country that exploits the Global South and participates in military adventurism abroad under NATO and the United Nations.[…]

Toronto-based Barrick Gold is both the world’s largest gold mining company — and its most abusive. In 2011, Human Rights Watch published a report that alleged that Barrick’s security at Papua New Guinea mines committed gang rapes and other violent assaults. In 2015, the company ended up compensating eleven women for the attacks. New rape allegations emerged later that year.

Barrick’s founder and chairman Peter Munk shrugged off his company’s liability, saying, “Gang rape is a cultural habit. Of course, you can’t say that because it’s politically incorrect. It’s outrageous. We have to pretend that everyone’s the same and cultures don’t matter. Unfortunately, it’s not that way.”

Barrick flouts indigenous rights in Latin America, profits from unsafe working conditions from Peru to Russia, and wreaks major environmental damage. Just last month, a Tanzanian inquiry heard that police killed sixty-five people and injured 270 others in the area around Barrick’s North Mara gold mine.Barrick isn’t the only bad apple. Vancouver-based Nevsun Resources was recently sued for allegedly using forced labor in its gold mine in Eritrea. The brutal dictatorship that condoned the practice holds a 40 percent stake in the mine.

Canada Is Not Honduras’ Friend: Coups, Repression and Profits

Historically, the United States has played a very negative role in supporting coups and military regimes and overthrowing governments across the Americas, and some listeners would be very familiar with that story. What people are less familiar with is with the role that Canada plays.

Whereas in the past I would say that Canada often quietly acquiesced to the interventionist role the U.S. has played in the Americas, with the Honduras coup in 2009, Canada played an explicit, front seat role in both legitimizing the coup and then politically and economically supporting the post coup regimes in power since then. As I said, it is a very repressive regime in power in Honduras, profoundly undemocratic, operating with high levels of repression, corruption and impunity.

“It doesn’t elect crazy nationalists”

Except we already elected Stephen Harper three fucking times.

With Anti-Muslim Campaign, Canada Has Its Trump Moment

Veiled Attack: Muslim-bashing is an effective campaign tactic

Goodbye, Harper. Good riddance.

Can Canadian politics get much more warped than what Harper pulled during the 2015 election? Sucking toes for votes with a crack-smoking mayor while touting family values. Trying to drive a wedge between majority and minority Canadians by exploiting the politics of bigotry over issues like the niqab — despite the court rulings against the Conservative position. Vowing to set up a rat line to expose “barbaric practices”, using the unforgettable sales team of Kellie Leitch and Chris Alexander.

Stephen Harper was Donald Trump before Trump was Trump, right down to the bigotry, fear-mongering, divisiveness, scapegoating, and profound anti-democratic impulses that had Canada’s entire parliamentary structure tottering, according to experts like Peter Milliken and Robert Marleau.

Canada’s Conservatives vow to create ‘barbaric cultural practices’ hotline

White people don’t have to worry about Canada’s new “report your neighbor” hotline

Also, remember when Stephen Harper decided to use the term “old stock Canadian” in public in the year 2015?? In spite of the fact that that word has some seriously shitty racial connotations attached to it?? And he used that word to justify why he thinks refugees aren’t entitled to univeral healthcare in Canada???

VIDEO: Um, what exactly IS an “old stock Canadian,” Stephen Harper?

“It doesn’t threaten to deport people”

No, we just arrest refugees then detain them indefinitely, and then treat them so poorly when they’re in detention that many of them wind up dying. We also scam our migrant workers and treat them like garbage and then send them packing when we don’t need them anymore.

Canada Border Services Agency must change way it treats migrants: Editorial

Fifteen people have died while in the custody of Canada Border Services Agency since 2000 and in most cases no one knows why. The service needs to be held accountable for the thousands of migrants it detains each year

These borders kill: Canada’s lethal immigration system

Migrants are the only population in Canada that can be administratively detained for long periods of time, or indefinitely, without being charged or convicted of any crime. There were 7,300 people detained in 2013, the most recent data made available by the government.

The Immigration and Refugee Protection Act gives the CBSA broad powers to detain migrants if they believe they are a flight risk, a danger to public safety, inadmissible to Canada on security grounds, or inadequately identified. The vast majority, 94.2 per cent, are detained on grounds other than posing a security threat.

Since 2012, the Protecting Canada’s Immigration System Act has “protected” the immigration system by imposing mandatory detention for all migrants designated as “irregular arrivals,” including those as young as 16.

[…]

In Canada, migrants may be detained indefinitely – unlike in the United States, for example, which imposes a 90-day limit on immigration detention. Out of 585 people in immigration detention in November 2013, 60 had been held for over a year. Some have been jailed for more than 10 years, trapped in the carceral limbo of undeportability.

Incarcerating migrants is inhumane: Goar

Guatemalan workers allegedly swindled out of work permits now face deportation: Migrant workers say they were paid as little as $300 for working 85 hours a week

“It feels like the government just sells you out to a white man.”

21 arrested for illegally crossing border in Manitoba: RCMP

An inexcusable travesty: Canada sent a Syrian minor to solitary confinement

“When the world was on fire in 2016, we were fine”

Choosing to remain willfully ignorant wrt Canadian politics and history doesn’t mean we were “fine.” It just means people were purposefully ignorant in favour of promoting a narrative that’s not true.

“Canada is exceptional”

#anonymous #asks #mod a #canada #canpoli #immigration #racism #imperialism #canadian imperialism #nationalism #white supremacy #economics #neo-liberalism #resources #gif

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chromacomaphoto · 6 years

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Places to Shoot in Bangkok Part 6: Khlong Toei Slum (Worst Ghetto in Bangkok)

Chromacoma back at it again this month with a guide of a more serious and gritty nature. Following some recent requests, I have dedicated this month’s entry to the slum area of Khlong Toei district (also often seen written as ‘Klong Toey’).

You might recall my saying back in the Chinatown guide that you don’t need to go to Chinatown to shoot pictures of Thai Chinese people. Likewise, you don’t need to go to Khlong Toei if you want to see and take pictures of a real Thai urban slum, they are everywhere. Just look out from many high up vantage points anywhere in the city and look for the tiny little areas featuring tightly packed, wooden-walled lean to shelter type homes with corrugated tin roofs and dogs running around everywhere and that is just as likely a slum by any other name. It’s just that the Khlong Toei ‘slum’ is MUCH, MUCH worse than anywhere else. It has long been known by Bangkokians to be very much the epitome of the word and is perhaps most often cited as a typical worst-case example of such an area in Bangkok. It is famous for its extreme poverty and resulting issues such as high crime and drug abuse, which is off the charts.

That said, I believe that (at least in the case of men) it’s not especially unsafe in broad daylight as a Westerner as long as you conduct yourself humbly and with some respect for the inhabitants of such dwellings. For women, you probably would also be fine but I feel that I can’t quite recommend it to a solo female photographer in full conscience. Either go with a guy or at least go as a group of women together, I am genuinely sorry if that upsets any female readers but I want to be fully responsible for the quality of the advice I give here so that would be my honest gut feeling about it. I couldn't feel entirely comfortable recommending any woman I know to go there on a solo tip. I'm sure there are lots of Western women volunteers who have worked at many of the charity foundations in the area and found no problems roaming around there whilst they were doing their bit as volunteers or whatever but I personally think that a little caution is needed, especially once you get off the busier main routes and head deeper down into the less travelled parts (by farangs) of Khlong Toei.

With all of the above out of the way, you might feel that this is gonna be a really scary venture into a dangerous ghetto and it CERTAINLY can be (especially at night when I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it to anybody really) but in many ways it can seem a deceptively different scenario. For starters, due to its relatively close proximity to the Sukhumvit (especially Ekamai and Thong Lo areas) and Rama 4 roads (mainstream Bangkok) and also perhaps because of its infamy, you do actually get some more adventurous Westerners here on their SE Asia adventure trip of a lifetime deciding to go and walk around the area. There’s also sometimes a volunteer worker or ‘voluntourist’ to be found doing their bit here and there as well, fair play to them. So, it’s not as though you are going to blend in any time soon but the locals there have definitely seen the odd backpacker with a camera before, believe me. As with anywhere else in Thailand, if you approach slowly and calmly with a smile, some people will even be a little smiley and friendly in return, despite the obviously huge gap between their lot in life and yours. This can be humbling.

HOWEVER, in more than two decades in Thailand, this is the only place where, when trying to walk down random alleys and walkways, the locals have politely tried to stop me…not to prohibit me from entering per se but rather to try and advise me that it really wasn’t perhaps in my best interests (from a personal safety point of view) to do so. That is something I hadn’t ever really experienced (or can at least remember experiencing) in Thailand before. So, think about doing your own risk assessment for this maybe because it's very much real life, not some reality TV show.

On this trip, I saw used needles and syringes lying around discarded as rubbish on the floor (again, I have never seen that anywhere in Thailand) where children were playing. I saw some of those children playing with rubbish as their toys, some of them were stinking to high heaven as they had soiled themselves and their clearly drunk or high mother right next to them didn’t seem to want to clean them up. I walked past people openly smoking either 'yaabaa' or 'ice' methamphetamines in front of me in broad daylight, as the sickly sweet chemical smells wafted into my face, they carried on like zombies regardless. People are shooting up drugs here with needles any time day and night. This is not a 'nice' place.

All of the above seems more relevant when you consider that to see the real Khlong Toei slum, you need to be off any of the main roads and waaaay down these alleys and back streets and train tracks (!) wandering around and going as deep as you dare into the labyrinthine networks of poverty stricken walkthroughs. You might well find yourself standing on top of the old train line which runs almost right through people’s little shacks (in the main photo at the top of this post, those tiny wooden and cardboard boxes on the train lines in the photos are where I found people living and sleeping!) or you might get stuck up a dead end and need to follow a local to see whether their route will bring you back out to some kind of civilization again. It’s fun but in all honesty, it’s not perhaps for the faint of heart. This is also a time to watch out for any rabid, and diseased soi dogs that might be on the attack. The potential danger from the locals also extends to those with four legs! It’s best to be confident if you turn a corner and find yourself in the midst of a pack of them as the local Thai strays often smell fear, and then things can get tricky very quickly. Make like a local Thai and keep on pushing dead straight ahead and show them who’s boss. It can take a bit of nerve at times, if you panic and get stuck, wait for a passing Thai and walk quickly alongside them, they know which dogs can be easily brushed aside and which ones you might want give a wider berth to.

It’s not the best place for normal lenses. It is certainly doable but you can really benefit from a 35mm or even a 28mm for this mission. There is a lot of shadow play and contrasting bright and dark scenery to deal with. In terms of equipment and technique, it has a lot in common with the Chinatown approach I guess. Zone focusing is highly recommended. Film shooters need ISO 400 flexibility at a minimum I would say and take an extra roll or two beyond what you might be expecting to use. Also be forewarned that one problem I have had is that in certain parts of the slum, the sheer smell of all the litter and refuse and waste can be a little overpowering at times. It’s quite an assault to the senses in more ways than one. People are basically living right in and on top of a huge, rat infested rubbish dump. In this shot below where the young woman is salvaging something from the large open skip, she was (I believe) trying to collect up old aluminum drinks cans for money but I couldn’t get any closer as I was already dry heaving, I mean quite literally convulsing and looking to get away from the stench and sheer squalor at that point as I had been in the area for about an hour longer than I had anticipated.

I did find some people who seemed quite happy in their humble little slum homes as they worked away doing some sewing or running a tiny little shop that caters to the residents of their particular little alleyway. It’s not all sad people. This is the kind of place where you’ll easily stumble on a crowd of guys having an afternoon heavy drinking session of whisky or beers around a table, perhaps whilst an illegal card or dice game is going down. Just be cool and make like Dionne Warwick….walk on by.

Of course, you could opt to sit down and take the drink offered to you but it can all get a bit sticky when you later wish to untangle yourself from the mess you might end up in. Of course, many backpackers do this and then take photos of their newfound ‘Thai drinking buddies’ and go home with tales of how they personally found the ‘real Thailand’ etc. Hey, who am I to judge? Whatever you wanna do and at least it’s as a result of going your own way and meeting people and seeing places that are not part and parcel of the standard tourist package, right?

Also, in terms of culture shock (and especially if you are on holiday here), you’ll likely be needing a steely resolve emotionally when you see how people (especially kids) are living their lives in such an area. As with many capital cities in ‘developing countries’ (whatever that means anyway), this slum area is within a fairly close proximity to huge, high end shopping malls and ‘the haves’ living their comfortable lives. This little photographic mission is more of a photojournalistic opportunity in essence really. It’s very much the gritty and certainly shitty end of the stick and it’s out there for anybody to go and see and record with a camera. I highly recommend black and white film for this kind of thing but then again I would say that of course. Use whatever you’ve got with you (the best camera is always the one with you, or so they say) and really try to squeeze the best out of it and yourself.

By the way, ‘Khlong’ means a canal, and ‘Toei’ is a flower sometimes used in Thai food and drinks, I think the English name is ‘Pandan’ but don’t hold me to that 100%. I know what it looks and tastes like, I just don’t know for sure if I’ve got that right or not. The ‘T’ in ‘Toei’ isn’t really a ‘t’ sound at all but rather a combination of what it would sound like if you tried to say ‘t’ with more of a ‘d’ sound. I am trying to make it simple for non Thai speakers to at least attempt to say it correctly.

Taxi drivers know it, assuming you can say it correctly. Nearest MRT station is Klong Toei. The slum itself is actually in several areas and so really should be pluralized into ‘slums’. Generally however, when people talk of the Khlong Toei Slum, they are talking about the biggest, most concentrated area of it and this is where you can also find a charity or foundation or two. Here below is a map cutaway for you to use on a device and show to a taxi driver, it has both English and Thai on it. Anywhere within the red arrows outer perimeter is pretty much different shades of full on Klong Toei ghetto but you should explore randomly within that area as much as possible, it’s almost different every time you go. There are some key landmarks also in English on that map in case you are very ‘directionally challenged’ (or your taxi driver is!), for example Bangkok University. I hope that this blog entry proves useful and that your day there goes well. I never normally say this but…good luck!

For those that don’t make it there, this post at least features some of my work from a recent trip there to give you just a glimpse. For anyone who is bothered, these were with a Rolleiflex and Ilford Delta 400 as I recall.

CCP

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claytons · 7 years

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Travel Blog - Cap Haitien

We set out early Friday morning on a small motorcycle driven by a neighbor who makes his living shuttling people back and forth. There’s a route we could have taken along the coast, but the road and bridges aren’t complete and with all the rain that the region has been getting we weren’t sure if those roads and rivers would be passable. Our destination, Cap Haitien, is only about 60 miles if you had wings, but we learned that distance would take us 7-8 hours to complete. So we set off on our voyage… the long way around just to be safe! The road we have to take there is a river crossing but we had heard that we would be able to pass through the water. The driver attempted to drive with us remaining on the moto, but it didn’t take long until we decided walking would be much easier for him and us. As we walked across the river, kids voices echoed as they yelled, “Look at the whiteys walking across the river!” Obviously not a sight they see often.

In Gonaives we said goodbye to the familiar face of our moto driver in search of a taptap (an elaborately decorated pick up truck that has been brought back to life many times) to take us the rest of the way to O’Kap. We found one with ease, as they all want us in their car for the income. We paid a little extra to get a front seat… although I sat on a plastic cup holder for 3 hours, it was probably still more comfortable than the seats (also read standing and hanging off various parts of the truck) available in the back. When we arrived in O’Kap where more eager moto drivers wanting to take us to our final destination swarmed us. Which began a weekend of learning more fluently the art of negotiation! Original offers for rides often started at more than 10x what a reasonable price would be. After a lot of haggling we agreed on a price and found our way to our hotel. The entire journey I was dreaming of how great it would be to jump in the nice refreshing pool. When we arrived we found this…

It was a disappointment, but the hot shower was more than enough to make me feel better after the long, dusty journey.

Saturday we met up with some friends from our community that were originally from Cap Haitien. They showed us around town and to the artisan market. We ate lunch together and enjoyed getting to spend time with them

After that we set out on our first trip to find a beach. We were able to find Cromier beach not too far away. Our hotel said they could take us there in a van for $60… we opted for the adventurous moto ride for only $3. It was a beautiful beach and fun moto adventure!

One of my favorite things about how we chose to travel was getting to meet and interact with people in the city. While on our way back to the hotel Saturday night we realized our moto driver didn’t have a horn as he didn’t honk for the person we were about to hit in the middle of the road. Zach asked him about it and he said it broke in the last big rain they had. So from then on the driver yelled “KI KI” (the sound a horn would theoretically make) every time he would have needed a horn… coming around the corner, people in the road, other motos. We were all crying we were laughing so hard.

The kind people at our hotel told us about a great restaurant within walking distance… and it was worth it! We found the best pizza I’ve had in Haiti! So we enjoyed their Christmas decorations and pizza and cheeseburgers for Christmas Eve.

Christmas morning we grabbed a moto and set out to find out how to get to a little island off the coast that is uninhabited that is close to where the cruise ships dock. When we arrived to Labadie, we saw a boat in the water, which meant we were not going to be able to enter where we thought we would. So we asked the locals where else we could go to find a boat. They were extremely helpful and pointed us in the right direction. There we found little homemade wooden boats with tin on top to shield you from the sun.

We negotiated prices for the private tour of Il le Rat, Paradise Bay, and Labadie village

We found out later that a more comfortable, less personal tour such as this would cost a cruise tourist $400… we paid $40. Our boat tour guide, Woodley, also found a great little local restaurant on a beach to take us to so we enjoyed a very traditional American Christmas lunch…

By mid afternoon I was started to experience a bit of culture shock without even leaving the country. It is an odd feeling to see a cruise ship, with people like us, in a country that they know little about what life is really like so close to such beauty… Two drastically different worlds colliding. However, the value of jobs created by this tourism is invaluable to this country. You could tell that the economy in this city has benefited from some the jobs that have resulted from tourism. We definitely enjoyed getting to see and experience the beauty this country has to offer.

Christmas dinner was a delicious surprise at Cap Deli where I had a beautiful frappacino and Zach enjoyed a lobster burger. This place was delicious and reminded us of a trendy local restaurant on Mass Ave in Indy. It was a much-welcomed bit of familiarity.

Monday we ventured to the Citadelle, one of the largest fortresses in the Americas that started construction in 1805. I’m not a history buff, but it was great to see some of Haiti’s history come to life. We hiked up the mountain 5 miles and got the chance to talk with locals along the way. It was impressive to me beyond what I was expecting!

We got back to our hotel pretty warn out, but not too tired to enjoy Cap Deli 2 more times before we head back. We enjoyed more hamburgers, pizza, a coke float, and a milkshake… Beautiful sights in Haiti!

Our trip back was uneventful which is always welcomed when traveling in Haiti. The only snag was the police had a checkpoint set up on our way back to look at the drivers’ paperwork, but instead they were more interested in seeing our IDs. This was the first time we have gotten stopped at a checkpoint like that, but once we showed our Haitian drivers licenses we were on our way. Our bodies are sore from the moto rides and hiking 10 miles, but it was all so worth it!

Many people asked us about the safety of us using public transportation. While I don’t know if it is the best option for everyone, we thoroughly enjoyed getting to see the country outside the walls of a private vehicle. We enjoyed getting to know the drivers and others traveling with us. We never once felt unsafe or in a compromised situation. In fact, just the opposite! Drivers we had showed us their best Haitian hospitality and didn’t want anything to happen to us. There is a temptation to judge every situation as unsafe when traveling in a third world country, but we feel like we were able to learn more about the culture here and get to know people on a different level than we would have traveling any other way.

We got home feeling refreshed and a healthy amount of confidence in our language comprehension/negotiation skills. We feel like as foreigners one of the best things we can do is spend money wisely in the local economy. Our adventure was fun for us and helped employ local people as well. I’d say that’s a win.

Haiti is truly a beautiful country, with great people… if you haven’t experienced it for yourself – you need to!

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rooellensuwanai-blog · 7 years

Text

Learning From You Part 3

However, what I did feel was a sense of awe.

I guess my parents were the progressive type when it came to housing after high school. Our family owns an extra apartment room a ten minute drive away from our actual house. It was supposed to be a side business for dad. Earning income from the rent that people pay to stay there for a couple nights. Though I didn’t understand why exactly we happened to own a second house when I was younger, about four or five, now I think that dad made a clever plan.

As soon as school ended, I was made to move into it so I can “take my own reins and get a feel for what it’s like to live on your own” before actually going away to college. I guess it’s sort of like my parent’s idea of a behind the wheels training session before I actually spread my wings and fly away. I know, I know. It seems like I made two contradicting statements. Earlier I said they were above averagely strict, and now I’m introducing the concept that I was sent to live alone? I have an explanation for that. I truly do. Quite simple, actually. I had an infallible facade as a model student and daughter. They also trusted me, because I caused minimal trouble while I was just a wee high school student. The only thing I’d do was steal a few of my mom’s chocolates without telling her, and those situations always wrapped up nicely with a dismayed “Not again”. Naturally, they thought of my whole living ten minutes away before college thing was a perfect idea.

For me, my new living situation was a perfect opportunity for me to completely unhinge and go ….wild. Drop my facade. Cheesy, I know, but I’m gonna say it: discover myself. Just think about it. No one. Not even my parents would find out if I got home at three am, completely drunk and high out of my mind. Which, I previously could never do under my parental supervision. I never had the guts for it. Or the willingness to risk everything for a little taste of adventure….and freedom.

It’s the middle of June. I graduated exactly a month ago from today. That fact still baffles me as I wake up every morning. This morning in particular though, that thought echos sonorously in my head not as a mere thought, but as a spontaneous realisation. In my muggy mind, the realisation triggered more sonorous echoes, pulsating through my brain. It was an irritating pulse, and every little thought seemed like a huge burden to squeeze out.

I groan as cheerful sunlight spills out through the curtains and illuminate the dark space behind my eyelids. The sound of my groan becomes amplified through my head, and reverberates intensely, bouncing back and forth between my skull and the crevasses of my brain.

Fuuuuuuuuuck me.

As I squint, I find myself sprawled out on the floor. Yet again, for the third time in just this week. The light increases my agony by tenfold, and I struggle to retreat back to the safety behind my eyelids. As I gather my dull senses, I slowly recollect fuzzy memories of last night.

The pitch dark. The flashing lights. The pulsing beat and so many bodies pressed up against mine. It was musky and….moist.

Glowing orbs illuminated me from a million different directions and I was soaring. I was soaring through space. My body moved as one with my people. So many hands brushing up against me.

Limbs tangling. I was now in a dimly lit bathroom stall. The pulse was still there. Though a bit distant. It was there, carving out a definite rhythm. Hands fumbled down my back. I clung. My nose caught the tinge of sweat. One of the people. That’s all I knew about this mass I clung to.

Hot breath on my neck. Hot breath on my cheek. Wet on my lips. Boiling hot on my neck.

I took a sharp intake of breath, as the cold air brushed it’s fingertips across my now bare back. The dress slowly lost its grip on my body…..now clammy hands were touching me directly. Warning bells flashed in my head. What was wrong? I giggled a bit. Only a bit of my back was out!!

Hands roaming on my bum.

Wait.

Hands are roaming on my bum.

Wait.

Hands roaming on -- My arse is out.

My arse. Is. Out.

A sheer, overwhelming sense of panic overcame me. I felt suffocated and so….unsafe. You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you absolutely know for a fact that you done fucked up? That feeling where it feels like an octopus magically appeared from the dark crevasse of your belly, just ejected a gallon of ink in your stomach and promptly fleeted away, squirting all its inky darkness into the midst of you? I went through that by tenfolds when my delirious brain caught onto the inevitable turn of events that were going to follow in the next five minutes.

The next few moments were a blur. The boy who had now moved onto passionately (if what he was doing really counts as passion…) making out with my collar bones, had me tight in his grip. He was like an actual leech, draining the calmingly ecstatic high from me, replacing it with a sudden urge to claw his hands off of me, and also his eyeballs out of his face for good measure. My panic reflex lashed out, as I kicked and groaned and screamed for the wretched thing to get off of me. The rest was all a blur for me, honestly. I’m still not sure how I got out of that cramped bathroom stall, waded through the sweaty mass of people, and got back to the flat. All in one piece, with my virginity intact.

This rewind of events force my mind to shrink back. I feel as if my gut is getting flayed by the sheer cringe of that particular situation. Of course, I was glad that I didn’t end up having my first time in a dingy bathroom stall. At the same time I was dismayed at the sheer disgust I felt at being completely left up to someone else’s touch and disposal. It was so uncomfortable and disconcerting. I hated it. Especially when I had no flipping idea who the heck that someone was. Never again, in my waking days am I letting some mangy stranger take control over my body like that. Never again.

I could have done something I completely regretted…

My reason whispers to me, and I shrunk even tighter into a ball on the floor of my seemingly safe flat. I felt so disgusting. Disgusting, disgusted and disgust. My entire body felt foreign and contaminated to me and I got a sudden urge to scrub myself clean and forget all about last night.

Slowly, with great care, I hobbled up onto all fours, then on my two feet with the help of a nearby couch and teetered into the bathroom. I peered into the mirror. There, staring back at me were two mascara smudged brown eyes. My lipstick has long since worn off, and my hair was falling out in a frazzled disarray. I’ve got to admit, I was a mess. I looked like a goth rat, and I wasn’t liking it. That human in the looking glass didn’t look like me. I needed to wash her away.

I closed my eyes against the hot water seeping through my scalp, trickling on my face. It was a nice familiar feeling. One of which I’ve felt on a million occasions. I always relish this moment. This moment when I can feel the warmth engulf me in a comforting way. And it was great, too、because I’d come out nicely clean ! This occasion, though, I think I came clean both mentally and physically.

I’ve got to admit, I had this empty void in my heart these couple of weeks I spent partying constantly. It was like something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But I felt really empty. I didn’t feel like I was doing much, and it was true. I really wasn’t doing much. Eat, sleep, party, hangover, eat, sleep, slightly less hangover, sleep, party. It was an endless cycle of just that. The initial adrenaline rush of my first time in a proper drinking, drugging, grinding party was quite an experience for me. I felt freed and I felt so invincible. I’d hop across all the bars in the area, and migrate from one club to the next, using my before 10PM lady privileges. I’d run shrieking onto the road, as I ran barefoot swinging heels in one hand. Some girls even joined in, and the boys saw it as a daring hunt to catch us. It was like the night moulded itself into whatever I made it into, and no one, not even my friends, or most of all, my parents could change it. They have no idea what exactly I’ve been up to this whole month. That’s always made me giggle a bit. A giddy feeling, like you’ve just discovered for yourself a box of unexpected candy. But now, that just filled me with….I don’t know. More squid ink in the pit of my stomach.

….I guess I didn’t like it as much as I thought I would. Yeah, I’ve dislodged myself from my normal life. Just like I've always wanted to. But it really didn’t leave me with anything, did it. Except for maybe a nearly stolen virginity, and an uncanny realization that maybe I wasn’t even remotely appetized by the prospect of sex. Is that normal? I’d have to look into that later.

I scrubbed and scrubbed myself in the hotter than usual water. I take time to rinse my hair thoroughly, make sure all that excess grease from the hairspray was gone. Clumps of mascara flowed down my eyelids, and I thoroughly scrubbed my skin. I didn’t want any breakouts that I would surely regret in my sober days. I wanted to be all natural. Just me. I wanted to feel like myself again. I splashed on three different types of shower gel, all a slight variation of mint. It was cooling, then burning and the herbal smell filled the steamy space. I inhaled sharply, and let the strongly scented air sting the back of my nose.

Perfect.

When I finally emerged, I felt brand new. My hair damp and dripping, I cleared away a messy window on the foggy mirror and found myself again. I grinned, tilted my head this way and that. That crusty face was gone and nowhere to be seen. I looked a bit younger than I remembered too. Maybe it was the freshness. All that was left from the night before was my buzzing hangover that clouded over my brain like an angry horde of sluggish bees

Today was my one month mark as an independent young woman looking to start her new life on campus in a handful of weeks. I was going to start my second month on the right leg, and on a solid step no matter how I spent the previous month. A fresh start.

Personally, I think that anyone can have a fresh start whenever they decide that it is time for a new beginning. Growing up, that was how I operated. Each day was a new blank page for me. If I was having a bad day, I’ll take a delirious nap, then wake up, get hydrated, and start back up as a new and reborn human being again. It works, you know? That’s how I coped with my crippling perfectionism. It was always a problem I had. If everything didn’t turn out perfectly for me, I’d get so disappointed in myself. Lose interest in virtually everything I’d been investing my time in up until that point. It’s a really precarious situation when I fall into those slumps. If those slumps lasted for more than a week, I’d be completely behind on everything I’d ever tried to achieve. That was part of the overwhelming stress of being bound to an occupation such as a student.

I’d have to say though, my perfectionism was a big part of what got me through as a straight A, honor roll student throughout my years in grade school. As I grew up, I sort of just, embraced the fact that I procrastinate, and that sometimes I can’t get everything seamlessly finished in the nick of time. I’d deal with it by taking a hot shower just like this one, sleeping it off, drinking water, and feeling good about myself again. Nursing my self esteem back to health. So I can function as a day to day human being again.

I know that everyone must have these inner demons inside of them. It can’t be just me, feeling frustrated at myself sometimes. But when you’re alone with your thoughts and illogical, untamable beasts called feelings, sometimes, just sometimes, you feel like you're chained down. As if I’m bound to some invisible social construct. I never know what it is, but I know it’s there. And I just feel, as if it’s slowly suffocating me.

Mentally telling myself that from this second, it was going to be a fresh start for myself helped me get out of there. Also, the vague hope and belief that gaining independence would help me get out of it for good, chained me to sanity all my time as a child under my parent’s wings.

I walked out the front door in an orange sundress and sandals. Minimal makeup, hair still damp. The air still contained not, the dense humidity that accompanies the full rise of sunlight. I deliberately picked the color orange to wear for the day. Gentle promise for a bright future, but still powerful. I felt positively glowing. I have no idea how valid my own assumptions about appearances are, but at that moment, I felt beautiful. It’s a welcome feeling to have, especially after I realized how utterly worthless my recent endeavors to break my personal norms were. Especially after I felt slightly soiled under the work of that faceless somebody’s hands. And especially after I haven’t had a proper day of tranquility in the recent weeks.

My parents’ flat lies in a fairly large scale neighbourhood just on the edge of the city midtown. Not too much commotion, but just enough bustling to give it a nice, busy drone. It’s been a long time since I moved here that I actually took the time to enjoy the atmosphere. It’s peaceful. Nice and compact. From the flat, it’s a short walk up to a stately corner belonging to a grey and red modern home. This particular house tickles my fancy all the time, as it’s symmetric, orderly rectangular structure really brings a sense of satisfaction to me. Just around the bend are a variety of cafes and tiny boutiques that line the main street of my neighborhood. Cassa Avenue Historic Business District, they call it. I agree with their title. The number of petite shops on this street indicate lots of business, and yep, the buildings are all made up of positively ancient quirky works of boards and planks. They’re the sorts of rickety buildings that look as if it can topple over with a slightly hard whoosh of a wind. It’s a wonder they’ve been staying up for over a century now.

Inhale through my nose, exhale out. Inhale through my nose, exhale out. The air is anything but stagnant. Delicious to my frazzled nerves. It smells of cut grass and clipped blossoms. Good, wholesome smells of home drift from the bakeries and it makes me bubble inside. It’s a different kind of excitement than the streaking shots of adrenaline I felt when I walked into a buzzing club. It’s the bubbly innocent sort, like something completely utterly new and just fabulous was waiting for me out there. It translates to a slight bound in my step. That haggard and wasted woman I saw in the mirror this morning I’ve successfully abandoned. I felt good about myself. It was a nice fresh start. I internally pat myself on the back. I got myself out of the ditch yet again. And I’m proud of that.

My feet semi automatically point towards the San Francisco Coffee Brewers & Co. I always like to refer to that cafe by their full name. I really don’t know why, and while most people call it just the Brewers, it just feels weird for me to say it. Doesn’t roll off my tongue as well as San Francisco Coffee Brewers & Co. Maybe it’s the small sense of control I feel. You know? My absolute freedom to say anything in however manner I like with no consequences, and the burst of satisfaction I feel when I end on the “Co.” Sure maybe it’s a waste of breath for the majority. But it isn’t for me. It’s a source of joy.

I lug open the heavy wooden door, and the welcome bell jingles lightly. Warm smells engulf me, this time of roasted coffee beans. Gentle cacophony of clinking mugs and grinding beans accompany the aroma. This place is set up in the traditional cafe style, with a counter featuring busy handed baristas, while the rest of the space is occupied by dozens of comfy chairs sprawled out around coffee tables, and secluded counter seats for the more solitary customers. It’s nice. The warm browns within the space really compliments the rays of low sunrise peaking in through the potted plants set up at the large windows.

This morning was busier than usual. A clump of tired morning goers lined the space all the way between the order counter and the door. I slid into place and started waiting. I’m a patient girl. Growing up, I’d always see adults who were supposedly more mature than us young ones constantly clucking at cars in front of them starting slightly slower after a fresh green light, or when the shopping line at the groceries seemingly “hadn’t moved in the last 30 seconds.” I’ve never gotten impatient at those little things, because I know that it’s virtually useless. It’s virtually useless to fret over those little things. What point is there to cut down on your lifespan by that sort of miniscule stress?

There’s always bigger things you could be spending your worry lines on. Or there always was, at least for me. I never got impatient over the small things in daily life. Rather, I got impatient on...my life. It seemed so slow as a student. It seemed like I’d never get out of that constant loop between schooling and sleep. But seeing the light at the end of the tunnel didn’t really mean it quelled my worries. It triggered me to be so uncertain about what lay ahead for me. As I lay awake on my bed late at night, those thoughts would plague me. What the fuck was I gonna do out of school? I’ll go to college, yeah, because that’s what you’re supposed to do by societal norms. But what matters is after that. What if I end up...jobless? Homeless? Futureless? What if I screw up? I had no flipping clue what I was supposed to do, after school. The more I thought about it, the harder it was to face it.

I always just thought, assumed, and even felt entitled to have the privilege of gracefully slipping into my adult career as if it were just a second skin. Wasn’t it that way for everyone? I was naive.

Now at this exact moment, my life is nearly sorted out for the time being. I’m going to a fairly prestigious school starting this fall.

It will turn out okay. I can start adulting.

I silently console myself, while a dark tinge of last nights events plague a corner of my mind.

….starting today. Starting now.

I add for good measure. Because everyone experiments and makes mistakes right? I experimented, and I figured out after a month gone by that that was not exactly what I’d always thought I’d wanted and needed.

As I stood, a breath of warmer air engulfed me from behind as the door swung open and the welcome bell let out it’s light hearted jingle again. I automatically shifted myself towards the front as much as I could, to provide space for the mystery person who’d just decided to burden themselves with a ten minute plus wait time for their morning coffee. Up ahead, at the counter, an older woman was arguing with a bambi eyed barista over a iced latte. I could faintly hear something about substituting the milk with soy milk….or something on that degree.

“It looks we’ll be here for a while,” the presence behind me spoke up, in an amused manner.

The sudden voice startled me, and I quickly whipped myself around to face the other person. These situations always give me anxiety. Honestly, it’s one of my biggest fears whenever I go out on my own. When someone speaks, my mind runs through a million repetitions of Were they speaking to me? Do I answer? What do I say? Wait were they even talking to me? Which typically results in my awkwardly laughing and agreeing with whatever they’re saying, regardless of whether the situation was humorous or whether agreeing with the person was an appropriate response in that point in time. This was one of those moments, as I whipped around and just said….

“Yes.” Of course, accompanied with a short bark that barely passes as a laugh. As always. Classic me.

Before I could recover from my own awkwardness, the person hit me with another dreaded question.

“Do I know you ?”

“Ummm…” I look him up and down and stare at his face. I know, kinda rude but it’s socially acceptable when you’re trying to discern whether or not a supposed stranger has ever traversed through your life.

He has glasses. You know, the wired rectangular kind, that never fails to give off a nerdy aura. Though they did suit his overall gentle looking face. He had pouty lips, but not in the irritating way, like those Barbie™ Ken dolls. They just had a soft shape (I know kinda creepy, but I had no better imagery okay?) that naturally curves up into a gentle smile. That was the first thing i noticed about him, as I looked up into his face. Darker than usual brown eyes, rounded eyebrows, and dusty dark brown hair. Probably not effable, if he were ever put up to ye old Victoria’s standards. My good friend has constantly maintained high standards, all these years, ever since grade school.

“I think….” I begin as I rapidly search my mind for the familiar face. It’s truly irritating, really. When you have that nagging sensation where you know you’ve seen a certain face somewhere before. But you just can’t place it in the correct spot. It’s the most uncomfortable sort of frustration, as you know deep down that you already know the answer.

“I’ve played for you before, haven’t I?” the man offers.

My mind was suddenly freed from its endless game of match the face. Recollections from a few years ago flood back into my system. The light bulb goes off in my head as the lines connect, and I burst out “OOOOOooooohhhh!!”

I then realized just how obnoxious I must have sounded and cover my mouth.

“Sorry, um I mean. Yes! I do remember you. Mr. Mark, right?” I tried again, a bit more calmly this time.

“Yes, that’s me,” he gently laughs. “And you’re Lillian. ...I hope, otherwise this would turnout to be a very awkward hello.”

“It’s alright. I’m Lillian, no worries.” I smile up at him.

“That’s great ! I didn’t mess up and get the wrong person. How have you been? I haven’t seen you around since I accompanied piano for you at that performance. That was about….”

“I think it happened like 2 years ago,” I finished his thought. “Because it was my sophomore year when I played with you, I think.”

“Oh yes.Yes, I remember now.” Mr. Mark nodded. “It’s very nice to see you. Did you go by Lillian or Lilli, I forget. Have you graduated? What’s going on for you? Are you still playing your instrument?”

I open my mouth to answer his questions. But they jumbled in my brain, and it took me a moment to construct an intelligible answer.

All that came out was a very intelligent sounding “Uh,”

Mr. Mark shifted. “Whoops. Sorry. I pulled the classic adult move didn’t I?” He apologetically cocked his head. “Bombarding the young ones with too many questions. Very uncool.”

“No, no it’s fine! My friends call me Lilli, it really doesn’t matter. Yes, I’ve graduated a month ago. And as for my flute….” I think back to the silver instrument, lying within the confines of it’s leather case placed on the top shelf of my closet. I haven’t picked it up, let alone blown into it for at least an year now. “I haven’t been playing as much these days.” I quickly wrap up, pushing away the slight mist of dark guilt.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem as if he caught onto my apparent unease at the mention of my flute, and responded innocently enough, “Well that’s a shame. That first time I rehearsed with you, I immediately thought I never will or have come accross a better flute player.”

I cringe at the memory of the first rehearsal I ever had with Mr. Mark. I wasn’t exactly the best at keeping with the piano whenever I played solo, and that day was no exception. I started too early, lost my count and lost my cue, and when things seemed to be going smoothly I’d mess up the flowing sound with an unexpected falter in my fingers. I felt like crawling into a shell whenever we had to stop on account of me. The whole ordeal was agonizing for me, who’s always dealt poorly under performance stress, and probably more so for Mr. Mark, as he had to continuously playing back to the start for me numerous times, like a broken record.

I let out a very distressed “Noooo….” and rapidly shake my head back and forth. “I was average, at best. That first time we rehearsed together was the complete worst for me,” After a second’s discretion I quickly add, “and probably for you too. You had to deal with me messing up all the time.”

“Ahem.”

I quickly whip around, for the second time this morning. In what seemed like a few passing moments, we had drifted up to the order counter, pleasantly engaged in amicable conversation. The poor bambi eyed barista had been replaced by a plump older woman, who held an air of absolute authority despite being half my size and holding a welcoming smile on her face.

“What would you like today, dear?”

“Yes! Um I,” I stutter. I feel assaulted by an immensely awkward life or death decision, as I frantically scan the black menu boards for a welcome sounding drink. “I, I would like an iced black coffee please. Medium sized. Straight. I mean, with nothing in it, thanks.” I manage to let out, in the nick of time, just before the time spent sputtering spanned over socially acceptable standards.

“And for you, sir?” the lady expectantly turned towards Mr. Mark.

“Um actual--”

“I’ll take a small hot latte please.” I looked at him, dumbfounded. He had just naturally interrupted me. And just naturally placed his order. Like it was the most natural thing to do in the world.

What are you doing ????

I will him to hear me as I stare at his profile, completely calm as opposed to me, whose innards were twisting in confused turmoil.

“That will be 6 dollars and 25 cents.” The plump lady swiftly added up.

“Okay...let’s see….” Mr. Mark mumbles as he begins pulling out what looked suspiciously like a wallet.

What the fuck are you doing Mr. Mark nonono stop.

Alarm bells go off in my brain, as I let out, “No! I can’t let you do that!” Imaginary sirens start blaring up in there too, as I watch him shuffle through the wallet, in a casual manner.

“It’s okay, Lillian, I’ve got it for the both of us.”

“But. I’ve got it too! At least my part of it! I can pay, really…” My voice falters, and my will to fight for my dignity diminishes as well.

Oh, crap.

I reluctantly throw the white flag up, as I watch him hand over the exact amount, finalizing the deal.

“I don’t know what to say...I mean thank you! I really appreciate it but you really didn’t have to do that for me.” I quickly try to make the situation better for me. Oh, how I hated these unexpected occasions where people just spontaneously decided to be nice. I, for one, had no idea how to react, other than say a million thank-yous, and tying it off with the overused line, “I really appreciate it.”

“No worries. It’s my treat for this occasion. You don’t see ex-students around every day.” Mr. Mark yet again smiled one of his really gentle, wholesome smiles. The sort of smile where the eyes also smile, deepening the laugh lines, but where the mouth is just a slight upturning. The subtle kind, that wasn’t too in your face. It had a magical calming effect on most everybody. I remember he’d calmly smile like that at every occasion where I’d made a mistake during a rehearsal.

“Anyways though...I think I conveniently forgot about your mistaking multiple times during our first play through together.” he picked up the conversation again. “I just remember your final solo performance being a huge success.” He quirked an eyebrow, as he handed me my drink.

“Thank you !! For the coffee, I mean. And also thank you for that feedback, “ I added sheepishly. “I think it really was definitely better than our first run through.”

“It would be somewhat problematic, wouldn’t it, if you hadn’t improved at all.” He teased.

“That would be horrifying, yeah,” I quickly respond as I impale my drink with a straw. “if the final product resulting from like 5 weeks of continuous rehearsals just sounded like a dying duck. Yep, great finale. Fabulous job, Mr. Mark and Lilli.” I say monotonously, acting out the role of the fictional unimpressed audience.

My sarcasm earned a small laugh from Mr. Mark. I feel my self confidence for interaction with this man build up, as I feel somewhat proud for being capable of eliciting actual amusement from a former mentor. I felt a bit mature, as teenaged Lillian never could make smooth small talk with an authority figure aside from maybe her parents.

“I’ve been wondering though...why have you always called me ‘Mr. Mark’?” He asked with a somewhat more serious air.

I felt my triumph rapidly shrink, as various thoughts rapidly rushed through my mind, most of which being Oh no, did I offend him?? As we settled ourselves down into a set of comfortable arm chairs with drinks in hand, I tentatively started, “Um, well. I’ve been calling you Mr. Mark because...I wasn’t really sure how to pronounce your last name, and I didn’t want to be disrespectful or anything, you know?” My speech speeds up, as I catch Mr. Mark’s brow furrow for a split second. “I didn’t want to just address a mentor just by their first name, that’d be a bit awkward and a tad disrespectful, so I thought adding a ‘Mr.’ at the beginning would make the situation at least somewhat better. Like I thought it was better to do that instead of butchering your last name every time into a million pieces.” I watch him earnestly as he processed my explanation.

Right when I thought that I’d messed up for real, it took me by surprise when Mr. Mark suddenly began chuckling quietly. “That….” He said in between breaths. “that, is really funny and actually, quite smart of you.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just ended up dumbly saying, “Oh. Really?” I guess he took it in a positive way. My tension slowly receded as I listened to him go on in amusement.

“Yeah, really. Very effective way of avoiding uncomfortable situations. It’d have saved me so many irritated verbal corrections back in my school days.”

“Oh no, what happened?” I smiled, and asked out of curiosity at what my former mentor sitting in front of me, who’d always seemed so soundly confident, may have been like when he was more my age.

“Well. I think the worst occasion was when I was in college, studying piano under this really gruff Russian professor. A large, large man,” I couldn’t help but laugh a bit at his choice of expression. He carried on, acknowledging my little giggle, “I mean, not in an offensive way, really. He just had this big presence.” Mr. Mark demonstrates with his arms. “He had an even larger, very impressive beard. And virtually no one had the guts to go up and have a one on one, heart to heart conversation with him. Just a very intimidating man.”

I follow along, “Oh yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Right ??” He cocked his chin forward, emphasizing his point. “And I had the absolute blessing to go ask him a very urgent question. But I’d never really heard anyone say his name before. Even the other professors called him the ol’ gruff. The only thing I knew was that his name ended with something something - vich. You know? The stereotypical Russian ending for all names. So I just took this really wild guess. Totally butchered his name. He ended up coaching me for a whole ten minutes to say his name with complete accuracy, accents and everything! But I did nail the vich part. That was a plus.”

I start laughing a bit when I picture the mental image of a younger Mr. Mark quivering under the glare of a slightly more wild, rough version of Santa Claus with a heavy accent.

“I mean, I can’t really complain because my name isn’t exactly the most simplest name out there either.” Mr. Mark added on after taking a sip of his latte.

“How exactly do you pronounce your last name?” I ask, thinking that I might as well learn now.

“You do sort of a harsh ‘cuh’ sound, the ‘fa’, like as in the musical note, and then ‘relly’, like really without the a. Sort of confusing, isn’t it.” He explained.

“Cafarelli?” I begin somewhat uncertainly. Convinced by Mr. Mark’s encouraging nod, I tried again. “Cafarelli. Mr. Caffarelli !” It feels foreign in my mouth at first, but it slowly moulds itself on my tongue, and it rolls out effortlessly.

“That’s it, very nice job.” He gave me a small round of literal applause, which I found funny, seeing an adult actually trace a circle in the air with his clapping hands. “Everyone always makes it sound way more Italian than it needs to be. Like Cu-fa, REEEEELLI.” He rolled his eyes as he demonstrated his overemphasized Italian accent. “But feel free to call me just Mark from now on.”

Bewildered, I reflexively ask, “Wait, what?” I know I sounded a bit dumb, but it was just a foreign suggestion to me. “But I was a student...you know, I don’t want to be disrespectful?”

“Well, technically I was just your mentor, but that doesn’t matter now!” He flat out denied my argument. “You’re no longer a student under my mentorship wing anymore, don’t bother with all the different titles. Alright?” Mr. Mark gave me an encouraging smile.

“Alright Mr. - I mean!” I quickly fix myself, when he raises a questioning eyebrow. “Mark.” I smile weakly, and shrink back in my seat a bit. God that felt weird.

“Very nice,” he nodded approvingly.

We finished up the remainder of our drinks in amicable conversation. We stood from our table, slowly saying our farewells. You know, the usual things you might say to a distant relative you only see once a decade. “Nice seeing you, hope to see you soon, have a nice day, have a safe trip back home.” And of course, numerous more thank-yous for the unexpected free coffee that I’d gotten. The prolonged strings of parting greetings. The usual. But it felt….different, hearing it from Mark Caffarelli, my former piano accompanist, and music mentor. Or Mark, as I should be calling him under his discretion. I inwardly cringe a bit every time I think of Mr. Mark as just, plain Mark. I think he’ll just stay Mr. Mark in my mind for a while, even after today. As I parted with him outside the San Francisco Coffee Brewers & Co., I couldn’t help but look back at his slowly distancing figure. He was a tall man, who must’ve been very lanky in his younger years. I wonder how old he is right now? I ponder. Mr. Mark had an easy air, making me feel almost comfortable in his presence, though I’d never known him as well as my actual flute teacher from highschool. I could easily relate with him, which made for good conversation. Wholesome speech.

Wholesome. The entirety of the events that had taken place within the particular cafe left me feeling pleasant. Happy. Warm inside. I didn’t know what it was, but I left feeling glowier inside than I did when I arrived. Mark. I try again in my mind. A sort of giddy feeling bubbles up inside of me, and I smile to myself. Quickly, I cover it with my hand, trying to suppress the involuntary reaction. It felt like I’d been given a small amount of authority. Authority and….and certification to be on a first name basis with someone I’d respected and revered as a teenager. I felt like I had a bit of control. It even felt a bit, wrong too. Like I’d just dipped my bare finger into a pot of honey. That is reprimandable, not to mention completely unsanitary. But the licks of sweetness I got from it was irresistible. It gave me a certain high emotion. I don’t know what this is, but I like it.

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