What’s that smell?

Every subway station I’ve been in anywhere in the world–from Boston to Beijing–shares a smell.  Musty.  Humid.  Petroleum-y.  As though that smell were a familial trait shared by all the cousins of public transportation (city buses have a hint of it too).  For me that scent has come to have very immediate and slightly contradictory associations.  It’s the smell of too many people too close together.  The smell of on-edgedness (you never know what strange version of humanity is going to squeeze in next to you).  It’s the smell of a small adventure for someone raised in the suburbs in a home with two cars parked in the driveway.  It’s also the smell of community.  Of total strangers getting where they need or want to go together.

I’m reminded of all this because I recently returned from a trip to Washington, D.C. with the senior class from the high school where I teach.  I have traveled with students many times, to locations such as a simulated version of Thailand in the middle of Arkansas and to the Civil Rights Memorial in Montgomery, AL.  However, I have never before attempted to keep track of 10 teenagers (six of them boys) in a big city.  On the Metro.  At rush hour.  But against all apparent odds, I didn’t lose any of them (one did get a concussion, but that’s a different story all together).

One of the questions I’ve been asking myself during the past several months of conscious self-reflection is whether I still want to be a teacher.  For a variety of reasons, both petty and profound, I’ve recently leaned more to the side of exploring an entirely different career field.  However, as I traversed the city of DC with a bunch of silly, thoughtful students, I was reminded again and again about how cool this job really is.  I sat with them during what was, for a few, their first plane flight and watched their reactions to their first bites of Indian food.  We visited the embassy of Lichtenstein (a first for all of us), met the ambassador, and came to the consensus that we could all see ourselves living in that country (unfortunately we also learned about their extremely strict immigration laws, so it’s not looking good for our big move).  We leaned about the United Nation’s Millennium Development Goal regarding population and how various non-governmental organizations are working to address the issues.  We learned that there is a man who goes by the name of “Derek the Abstinence Clown” who received federal money during the Bush administration to teach his version of “sex education” (which somehow involved juggling machetes in schools).

Granted, this past week does not represent a typical one for me.  But every week, I have a job that allows me the learn new things and go on adventures (even if they are only intellectual or emotional ones) with some pretty great individuals.  I still don’t think I’ll be a teacher forever (that’s a long time, after all).  But I do know that next time I smell the unmistakable, universal smell of a subway station, it will be mixed with the memory of my past week’s travels, and I will be grateful.

In the beginning…

Or the middle or the end.  One of the many funny things about life is that all of these markers are wrapped up in one another.  The end of every era is the middle of another and the beginning is always the end.  So, here I am.  Right here.  Which is the state of being that inspires this blog’s existence.  Here are a few recent beginnings, middles, and ends that brought me to this moment:

1. I read Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir Eat, Pray, Love

2. I got a dog. (His name is Wilbur.  He is half-way trained, all the way precious).

3. I decided to live alone for the first time in my life (alone in the sense that Wilbur communicates only in whimpers, barks, and nose nudges and does not help pay any of the bills).

Both cosmically and consciously I believe that these events are related.  Here’s how:  After reading Eat, Pray, Love, I said these words, “I would like to have a year by myself.”  But I quickly dismissed the thought.  I don’t have enough money.  I have a great job I don’t want to leave.  I have a great relationship. Blah, blah, blah.  But gosh darnit, the universe listened.  The universe saw to it that some puppies would be born underneath a vacant house I saw everyday (these puppies are of the breed my friend Lindsey accurately and affectionately has classified as “San Antonio Street Dog”).  Despite having said multiple times “I could never have a dog while I live in an apartment,” the universe (pushy like it is) compelled me to sneak one of those Street Dog puppies into my “luxury” (a.k.a. overpriced) apartment home near the end of my lease.  And then, just as I was beginning to unpack my belongings in my new residence with my new roommate, the universe reminded me of my own words, “I would like to have a year by myself.”

And so, Wilbur and I re-packed our bags, boxes, and dog crates and moved for the second time in a month.  And I haven’t doubted once that is was the right decision.

It’s now about half-way through the official “year by myself” and I think it’s time for some reflection and projection, some beginning in the middle.  I’d like to dedicate this blog to the following individuals and phenomena:  Elizabeth Gilbert for providing the impetus in her own writing for my very important project of self-discovery, uncovery, and invention; my friend Lindsey for writing a delightfully entertaining and inspiring blog of her own and saying, “Write a blog.  I will read it.”; Wilbur for providing me with affection and laughter during this often lonely adventure; and the universe for making it all happen, for being so beautifully mysterious, and for connecting us all.