Globalization by Bikram

Yesterday, I happened upon a woman who, as she describes herself, is "a freelance English and Bikram Yoga teacher." She said she had taught Yoga in LA, New York, Marseilles, Nepal, Indonesia, Dubai, and Vienna. Currently, she was helping to open a new studio here in Wien (Vienna, btw).

This morning, I took up her offer of a lesson. Early morning in Vienna and NO one is on the street. This city is very calculated and runs on a clock. Go out at 11:00, leave the streets by 6:00. Etc. So I decided to go, sans the sports bra I left at home, foolishly.

First of all, the studio smells like cardamom, my favorite. The lady is very kind and offers me help in choosing a mat and some towels. Unfortunately, I go into the men's changing room because I cannot read German. Oh well.

We go into the HOT studio, as Bikram is hot. About 15 minutes in, I'm already DRIPPING in sweat, and so is everyone else. The work out is both mental and physical and it is damn good. Everyone from young people to old people do it, and everyone at their own pace. For the most part, everyone was in really good shape, and everyone had to sit down at one time or another to just rest. When the instructor opened the windows on occasion, I relished in the fresh air.

Funny enough, the instructor was not too zen, but speaking in strong German, (with english for me). Imagine that sounds and clapping of a high upper school PE teacher. Everyone is sweating and at this point, everyone is in little undies and bras. You don't give a shit after a while.

Later, when its all said and done, I feel refreshed. I get some tea and apples and sit in the group. surprisingly, I was very relaxed and not in pain. (Currently I just feel a little weak, why I am sitting down before I continue to sight see).

A mother/daughter pair living in Vienna but from California start talking with me, telling me there is Bikram all over the world, even in Sarajevo! The guy, Bikram from LA created the exercises that work your thyroid, pancreas, and not to mention muscles and mind. He trains people and sends them all over the world. The sequence is the same, as is the exercise, so basically you get the same thing (with slight variations) wherever you go. I might have to try it in Sarajevo and Israel. Maybe I'll get one started in Kosovo, haha. For 10 Euros, I got all of that (including my free breakfast), and a free session tomorrow morning at 7:00 AM. I might go...

After my chat with those ladies, I went to the correct dressing room.... Now, you cannot have body issues in a European Gym. Communal showers, nudity, and no "stalls" change that. So I just went at it naked.

Words of wisdom for first time Bikram people: (Mom! Listen up!)

--Bring the littlest pair of shorts and a sports bra. Everyone, even the fat people, will have one on.

--Bring extra clothes, two towels, and shower supplies. You NEED to shower after this.

--Do NOT eat before this. Wake up and go. No coffee.

--Drink a bottle of water before you go. During, you cannot drink water for the first 25 minutes of the 90 minute routine.

--Have no shame.

--Be in half decent shape before you go. Bikram is for everyone, but come on, you should be able to at least sit in a warm room for 90 minutes.

--Don't give up. Have a mentally calm attitude and just don't think about it when you cannot do a perfect pose.

--Have fun.

Namaste.

Wien-ing in exhaustion, but loving every minute.

Have not slept in nearly 28 hours, will be brief.

LOVE Vienna. Mostly because of the people. Major props to Cathrin for picking me up at the McDonalds and taking me to a hostel to drop my pack.

Things done and impressions made:

-St. Petersburg looks like Vienna. Or Vienna looks like St. Petersburg. One of the two.

-Smoking.

-Met another American girl (should say woman), Hillary. Turned out to be from Colorado, but she has been abroad for about 8 years teaching English and Yoga (from France, to Nepal, to Dubai, to Vienna... hoping to settle in France). Guess who is doing Bikram Yoga in the morning... in Vienna. Moi. Score. Hopefully I will sleep.

-There is donor and kebab everywhere. Its like a flirting fascination with their former Ottoman borders never left them. Serbs running in the streets after beating Germany. The wild wild east is at the doorstep here and it is felt with every step.

-Everyone obeys the rules. I felt bad for jaywalking. The subway system is an honors system. No turnstall, you just swipe and walk through a gate with no door. Everything is timed perfectly like a Swiss (or Austrian) watch.

-Mozart tried picking me up on the street. Or rather MozartS. They all wanted to take me to a concert at this grand hall, a la Mozart, period dress and all. Though one did try to invite me to an Irish pub. I didn't think Mozart liked the Irish.

-Met some other girls from vancouver who just graduated college. They had been to Bosnia and told me not to worry. And they are blond and beautiful. (Look mom! I'm alive!)

-I saw the human rights project exhibition put up by Lukas Maximillian Hueller, the same guy I wrote my Paul Bloom 7 Deadly Sins thesis on. I feel like emailing Lukas and telling him I'm in his neighborhood.

My thoughts are about disjointed as my physicality. You try carrying 14 kilos and feeling normal! Good night (or good nap). I'm wide awake now but exhausted. ? Question Mark ?

Woman in Her (?) Nation, of cars, cigarettes, and cellulite

About 15 miles from my own home, there is the border to a different land. A land of car racing, monster trucks, fatty foods, clay dirt, obesity, and "freedom."

Welcome to my evening at Lernerville Speedway. Accompanying are the L's, our family friends from the city (censored name for their privacy). After having a "box" (or just a roof with some metal chairs) at Lernerville for years and never having actually visited, we decided to go with the Lesoons for some country car romping. We have a car (who we only supply tires to), a driver, a sign with our name on it--none of what I knew we ever even had. My dad prefers movies and the Steelers, to cars and dirt.

As we look for our seats, mom is concerned her espadrilles are getting dirty and she clearly is overdressed. I'm getting glaring looks as I walked up the old wooden bleachers to our box seat. Is my purple dress too purple? Older men with their buttoned shirts have sleeves rolled up to look like old time greasers. I see boys with little hair tails and girls who are 12 smoking cigarettes. An incredibly obese woman in nude colored cotton pants blocks the stairway to my "box" filled with metal chairs.

As Mrs. L is an audiologist, she has us outfitted with proper earwear. Having a conversation is futile when you can't hear and don't know sign language. How is that cute little 17 year old on a date here with his girl? They can't talk!

In between races, we actually bring up conversations: Courtney L. with a boy who is the son of our driver. He knows how to replace transmission and he is like 9. Mom has a man offer her some sausage. Mrs. L chats up with the boy in front of us (the son of the guy who does our towing). He is very polite, telling us in his country pittsburgh accent about how last week a guy caught on fire! He says, "Yea!" after every question mom asks.

Courtney and I leave and pass up the beer hut next to the port-a-potties and dodge cans that fall from the bleachers above us (people throw them under their seats). Little kids have big ear protection on as they watch the big kids (9-10 year olds) play football. A man sticks a wad of chew-tobaccky in his mouth. I'm stared at as if I was a dead woman walking, from a time in the distant future who has died and come back. Is it the ugg sandals (like Birkenstocks of yuppies) or my curly hair (which every other girl straightens and dyes blonde in these parts...)

Later, Courtney and I sit on the roof of her Jeep and look out at the clay dirt in the night sky that has been kicked up by the homemade cars that are going in circles.

Sometimes I forget where I live. Sometimes we all forget what our country is composed of. Regardless, we all need to remember that somewhere in farm town USA, on any given friday in June, there are car races that are keeping these communities from boredom and keeping America a family affair.

In Finland. Where Everyone is Blonde.

Finally. Out of the abyss I call February, where no one sees the light of day and no one smiles. Despite Valentine's Day or the fact that it is the shortest month of the year, still---no consolation. February Sucks.

But. Back to my calling. The open sky. The open road. The open world. (Or at least when you have your Russian visa). However, je divague.

Preface: I'm going to Russia with Misha, Evin, and.... Alex. If he was here. He didn't get his visa in time and is stuck in New York. I am on Spring Break and finally free... for two weeks.

I'm in Finland on my 3-4 hour layover. If there ever was a perfect place, an Aryan utopia, this might be it. The airport is spotless. The architecture has sharp and beautiful angles. The couches are either dirty white, off white, or beige (as Evin insists). The landscape is flat, though picturesque. This big building is near empty. (Helsinki only has half a million people). There is no music playing. No loudspeaker. There is stoic silence that adds to the chic nature of the women walking around with thick black sunglasses, Longchamp bags, and delicate Finnish speech. There is an accuracy in every angle and the color scheme could not be more spot on.

If people think Scandinavia is the ideal, I can see why. Everyone is just beautiful, well dressed, and has a sense of color in their design and clothing.

Even the off white (beige?!?) couches match the landscape.

Excuse me while I got pour perfume on myself at a duty free shop. I need to shower.

Keep an eye on it---- what does that mean?

While I was breaking bread with the dead, reading Cicero, and y'know, being a Yale student (how ridiculous that sounds sometimes in the 21st century!), someone asked me, "Can you keep an eye on my computer for me?" I of course replied, "Of course!" However, what does this even entail?

I've often wondered about the Good Samaritan principle in American culture. Do we really look out for each other and make sure that no one steals the other one's stuff? I have a hard time getting someone to hold a door for me, let alone getting someone to make sure some stranger doesn't steal my computer. So the question arises, "Should I even ask? Would they do it anyway?"

Next question: Would someone stop someone from stealing my computer? Would they scream, "Stop thief!" or would they quietly report it to police and take down a composite drawing of the culprit. Would they take responsibility for letting someone take my computer? Or would they say, "It wasn't my responsibility, get a security tracker."

These things I have often times wondered. Hold on, I have to keep my eye on this black HP PC laptop... even though I really have to go get Claire's cake with Misha right now....

Definitions of History

As supplied by my lovely cast for the show I am currently directing, "The History Boys," I supply you with definitions of History. Enjoy. This is my way of calming down.

"History is an ejaculation over the pages of antiquity." -Gabe P.

"History is cunt-struck." - no comment.

"History is my middle name." -Raph S.

"History is an amalgamation of every text that was sent last night." -Matt HH.

"History is things that happened." -Tom Sa.

"History is the foreskin of truth." Gabe P.

"History is the opposite of prophecy." -Peter K.

"My chlamydia is history. I swear!" -Tom St.

"History is my anti-drug." -James D.

"History is a terrorist attack on the pillars of modernity." -Amina Z.

"History is his tree." - Alex Kr.

"History is two big tits of antiquity." Group...

"History is a myth. The Truman show is real and I am the star." Lizzie D.

"History is a large purple walrus with a mustache." Alex Kr.

"History is what remains when the music stops and all the confetti is swept away." Alex Kl.

"History is stories of the past seen through the lens of the present." Jesse K.

"American Apparel, Urban Outfitters and Lady Gaga are all History, I hope." Tom St.

"History is fucking." Dakin

"History is women following behind with the bucket." Mrs. Lintott

And, our favorite.

"History is one fucking thing after another." Rudge.

What is your definition of history?

Creeping Evangelism

Last night, I almost peed my pants in fright in what I thought were the white lights of an alien invasion--which I saw out my window. Upon further inspection, which took a lot of bravery mind you, I deduced that these were the lights of a new steeple in an Evangelist Baptist church, three hills away from my home hill.

The lights are creeping in.

Perhaps as punishment for my apparent liberalism (I go to Yale), I come home to churches that turn me away three times: once at the parking lot, once at the door, and once at the chapel door. Yet, While I'm not turned away by my sins (I hope not), I'm turned away by the sheer fact that the place is overcrowded. Game over. Asimov's population scheme has counted me out. I didn't jump on the mothership in time so now I'm stuck at the doors, while the lights keep teasing me with their LEED glare.

It seems that when I go to Yale, I'm a conservative. I come home, and suddenly I get phone calls from local churches telling me to find Christ because apparently, I haven't. I can find him without standing outside of your doors. I found my Christ reading the Torah, the OT and NT, and the Qu'ran. If you want to throw in the Book of Mormon, you can. Do I really need another Christ?

But dude, guess who was voted most likely to become a televangelist in high school? moi. I have a fascination with these networks. Mormons. Muslims. TV Evangelists. Sufis. Faith Healers. Evangelists. This past week one of the famous Tele-vangelists, Oral Roberts, died. Defining the Word on the Tube is thanks to this guy. Thousands came to the funeral. These guys are not just brilliant speakers, but excellent business men. If there is something more American than tele-vangelism, someone tell me.

So as my East coast life become more and more riddled with the thoughts of "Socialists" (see the conservative side of the family...), my mid-Atlantic life is slowly being surrounded by steeples that refuse entry... because of fire codes. (or maybe the "liberalism" i'm around, but don't necessarily ascribe to).

Call the death of Oral Roberts the death of a generation, of a movement. I'm not sure about that.I almost backed into the window of the "Christian Evangelist Economic Expansion Center" today. Apparently they "Spread the celery seed." I almost spread their celery seed alright...