Posts Tagged ‘Tricia Lunt’

Potentially Excellent

Posted: May 22, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty. 

I had a professor in graduate school named Dr. Daniel Melnick who rarely gave student Imagework a full-fledged “A”. He nearly always wrote, “potentially excellent, A-“. Many years later, I am accustomed to imperfection, still happy with an “A-,” still encouraged by the word potentially. Unfortunately, I still make foolish mistakes; take every post I have written for this blog, for example. Even though I have drafted and edited each at least five times, the minute I re-read it online, I spot an error.

I am a ceaseless critic of my students’ work, by necessity, but also of my own work and life, generally. It has a lot to do with the training I received in undergraduate and graduate school, and I am grateful for the capacity to be critical, but I must defend against my proclivity to become overly so (I am sometimes referred to as the “Dream Killer” when rushing to identify problems instead of pausing to provide encouragement). Recently, I did what I too often do: I jumped to the fault. I pointed out the one tiny error in a truly useful info-graphic my friend Hanna made for a class for which she was to be a guest speaker. Only after realizing how ungrateful my behavior was did I retreat and praise her efforts and thank her again for kindly sharing her expertise and advice with my students, devoting both her time and her knowledge without pay. In my haste to correct problems, I must remember not to diminish the larger accomplishment.

Perfection is not attainable, despite what my friend Ian’s mother might say. I share the truth as embodied by baseball batting averages; a phenomenal batting average is .400, orImage “batting 400”.  I discuss the implications of this statistic with my students. In ten attempts, we should expect six failures, hope for no more than four successes. I find this analogy immensely comforting. Nevertheless, I feel foolish when what I write contains errors since I am supposed to know better. Well, I suppose I do know better, I just don’t do better. Fortunately, this realization does not paralyze me with fear because my colleague and fellow turtle member, Paul, has given all who write for this blog the gift of a revolutionary idea: “perfect is the opposite of done.” This motto allows us to accept the inevitability of flaws as part of the larger process of building something that has lasting value.

My friendships are the best example of something spectacular I have built over the years. Coincidentally, friendship provides a different perspective on flaws. The longer a friendship Imagelasts, the more accepting friends are of each other’s foibles. At some point (around about the one decade of friendship mark, it seems), something rather extraordinary happens: the flaws and eccentricities and imperfections become what we love most. When I behave in my peculiar way; lining up M & M’s in color-coded rows, insisting Chris Rock was not in that movie, packing seven scarves for a three-day weekend, or arriving entirely too early for a party, people who have loved me for ten years are charitable enough to view these quirks as part of my charm. Flaws are noticeable, often painfully so, but being loved in spite of, or even because of, our flaws creates a powerful connection established in the understanding that though we are imperfect creatures, we are magnificent, too. Besides, when a thing is flawless, there’s really nothing left to say. 

Invitation to an Inventory

Posted: May 14, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

I’m moving at the end of May, so I spend a small amount of time each morning packing a box or two. I am not going far; I found another apartment Logan Square, approximately seven blocks away. Nevertheless, the process of moving has been revelatory. The first observation for all movers is the same: I have more stuff than I thought.  As I slowly pack, carefully wrapping things and nestling them according to similarity of purpose and placement, the boxes have begun to pile up, and I still have more stuff. I don’t even own much, really. I certainly don’t own things of much value, except the sentimental kind.  Moving forces individuals to confront their relationship with their possessions, and I am pleased to see how my things beautifully align with the life I have chosen.

Like most American women, I own entirely too many articles of clothing. However, the clothes I own are inexpensive, enabling me to rationalize buying more than I need and buying from thrift stores ensures that no one else will be wearing the same thing. I have already packed most of my considerable scarf collection. There are two segments of the scarf collection, the winter variety, at least fifty scarves that range in size, color, and pattern, including special scarves handmade for me by Ruthie, my brilliant friend from graduate school; Jackie Couch, my best friend’s mom; and other crafty friends Ingrid and Hanna.  The non-winter variety includes another fifty whimsical, colorful bits of fabric, many gifts from friends who recognize scarves as my accessory of choice because they are unique and appealing and make any outfit infinitely more fabulous.

A growing number of boxes are filled with items for cooking, baking, and entertaining. Even though I live alone, I have (mismatched) service for 12 or more in order to feed as many people as will fit in my modest apartment. I grew up in a crowded, rowdy house, and can think of no better definition of home than a small space overflowing with people and laughter. My incomparable book club cycles through my place twice per year. I host brunches and dinners for my Urban Family on designated holidays and birthdays, and just for the hell of it. I cherish oddities, a fair amount of serving “fish dishes” and accessories shaped like fish (I like rhyming). The best example are gifts from Leah, twin fish salt and pepper shakers, and a completely adorable and utterly inaccurate set of fish-shaped measuring spoons that are the mysterious secret behind my perfectly salty chocolate chip cookies.

City_Lights_BookstoreI have beloved books, and plenty of them. I love books, but not all books are worth the trouble it takes to lift and lug them across states, or even around the corner. I keep the countless books I have received as gifts, specially selected for me by my tremendously thoughtful friends and family. I buy a book every time I travel, being careful to select a title meaningfully tied to the place. On my recent trip to San Francisco, I visited City Lights Books and bought a poetry anthology from its own publishing imprint. I have inscribed copies of all the books written by Dan Chaon,a phenomenal writer who was my professor in graduate school. Books comprise a majority of my possessions, which seems reasonable to me.

The last major segment of my possessions consists of works of art, relatively inexpensive art, but art nonetheless. As I eagerly anticipate hanging them on new walls, it occurs to me that these things are the most prized. I have wonderful souvenirs from my travels, a Huicholi yarn drawing from my trip to Puerta Vallarta. Austin Kleon’s  work wowed me online, and bought one of his limited edition “Newspaper Blackout Poems.” Chicago festivals are a treasury of local artists, including Jay Ryan. I’m incredibly lucky to know artists. My dear, old friend, Emily made me two fantastic pieces, and gave me one more. I bought a marvelous reclining nude hand-drawn by the wonderfully creative Chas Appleby, my former student and forever friend. Matt Schlagbaum knows he owes me a work of art, too. All this art makes my walls sing.

Despite all the trouble and strain, moving affords the chance to look carefully at the stuff of life. If you’re lucky like me, you’ll discover you are very rich indeed.

Mom Lunt

Posted: May 10, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

One post could never do my mother justice, but I suppose I better start somewhere. I’ll think Imageabout the marvelous things my mother did. My mother raised my brothers and sisters and I (all 7 of us) essentially alone. She was a single mother for my entire life, and like all single mothers, she did the unimaginable: she provided for her family. This, in itself, is extraordinary. The current statistics in the United States indicate that as of 2011, over 10 million American women are single mothers. I need a minute to process that. No, I need a lifetime. I simply cannot imagine how she managed. Like every appreciative adult child, I look back and think, “how in the hell did my mother do it?” The truly amazing thing about my mother is that not only did she manage to see us all fed and clothed and educated, she did beautiful motherly things, too.

The special things that my mother continues to bake for her family helped establish charming family traditions. When I started teaching, I would reference family traditions, and my students were dumbfounded. Their mothers never made homemade jellies and pretzels and cookies and cakes. As she was baking, she would explain things: tell stories, inviting the memory of the recipe’s original author into the kitchen, distant relatives and former neighbors. Mrs. Keller contributed a fair number of dishes. My mom would prompt me, “you remember Mrs. Keller, don’t you?” I didn’t, but what did it matter? Different memories were embodied in each dish, and the traditions evolved over the years. A story I typically share with my students involves my mother’s tradition of celebrating the first day of school with homemade doughnuts. This means that my mother woke up at 4am that day, every year for two decades. It makes perfect sense that I ultimately became a teacher. My mother taught us to celebrate school. Just think of that. My sister Theresa now carries on the tradition with her three boys, making doughnuts the day before the first school day, and many of the 12 nieces and nephews come when they can. A few years ago, I noticed that my brothers and sisters and I all eat the doughnuts the same way; we close our eyes, take a bite, and are transported.

My mother also has a deep love for flowers, which makes sense as she was raised on a flower farm. Sadly, I never had a chance to see the farm where she was raised, but she brought her knowledge of flowers to her home. I recognize the first signs of spring in the early flowers, crocuses and forsythia which she taught me to identify. There were daffodils, of course, and later in the summer a tiny swath of violets. The house where I grew up has had over the years a remarkable preponderance of blooming and fruit trees: lavender lilacs, white dogwoods, Japanese weeping cherry, crabapple, pear, and plum trees. The special additions my mother made were rose bushes planted in front of the three front windows: red and white roses in front of her window, and yellow roses in front of the girls’ room because they were her eldest daughter, Betsy’s, favorite. My mother planted colorful annuals in beds by the back door, something my eldest brother Ralph does for her now every Mother’s Day.

Shoreline Muse

Posted: April 30, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.                     

I was at the Ocean recently (the Atlantic, to be specific). Listening to the waves is universally Imagewonderful. While at the beach, I spent every possible moment within earshot of the waves. I rose early and bundled on a deck chair at dawn. All day, I kept opening the door to hear to the enchanting crash.

At the earliest moment, I took a walk on the beach, toes in squishy sand and frothy sea. Although the air and water were cold, I couldn’t resist the temptation; I waded in waist-deep and let the water pull me forth and back, the waves undulating, pressing me across the floor like an expert dancer. The ocean can move whatsoever it chooses: the shells, the algae, the fish, and the land. The oceanic rhythm compels us all.

Natural things dominate the beach; humans are merely visitors. I encountered the familiar sea Imagebirds. I said, “Hello, birdie,” as I watched a sand piper walk briskly in and out of the waves. Greeting animals is not an unusual practice for me. I speak to animals when I feel the urge to do so, usually when we are alone together, the animals and I. Like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, I “bless them” nearly unaware.

I think about what the birds believe about humans. Maybe they go back to their nests and chatter amongst themselves about our peculiar behavior.  Perhaps the bird I greeted will turn to his friend and say, “I saw the most amazing human the other day.”

Birds must have their own words to name and describe humans: heavy, lumbering, wingless creatures that we are. Are we the giants who populate their myths? I imagine scholarly birds studying the strange and wonderful migratory patterns of humans, deeming our movements bizarre and unfathomable. Could it be that our shrieks of delight, our playful entreaties, our amorous murmurs, are, to avian ears, as delightfully lovely as birdsong?

At Home in the Square

Posted: April 9, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

I’m moving in June, as my seriously misguided landlord is raising the rent by $200 a month. I will not go down the rabbit hole of my anger towards that man, at least not in this post. What I want to talk about is my deep devotion to my neighborhood, the matchless Logan Square. When people discover that I am looking for a new apartment, they sometimes ask me if I plan on staying in the neighborhood. I fight the urge to respond with incredulity. I know the joys of life in an authentic neighborhood, so I couldn’t even imagine living anywhere else; Logan Square is my home.

Logan Square is the friendliest place I have ever lived. My two closest girl friends in Chicago, Leah and Hanna, live within easy walking distance, and I happily and regularly brighten their respective doorways. Other lovely friends live in the area (Matt and Kris and both Ryans), a brood of people who I have come to call my “Urban Family.” We host holiday brunches and celebrate birthdays. I have quotes tacked above my desk at work. One from Oliver Wendell Holmes reads, “Where we love is home.” It occurs to me now that my neighborhood is part of my Urban Family, too.

I am warmly welcomed at my local haunts. The regularity with which people lean over to kiss the world’s best bar owner, Maria, is positively extraordinary. I have often conjectured that if a person from a foreign country stumbled into the Whirlaway, he would get the impression that kissing customers is the cultural norm. Maria hosts potlucks and cook-offs and cookouts to which we all contribute food cooked from favorite family recipes. I expect Bryce’s sister to bring “funeral potatoes,” and Katie to bring phenomenal baked goods. When a loyal customer has a birthday, Maria provides the cake. I am missed at Dunlay’s if I don’t go often enough. A favorite waitress recently gave me a hug because it had been too long since she’d seen me. I delight in being a regular and greeting other regulars, whose names and stories I know, an aspect central to the neighborhood experience.

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I adore the small circular park in the center of the square, which features The Illinois Centennial Monument. The Urban Family picnics there in three seasons. We eat and drink and read and talk, and we are not alone. Neighborhood acquaintances say hello, then enjoy the park with bocce sets and Frisbees. The park buzzes with life. There are events and gatherings, film screenings, rock concerts and street fairs. The dates for this year’s Milwaukee Avenue Arts Festival are already marked on my calendar. Something called “The Culture Coach” pulled up last summer and treated us to performances by Flamenco dancers and offered impromptu Mambo lessons. My friends and I were just relaxing in the park, and voila: spontaneous dancing!

The neighborhood provides everything a person needs. The Logan Square branch of The Chicago Public Library bustles with neighborhood activity. Gwen, the lady who works at the circulation desk, personifies welcome, cheerfully helping patrons and calling them by first name. I voted early there this past fall, where I found a long line of my hard-working, civic-minded neighbors at 6am. The neighborhood garden, known as the Atlgeld-Sawyer farm,  was started by my charming neighbors Margaret and Johanna, and members of the Urban Family volunteer as part of the compost team. The Farmer’s Market will be moving to its outdoor location soon, where I’ll expect to spontaneously encounter at least one friend each Sunday. I recently got my bike, Orangina, spruced up at Boulevard Bikes. When I asked the woman fixing my bike, “do you want to hear something weird?” She and her coworkers instantly said, in unison, “yes,” another sure sign that Logan Square is where I belong.

When I got hurt, neighbors rushed to my aid. A man whose name I don’t know put his arm around me and comforted me while he phoned the police. A woman I’d never met introduced herself as Drea and wiped blood off me with a wet towel fetched from nearby apartment. Another woman brought me a glass of cold water. They stayed with me until the ambulance arrived. I suspect that I pass these kind strangers on the streets of my neighborhood, at least I like thinking they, and others like them, are around me all the time.

The neighborhood gets a lot of great press, which is reflected in the rent increase, but only residents know the genuine value of a place. There is inestimable wealth in the true community of people I know and love in my neighborhood, my home: Logan Square.

Brothers and Sisters (part 6 of 6)!

Posted: March 26, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

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My sister Theresa’s love for me is extraordinary. She is so solicitous of my welfare that when I call her on her mobile phone, she typically answers not with “hello,” but “is everything all right?” or “what’s wrong?” If something is wrong, by god, she’s going to set it right. The precedent for this aspect of her sisterly devotion seems to have been established when I was in the 2nd grade, though I am sure this extreme form of loyalty emanates from the core of her being.

When I was in the second grade, a boy in my class made me cry: cue Theresa’s wrath. Poor Samuel (his name has been changed to protect his identity) had elected to “flip up” my skirt on the playground (do little boys still do this?). Surprised and embarrassed, I burst into tears. The extremity of Theresa’s response to this injustice typifies her displeasure with any perceived mistreatment of me, known to her as “Tishy.” The next day, Theresa, who was a 6th grader, approached the boy in question, and aggressively dared him to flip up her skirt. His tears were more immediate and intense than mine had been.

Twenty years later, Theresa was no less anxious for my safety. I was vacationing in Puerta ImageVallarta, Mexico, in 2001, and a tropical storm hit the city. I was aware of a strong storm outside the windows of the club where my friends and I were dancing all night. I didn’t realize it was a significant tropical storm until I got a call from Theresa the next morning. She knew more about the storm than I did as she had been anxiously checking the weather channel every five minutes. The only awareness I had of the unusual weather was as we left the club, we saw locals grab fish off the flooded streets to take home for Sunday dinner. The fact that fish were on the street did strike me as abnormal. When my friends and I returned to our hotel, one of the larger trees had been uprooted in the courtyard, but no real damage had occurred. As is so often the case, I was fine, and Theresa worried needlessly.

Theresa’s anxiety is also a storm: a swirling mass of concern and affection and love, awful and beautiful and powerful. Fortunately, the men who have broken my heart have done so stealthily, without attracting her indignation. One word would be enough to summon her to my defense. In a fearsome world, how incredible to have the steadfast protection only a big sister can provide.

One Bad Date Deserves Another

Posted: March 12, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

Allow me to update Tolstoy’s famous line “happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” and apply it to dating; “all good dates are alike; every bad date is dreadful in its own way.” Since the only good thing to come from a bad date is a fantastic anecdote, I offer some recent treasures from my dating misadventures.

Online dating can feel like the last refuge of the desperate. Like most people, I started online dating reluctantly, after intervention-style demands from friends who disliked the last man I was seeing and want me to find love, the right man, a date. Something. There are two other key factors that propelled my entry into the truly terrifying terrain of online dating. One of my closest friends found her remarkably winning fiancé online. It can happen. And even though I am quite content in my singledom, every now and then I think it might be nice to make two lunches in the morning instead of just one.

I completed a 6-month circuit of online dating. The end result has been that I have arrived at a new low point of interest in men. It seems as though my attraction to men is inversely proportional to getting to know them. This does not characterize my attitude toward all men, just the ones I’ve meet recently. Alas, the well of my romantic optimism has run dry.

I offer a description of two of the men I’ve been forced to consider as potential romantic partners. Names have been changed to avoid embarrassment; each man has been re-christened based on his most strikingly awful personality quirk. I’ll spare you the suspense and assure you there is no “happily ever after,” but there can always be laughter.

The first man I met for a drink had given himself a Master’s degree. I didn’t bother to explain to him that “extensive reading” was not an acceptable academic credential from an accredited institution of higher learning. Don’t get me wrong, a man who reads is the only viable choice for me. However, people are not able to confer diplomas upon themselves, a fact “Make-your-own Master’s Man” was apparently ignorant of. He knew plenty about what he wanted to know, primarily British history. He seemed generally distressed by my knowledge of British history and did his best to discover the century I knew least about (17th) and focused his conversational attention there, if only to be sure I couldn’t challenge him. When he finished his pink martini (alas, not a new kind of whiskey), I ended the date with relief that at least his neighborhood was interesting.

Next in line was a man who sent me a pre-date text to help me identify him in the crowd at a downtown bar. He sent, “I’m at a table to the left, and I am wearing a gray hoodie.” Had I spared a minute to analyze that statement more closely, my expectations for the date would have been recalibrated. Yes, the man elected to wear a gray hoodie to our first date. I suppose I should be thankful that he didn’t have on a backward baseball cap. I do tend to like younger men, but he wasn’t young; he was just odd. “Hoodie Man” exhibited a few more questionable habits, the most troubling being his desire to ask, “what happened, did he spit on you?” Twice. I won’t bother to contextualize that seriously bizarre statement. It seemed to simply be a “go to” phrase that he liked to inexplicably inject into conversation.

 ImageThere were other contenders, but I can skip to the end without much regret because I honestly recoil from memories of certain conversations and exchanges with the handful of other men I’ve encountered. After some reflection (and perhaps too much information shared), my colleague has placed me on “Injured Reserve” for the rest of the dating season. I might be healthy enough to date in the Spring. It’s too early to tell. Currently, I am just hopeful that I will recover more quickly than Derrick Rose.

PS I am allergic to cats.

A Walk Around the Writer’s Block

Posted: February 28, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Paul Gaszak, English Faculty

“If I had a penny for my thoughts, I’d be a millionaire.”

—The Beastie Boys

It is time for my regular Thursday posting on ye ole Turtle, and I have no idea what to write about. Yet, I offer that as evidence to support the following claim:

Writer’s Block does not exist.

My problem isn’t that I have no ideas to write about; it’s quite the opposite. The problem is that I have too many ideas.

Ain’t I special?

The answer is NO – I’m not special. We all have countless topics we can write about, which is why it always blows my mind when anyone says they have “writer’s block.” No – you don’t have writer’s block. You have “I-don’t-feel-like-writing” block. Big difference.

For anyone writing an essay, a story, a poem, a Flaneur’s Turtle post….you want an idea of what to write about? Here’s a hint:

Look. Around. You.

Our world is full of topics to discuss. Look at your personal life, social life, work life. Look at the news. Look anywhere in the world. There are topics, I promise.

Granted, not all topics are made equal, and some are more worthy of investing time in as a writer and reader, but there is never “nothing” to write about.

So, with that said, rather than write a full post on one topic this week, I thought I’d share the topics I considered writing about this week:

  • How too many Chicagoans overreact to snow like we’ve never seen it before.
    • What? Cold and snow in February? In Chicago? What perverse anomaly of nature has allowed this?
  • Why the common cold needs to be less common.
    • Additionally, how I believe the spread of germs is not stopped, or even slowed, by the Kleenex with the little blue dots on them.
  • About RMU’s Eagle newspaper winning multiple awards over the weekend.
    • Front Page Design & Comic Strip! Good job, Eagle!
  • How I received a nice Thank You letter from a student who graduated, and how small moments like that make teaching awesome.
  • How I talked with my Advanced Creative Writing class about generating ideas. And during that class, we discovered….
  • The neon green arrow pointing up from a dorm room at the University Center. (It can be seen from the CLA office in Chicago.)
    • What is it pointing to? Whose room is that? WHAT DOES IT MEAN!?
  • The eclectic nature of this blog’s topics.
    • How Michael Stelzer Jocks and I will likely never write about the same topic unknowingly, but then find out about it the next day in the office and say, “What? You wrote about that, too!” and then high five.
      • I’m not opposed to that happening. It would be pretty awesome.
        • And even better if it was a leaping high five.
    • How Trish Lunt gets more page views and reads than I do on the Turtle, because as she tells me, she has more friends than I do.
      • I’d get mad about this if she weren’t right.
        • She has more siblings than I do, too.
  • The wealth of procrastination people display in writing.
    • How I waited until the last minute to write this post.
      • Yes, students, I understand the hypocracy here.
  • What happens when professors dance?
    • It’s amazing, majestic, and graceful.
  • What happens when professors sing?
    • Deceptive appearances, angelic voices. We’re like Susan Boyle, y’all.
  • Differences in regional diction, including breezeway and burm. And y’all.
  • What happens when professors brainstorm together?
    • Bad ideas, mostly.
      • Example: Thanks to brainstorming, one RMU English professor may now become a rapper named McNasty. Guess who?
  • The addictive nature of lip balm.
  • Gym etiquette as it pertains to waving at your professor while he is winded and sweaty on the treadmill.
    • I’m not built to run, wave, and say hello at the same time. I’m just not.

So, the next time you hear someone say they have Writer’s Block, tell them it isn’t an option. And if you think you’re experiencing Writer’s Block, face it, the problem is that you just don’t want to write because you really want to go watch the latest episode of New Girl that you have on DVR.  Okay, that example was too specific to my life, but you get my point, right?

(Note to self: a potential topic for next week can be the importance of audience analysis in humor writing.)

Brothers and Sisters (part 5 of 6)

Posted: February 27, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty

Whenever I think of my brother Bobby, I think of him either outdoors, or in his truck. Of course, he’s had many trucks over the years, but I never think of a particular truck, I just think of him and a pick-up. When he’s not in his pick-up truck, he’s likely outside, or as close to outside as is feasible.

In the houses in which he’s lived as a man, he has carved out for himself (probably not even consciously) an indoor space as close to the outdoors as possible. In his house in Medina, Ohio, his office was the room directly through the back door, a room with windows covering two of the four walls, a pair of his muddy boots ever at the ready. In his current house, in Gahanna, Ohio, he spends his time not in a room at all, but in the “breezeway” (aka gangway) between the garage and the house. He has fitted this breezeway with an old chair, a preposterously small television, and a cooler for beer. Bobby is a man of simple tastes.

There are few pictures of Bobby online, but this is a fairly accurate depiction. He is seen here with our nephew, Billy (our nephew has the beard). Mental note: I need to take a picture of Bobby in his truck immediately. Of all my brothers and sisters, Bobby is the most unchanged since youth, at least he seems that way to me.

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I heard somewhere that a man’s character can be defined by what he does when he thinks no one is looking, a sentiment that encapsulates what I know about Bobby. He drove me back home after my first year of college (in his truck), and I fell asleep. I was roused by the familiar feeling of the truck slowing down, so I thought we were pulling off the highway into our hometown. Before I could properly gather my senses, Bobby began repeatedly blasting the horn. At that point, I realized that we were pulling off onto the highway shoulder. I looked and saw a family of deer turning from their course toward the highway, bounding safely back into the bushes instead. I looked over at Bobby. Without being asked, he explained; “I had to frighten them off, or someone could have been hurt.”

I’ve learned a lot more about safety and security since then. I know that they are often illusions. Still, I like knowing that there are men in the world like my big brother, Bobby.

Brothers and Sisters (Part 4 of 6)

Posted: February 6, 2013 in Uncategorized
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By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

Many aspects of my sister Margo’s personality defy consistent characterization. One of her many peculiar choices was the decision to accompany me on an adventurous trip to Prague, Vienna, and Budapest. She is far from a seasoned traveler, vacationing typically with her husband and four children on the beaches of North Carolina. Why she felt compelled to join me on a 12 day trip to Europe, I don’t know.  Still, it was an once-in-a-lifetime trip, as so many are. Margo does not complain, generally, and enjoys things without giving them too much thought, as long as they are different or entertaining. She is easy company, though I did exhaust her tolerance for art museums. We travelled in January. I prefer to travel in the off-season because of the reduction in both cost and number of tourists. For as much as I love people, I dislike crowds. Our trip began in Prague, a wonderfully charming and walkable place.Image

The apartment we rented exceeded our expectations, and the weather, though cold, was bright and sunny. We visited the Old Town and the New, explored Prague Castle, crossed the Charles Bridge, and ate and drank at inviting restaurants and pubs before reluctantly making our way to Vienna.

Vienna was planned as a quick stop, a midway point between Prague and Budapest. Vienna is exquisite, exciting, and enormous. A day and a half in Vienna was the result of my ignorance of the city’s grandeur. Nevertheless, our itinerary included one perfect item: attending a performance of Mozart’s The Magic Flute at the Vienna Opera House! Our seats were literally numbers 3 and 4 in the first box. Though Margo doesn’t particularly care for opera, she went along happily, enjoying the glamour and the spectacle. The next day, we departed for Budapest, where our good fortune ran out. The first issue arose when the good-natured Margo mistakenly thought that the man who offered to carry her bags to the train would do so for free (Margo somehow still inhabits an enviable world where men do such things). Naturally, the strange man accompanied us onto the train, insisting a high payment for a task we had not requested of him. I was forced to give him the rest of our cash to get rid of him. Thankfully, I had packed some sandwiches and snacks; otherwise we would have had to go hungry, en route to. . .Hungary.

Budapest was not welcoming. The weather had turned colder and the region was swathed in shadowy fog. The view of Buda Castle across the Chain Bridge was nonexistent. The whole city was the color of dishwater.  Our search for a restaurant near our hostel was endless and fruitless. We walked aimlessly until we were forced to stop because Margo had to use the bathroom. We found a bar on a tiny avenue in Pest. Like most conscientious travelers, (especially those who want to avoid being labeled an “ugly American”), I abide by the rule that if you are going to use a bathroom, you must order something. So, while Margo rushed in the direction of the toilets, I ordered two beers at the bar and took them, with the glasses provided, to a nearby table. I waited patiently for Margo, feeling perfectly at ease, though clearly out of place. We were the only women in the bar. We were the only Americans in the bar. Only one other person spoke English, which he made clear when he approached and asked what had brought us there. He was friendly, but wanted to warn us that our presence was perceived as unusual. I planned to tell Margo we should drink our beers quickly. When she returned from the bathroom, her face looked a bit pained.

“The bathroom was gross,” she whispered.

When she saw the beer she asked, “We’re staying?”

I invoked the rule of good travelers, which she knew well by this point in our trip. She sat down and began to pour her beer into the glass provided. Then she looked at the glass. It was as clean as the rest of the place, which was not very.

“I shouldn’t have used the glass,” she said sadly, mostly to herself. 

Moved by her misery, I passed her my beer, which she finished in three desperate gulps, and we left.

As we walked back to our hostel, I asked Margo if, perhaps, she thought we should leave Budapest earlier than planned and go back to Prague.

Instantly transformed back to her animated self, Margo began to chant: “Back to Prague! Back to Prague! Back to Prague!”

One thing I can say for my sister Margo, she brings enthusiasm with her wherever she goes.

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