A New Hello to the New World

You’ve watched Cheesy’s trip extend and extend,
And she’s only just come to a partway-there end.
Two years she’s been gone, and two years more still,
But four years of eighty is not overkill:
The highway’s quite long, and our lives all the more,
So pack up your bags, hitch a ride, and explore.
Some journey literally, and some in their mind,
But nobody ever leaves anything behind.
We roll and we roll and we gather the dust,
We roll up and down and back home if we must,
And in our great roll we pick up bits and pieces
Till we swell like balloons that the hot air releases –
But now don’t you go think Cheesy’s floating away:
She just swung a bit southwards, like a compass astray.
And while sense of direction isn’t quite her best feat,
She’ll steer a good path, and make all the paths meet
At some point down the line, in a bright hazy future
When all comes together, like a good surgeon’s suture.
So I hope you’ll roll by as the stitching gets done,
Merge your bubble with others, till at last there’s just one,
It’ll swell, we’ll be swell, and all’s well that ends well
‘Cause that’s life, and we’re only just drops in the well –
Case in point: how my words are here dropping like crumbs,
So I’ll wrap it all up, lest your attention span numbs:
Thank you for reading, you’re an admirable sport
For following a blog that was anything but short,
For sticking by Cheesy, through thick and through thin,
And for keeping in touch when new journeys begin.

Month 18.1. Gay Pride Split - June 11, 2011.

Yesterday 10 000 people came to protest against 200 people marching in Split's first-ever gay pride parade.

I participated in the parade with my two roommates. Most of the marchers weren't from Split – understandably, when for every homosexual in Split there are 10 000 homophobics. There were more cops and soldiers than there were marchers.

The march started at 2 p.m. I went to the center early in the morning, and was surprised to find cops scattered all over the city. Now I realize they came early in case someone tried to sabotage the parade before it even started.

I want to tell you that it was a successful march. But I feel only devastation. We started off in a park. Everything was fine and everyone was in good spirits. Then near the post office, there was a sudden scuffle and I saw the swat cops pushing a guy to the ground. Then we saw a man with blood on his face. Then we began to hear the chanting. Then we saw the men trying to break through the police barriers, screaming at the top of their lungs.

We approached the Riva, Split's boardwalk along the water. I was carrying the gay pride flag, so I was near the front of the procession. Just as we came to the mouth of the Riva at the end of Marmontova street, there was a loud bang, and smoke filled the air. The people in front of me retreated, and the procession came to a halt. A few reporters sprung out to the front, to catch what was happening on film. Ahead of us, thousands of people stood screaming against the metal fences bordering our passageway. They were chanting, jumping, and throwing objects into the street to stop us from moving forward. It took the swat cops ten minutes to push them back. My two roommates were hit by flying coins. We looked at each other and said, "We live in this place?"

Finally we entered the Riva. We walked between hoards of people to our left and right. Some just stared at us. Others went mad. One pretty young woman in a red dress lunged at us, screaming curses, and the cops pushed her back. Our happy march turned into a funeral procession. I felt like an inmate walking to her execution. We were dead silent. Plants hit the ground around us. We used our posters for protection.

I will never forget walking along the Riva. I have never seen such rage on anyone's face. I have never seen such hatred. I walked with tears in my eyes, and it took all my energy not to begin weeping until we reached the end. It was the most horrible display of humanity I've ever seen.

Most of you don't know me as being a religious person. But as I walked along the Riva, three things ran through my mind. The first was the shock of seeing how deeply humans are capable of hatred. I was surprised that I felt no anger or fear, only tremendous sadness. The second was a sudden understanding of how the Balkan wars could have happened. If 10 000 people had come to destroy a handful of people whom they didn't even know, because of one difference of beliefs, it was conceivable that they could have turned on their neighbours because of a difference of ethnic histories.

The third thing that came to mind was Jesus Christ. I've always found it impressive that a single man could have left such a strong legacy as to last 2000 years. I found it strange how people felt so moved by a suffering that wasn't even theirs. Now I understand better. To stand up for your beliefs as you are cursed and stoned is one of the hardest things a human being can do. There are few things more devastating than to have the whole world loathe you and treat you as a diseased animal.

My love and admiration go to all those who live openly as homosexuals in the Balkans. My support and sympathy go to all those who live in fear of their own homosexuality. I don't think the parade made a difference. If anything, it fed the rage of local homophobics. But there is a reason it's called gay pride. It's not about preaching one's values, but about finding a grain of confidence in a world of fear. If our participation has helped one person breathe a sigh of relief – if even just for the fact that someone showed up to lobby for gay rights – then it's a beginning.

Month 17.4. Returns.

An homage can end up sounding eerily similar to an obituary. Maybe it’s the overtone of nostalgia. Maybe it’s the distance the writer creates between himself and the object of his love. He confronts the pitiful truth that the most beautiful things are the ones just out of reach.

Cheesy’s time in Europe was quickly running out. Would she soon need her own obituary? Someone wise suggested that Cheesy would need to reinvent herself if she wanted to survive. But sometimes, when we think we’re reinventing ourselves, we’re just returning to something we were previously.

And so, as a new future opened up to Cheesy, the past was sucking her back in. She was reminded that life is circular, not linear. The following homage is therefore both an obituary and a birth song.

…

The best place in Montreal is high up on the balcony of Saint Joseph’s Oratory. Go there alone one evening in late autumn, when it’s cold enough to see your breath. Watch the city sparkle through the steam. Track the cars creeping north along Decarie Boulevard. The highway disappears into a mass of glowing orange lights, which in turn fade to blackness. Sometimes on the horizon you can see a plane land at Mirabel airport.

One time Cheesy went to the balcony during daylight. Far below her, at the foot of the oratory, she could see a pilgrim beginning her climb up. She was a large black woman. The woman stooped clumsily to her knees. She clasped her hands together and was still for a few seconds. Then she pulled herself up to the first step, her heavy bosom rocking back and forth. She paused again, pulled herself up to the next step. After fifteen minutes, the woman was about halfway up the steps. Cheesy turned away from the balcony and went home.

Cheesy remembered Halloweens in N.D.G. One year, she and her two friends dressed up as a three-headed dragon. They took a large green bed-sheet and cut three holes in it for their heads. They stumbled around the neighborhood together. It snowed a little that night, but the bed-sheet protected them.

During high school, Cheesy walked to school. It took half an hour, straight up Monkland Street. She’d first pass Benny Park. In January, when the sun was just rising, she could see hoarfrost on the trees. The sky glowed salmon pink behind the branches. The ice and salt crunched under Cheesy’s boots.

When Cheesy lived downtown on Saint-Marc Street, she would sometimes walk down to the train tracks. The tracks were overgrown with grass, and sometimes she would pass a dog-walker. Sometimes she went over to the canal and watched it flow black under the orange city lights.

On Saint-Laurent Street, Cheesy would come home from work around 3:30 a.m. The crowds would be pouring out of the bars and into the streets. The fast-food joints would all be packed. The traffic would be jammed to a halt. The air would pulse with the shrill cries of revelers against the rhythmic boom of club music. Drunks and bouncers would banter in French, English and Franglais. One time Cheesy struck up a conversation with a kid sitting on a doorstep eating a poutine. He described himself as homeless by choice. When he got bored with his snack, he tossed the container into the basket of a locked-up bike and walked away.

One time, they were replacing the sidewalk outside of Cheesy’s loft on Saint-Laurent. They hadn’t warned her. She opened her front door and stepped ankle-deep into wet cement.

One time Cheesy woke in the middle of the night to the blaring of an alarm. The loft was filled with smoke and a bunch of people were running out into the hallway (there were often random groups of people partying in the loft). Cheesy rushed out after them. She burst into the club in pajamas, only to find out it was a false alarm set off by the smoke-machines. A few people smiled at her.

One morning Cheesy locked herself out of her apartment while getting the newspaper from downstairs. She had to walk across the neighborhood in pajamas and slippers to her aunt and uncle’s house to get the spare keys. Somehow Montreal lends itself to outdoor pajamas.

Cheesy remembered sitting out in the garden of their house during the summertime. One summer she developed a passion for milkshakes and discovered that peanut butter and ground coffee beans go great with ice cream. Lying on the lawn chair, smelling the barbecue smoke, listening to the dogs’ collars jingle, feeling the sweat trickle down her back, the garden was an island on an island. She remembered looking at the sky through the apple tree leaves. It was so deep blue that you could almost reach up and touch it, like satin.

In their first house, Cheesy and her brother used to make umbrella forts on the porch when it rained. When it was sunny, they’d crawl along the fence to the neighbor’s house where their friends lived. Together they’d go to Trenholme Park and climb trees. Years later, the municipality set closing hours on the park to ward off teenage drinkers.

Montreal unfolds along Saint-Catherine Street. (Pumping life into a city, streets are nicknamed “arteries” for good reason.) Saint-Catherine’s starts off in the heart of big money and big houses, Westmount. The street flows east into the Dawson College ghetto, dotted with girls in miniskirts just discovering the world of cigarettes and pool halls. Then it runs through Concordia University’s territory. Cheap Chinese restaurants and low-rise buildings line the street. Finally Saint-Catherine emerges into commercial downtown, harboring the underground city and spawning sidestreets filled with bars and businesses. A few churches stand watch like chaperones over men in designer suits and women in stilettos. The street slopes eastward and disintegrates into a strip of sleazy sex shops and art studios. It opens up into the Place des Arts, the district of open-air shows, opera concerts, and theatre performances. Beyond is Saint-Denis Street, where artsy professionals and carousing students bond over sangria.

Living in Montreal is like living in the head of a schizophrenic. A change of street, a change of lighting, a change of season is enough to renew your entire perspective. You think you’ve gotten to know Montreal. It laughs and throws a new personality in your face. Sure, many cities are multifaceted. But Montreal is denser. It’s swanky and sleazy, cultured and carefree, showy and secretive. Its strict Catholic past gave birth to a hedonistic rebel. It is utterly egotistical, but will give you anything you ask. True Montrealers are romantics – they believe in passion, be it the seductive or intellectual kind. What’s funny is that no one seems to love Montreal more than those who leave it. The most beautiful things are the ones just out of reach.

Month 17.3. Bright shiny things.

What is the meaning of life? Does God exist? Even all the way over here, I can here you groan at the start of another convoluted and essentially useless blog entry. But wait. For once, I’m going to agree with you: it doesn’t matter.

Okay, okay, I haven’t given up that much ground yet. I still believe that the meaning of life matters. But I don’t believe it matters whether God exists.

Now, I’m like many of you in that I value truth above most things. Ugly, loud, incomprehensible, or fruitless – we hunt down the truth in every form. We sniff it out and gobble it up faster than you can say “Lie.” But God is a dead end. Believers and non-believers can bicker about it for millennia (and they have). There just isn’t a universally accepted truth about God’s existence. We truth-eaters generally don’t like intellectual dead ends. But I’d like to suggest that God can be a very cozy dead end to get stuck in. So cozy, in fact, that it doesn’t really matter whether he exists.

Dan Dennett is a pretty cool philosopher. He’s got a big white beard and looks like Santa Clause. One of the things he’s discussed is religion as an adaptive evolutionary mechanism. He suggests that religion has been as essential to human life as our fingers. It doesn’t mean that if you’re an atheist you’re going to fall over dead. It does mean that evolution has given the upper hand to religious people. (Nowadays the countries with the highest rates of atheism have the lowest birth rates. It’ll be interesting to see how those countries hold out.)

So why is religion such an enduring and central part of civilization? An atheist’s response is that it provides people with a sense of connection to the world, a sense of purpose, and a sense of community. But why are any of those things important from an evolutionary point of view? Community, okay. We survive better in groups given the many physical limitations that come with being human. But connection and purpose? How can that benefit survival?

There’s a bunch of philosophers who’ve discussed how various psychological tendencies have evolutionary benefits. But I think that to really appreciate the necessity of religion, you have to be religious. Muslims and Christians make similar claims that the faithful must submit to God. From an atheist’s point of view, this is an absurd thing to do. Submit to what? The sky? A book? How can that possibly be helpful? But the psychology of it is amazing. There is something deeply satisfying about throwing your entire energy into one concept. I think it’s why people so desperately search for love, or obsess over their careers, or adore their children. We love to find something we think is perfect, better than us, worthy of all our dedication.

So, God is essential because believing in him makes us feel good. And humans who feel good survive, for many reasons. People who feel good are usually healthy. People who feel good aren’t homicidal or suicidal. People who feel good tend to help others out. People who feel good want to have sex. People who feel good are energetic, so they can last longer hunting boars or picking berries or whatever. So if you want to survive, feel good!

Going back a step, it’s worthwhile to wonder why it makes us feel good to dedicate ourselves to things we think are better than us. It’s also worthwhile to wonder why careers and lovers alone don’t make the cut. What is it about metaphysical things that makes us feel good? I have no idea. Which saddens me, because those are the most interesting questions. But it doesn’t matter. Believing in God makes us happy, industrious, fertile, healthy, and helpful. If your career does that, then great. If your lover does that, even better. Whatever floats your boat. (As in, Noah’s boat, get it?)

Dennett finds plenty of problems in the details. The way religion is taught, the way faith is preached, and the way customs are spread have led many people to question how good religion really is for the human race. But there are always problems in the details. No matter how much you love your job, some days suck. No matter how much you love your lover, sometimes he/she … uh, isn’t cool. (I’m tactful eh? Get it?) Likewise, no matter how good it feels to be spiritual, it can come with downsides. Like the crusades. But okay. The point is that maybe we should stop stigmatizing believers, workaholics, and romantics. In the end they all have the same ideals in mind – something bright, shiny, and better than us, guiding our behavior. For better or worse, having such ideals make us human. And hey, evolution seems to know what it’s doing, so we might as well embrace our humanity and try to survive a few millennia more.

Month 17.2. Synthetic Happiness.

Back in September, Cheesy had had an argument with a guy about whether drunken happiness was as authentic as sober happiness. Cheesy’s argument had been that happiness is simply a chemical state in the brain, so it doesn’t matter whether happiness comes about via alcohol or otherwise. The guy had come up with a wicked rebuttal, but Cheesy couldn’t remember it anymore because she had been drinking at the time of the argument.

Which means the question still holds: if we synthesize happiness from such trickery as alcohol or self-deception, are we falling short of “real” happiness?

It turns out that many people have asked themselves the same question before Cheesy. Some have even taken the initiative to research an answer. For example, Dan Gilbert and Barry Schwartz make the case that people are happiest with what they’ve got when they know they can’t have anything else. The more alternatives and opportunities people have, the less happy they are with the status quo – even though you’d expect that having more choices would make people happiest. Researchers call this inverse relationship between happiness and freedom of choice “the paradox of choice” (see link above).

In theory, then, we could manufacture our own happiness just by telling ourselves, “I’ve got no other choice; this is how it’s gotta be.” Or, we could choose not to inform ourselves about alternatives to what we have. In fact, we synthesize happiness all the time when we conclude a bad episode with the words, “It was for the best.” By imagining that our choices were limited, we make ourselves happy with how things actually are. It’s called happiness synthesis.

Gilbert’s research has suggested that “synthesized” happiness is more potent than “natural” happiness. That is, we are happier in situations that we feel are inevitable than in situations that we’ve chosen from a set of alternatives. For example, you come back from a trip around the world with gifts for your friends. If you just give your friend Lou a gift, he’ll be thrilled with it. But if you present Lou an array to choose from, he’ll be less happy with the gift he’s chosen than the one he’d have if you had forced a gift upon him – even if he gets to choose his favorite in the array. The synthesized happiness he feels with the imposed gift (“Ha! I bet none of the other gifts were as great as this one”) is stronger than the natural happiness he feels when he chooses his gift (“Yay, I’ve gotten the best of the lot! But what if I’d chosen….”)

So, we can synthesize happiness when we perceive the status quo as inevitable, and synthesized happiness is actually more potent than the happiness that comes from having chosen amongst a set of alternatives. This is a pretty momentous discovery. It stands against some fundamental values in North America. All that freedom and opportunity we strive for might not make us as happy as we think. We can now turn to Cheesy’s original question: if synthesizing happiness is one of the most effective ways of boosting happiness, and if we can synthesize happiness through drugs and alcohol, then is inebriation actually a more effective way of achieving happiness than sobriety? Should we all be getting drunk, all the time?

First thing’s first: not every drunk is a happy drunk. Reactions like violence, paranoia, and illness can happen under the influence. Especially when you get addicted. The more you consume, the more you need to consume to achieve the same level of happiness you originally felt. Second thing’s second: happiness is actually not all there is to life. Valued activities like working hard, travelling, or sharing nice memories would be quashed by being constantly intoxicated. If you don’t care about anything but happiness, then cheers.

Third thing’s third: you can remember sober happiness, since it’s a conscious happiness. It follows that the effects of sober happiness can a last long time. When you’re drunk, you can be happy as a peach, but you’ll forget it all in a matter of hours. So, you have to get drunk again. And then you forget again. And the cycle repeats until, voilà! You’re an alcoholic. (We must not beg the question by assuming alcoholism is a bad thing, which is precisely the subject of this debate. But it’s a tough argument to make that addiction to anything, alcohol included, is good.) (Can addiction be a good thing?)

And a fourth thing – soberly happy people tend to spread their happiness everywhere they go. They want to share. A happy drunk can be happy alone or with a few buddies. If the buddies aren’t drunk, they’ll probably just be annoyed at their friend’s drunkenness. So while sober happiness is multiplicative, intoxicated happiness can actually be isolating. Then again, if everyone else is drunk too, who cares? But a fifth thing. With reason or not, the West does consider alcoholism and drug use a bad thing. So if you’re drunk all the time, you’ll probably be subject to shame and stigmatization. Shame is generally not conducive to happiness. So, given the actual values of our society, booze and drugs may not be the most effective paths to happiness.

Sixth of all, we must not forget the voice of the brooders and purists. They insist that drunken happiness just isn’t legit because it comes from somewhere instead of arising spontaneously as a personal reaction to events. I sympathize with them. However, their argument begs the question by assuming that manufactured happiness is less valuable than natural happiness. This is precisely the assumption that we are putting to question.

Seventh and last, Gilbert and Schwartz’ research promotes happiness that is synthesized when we’re stuck with what we’ve got – not happiness that is synthesized when alcohol enters our bloodstream. A group of students who get drunk are not happy because they knew they had no other choice but to drink. They are happy because of the chemical effect of alcohol on their brain. I don’t know about any research indicating whether the way in which happiness is synthesized matters. Maybe that’s just the kind of research we need, to solve the matter for once and for all. The point is that the happiness synthesized from stubborn optimism is not clearly equivalent to the happiness synthesized from alcohol. So we can’t conclude that alcohol-synthesized happiness is valuable just because optimism-synthesized happiness is.

I know people who drink to celebrate life and people who drink to forget life. In the end, you have a choice – and that’s maybe what makes it hardest. If the world simply forbade alcohol, then we wouldn’t drink, and according to the research we’d all be pretty happy with our lack of choice. To me, a good rule of thumb is that if you can remember your happiness, then it doesn’t matter whether or how it was synthesized. Happiness that vanishes without a trace isn’t worth much.

Month 17.1. Empty words.

1.

Wait a second, have I really been here seventeen months? Holy smoking cow. Don’t really know how that happened.

2.

Cool words in English:

· Jowly. (Means something like “having a lot of cheek area.”)

· Anticipatory.

· Ecumenical. Ranks along with “ecclesiastic” and “Episcopalian.” I don’t really understand any of them, but they have to do with churches.

· Whiz. But only when you aspirate the “w.” (Means “to pee,” or is an adjective describing smart kids.)

· Australopithecus. (The name of an early type of human.)

· Parallelogram. Ranks with “parallelepiped.”

· Agrarian. Ranks along with “bucolic,” since they have similar semantic and oxymoronic qualities. (Both words evoke images of peaceful farming, which inspires reactions contrary to “grrrrrrr,” trying to rear your horse, puking, and colic illness.)

Uncool words in English:

· Dribble.

· Dollop.

· Dabble.

· Clad.

· Germane. (Means “relevant.”)

· Gregarious. (Means “having a tendency not to go solo.”) It’s just too close to so many other words. “Hi, I’m Greg, I’m gregarious.” “Hi Greg, I’m Gary. I’m also gregarious.” “You sure you’re not egregious?” “Uh, well I thought you were egregious.” “Well for sure I’m gregarious, but that doesn’t make me Gregorian.” “Are you being garrulous?” “No, Gary, that’s you.” “Oh, I thought I was garish.” “Dammit, Gary.”

· Prod.

· Prong. Ewwww. Worst word ever, second only to “dollop.”

3.

Cool words in Croatian:

· Prtljaga. (Luggage)

· Razlog. (reason)

· Vrh. (peak)

· Češće. (more often)

· Devedesetogodišnjakinja (girl in her twenties)

· Mogućnost (possibility)

· Otok (island). Ranks with “otoci” (islands) and “otocima” (in the islands).

· Najjednostavniji. This one really deserves a drum-roll. Its meaning is… “simplest.”

4.

Betcha don’t know anything about Zulu.

Zulu is spoken by nearly ten million people, mostly in South Africa. It’s the language of Johnny Clegg, Lucky Dube and Desmond Tutu. Zulu has one of the richest phonemic inventories of any language in the world. Of interest is one sound, written hl, that only exists in Welsh. It’s like saying “sh” with a lisp. Even more interesting are the clicks. There are three basic types: the letter x is the sound you make to make a horse come to you. The letter q is like a bottle popping, and c is like tsk-tsk.

I’ve read arguments that the diversity of sounds in southern African languages supports the hypothesis that they are the oldest languages on earth. There is an analogous argument in genetics - there is higher genetic diversity in regions that have been inhabited longest. So, if the arguments are correct, Africa is the land of both our genetic and linguistic origins.

Wanna know how to make a sentence in Zulu? I knew you did. First, we take a verbal root. Let’s take –qond- which means “to understand.” Second, we take a subject. Let’s take –u- which means “he” or “she.” We’re going to put the subject and the verb together, and there are different possible ways to do this.

We must choose the verb tense. The verb tense will give us the format for how the subject and the verb are put together. Let’s take the present, to mean “he understands.” The format is [subject]+ya+[verb]+a. “ya” and “a” don’t mean anything, they’re just part of the format. So we get uyaqonda which means “he understands.”

If we want to stick in an object, it comes after ya. The first person “I” or “me” is –ngi-. So, “he helps me” is uyangiqonda, which breaks down to u + ya + ngi + qond + a.

If we want to say a negative sentence, we use a different format: a+[subject]+[verb]+i. Here, “a” and “i” are meaningless, just part of the negated sentence format. So, “I don’t understand” is angiqondi, which breaks down to a + ngi + qond + i.

And that’s all you’ll ever need to know of Zulu!

Month 16.1. Open-mindedness and other cheesy things.

In college, Cheesy had an 8 a.m. English class. It was part of a liberal arts program in which the teachers were all wry, aging cynics who’d never quite escaped the hippy culture enough to make it as university professors. Her English teacher was the prototype. Under his sarcasm and witticisms lurked a simple love of humanity, which came out only when he taught Shakespeare. One morning, he walked into class and put his books down on his desk. He folded his hands together. He looked at the students seriously. He said, “Class, today we’re going to talk about… our feelings.” Cheesy burst out laughing. The rest of the class was silent. The teacher looked at her with fake shock on his face; Cheesy knew his dramatic entry had been just another joke. “Cheesy!” he smirked. “You’re so cynical!”

Students learn early on that, if you’re going to be a serious academic, you don’t talk about emotions. Ever. You don’t even talk about sentimentality (except maybe if you’re a sociology student, which is not real academia anyway). Cheesy knew that the moment she began to talk about… well - cheesy things, she would be alienating any of her listeners who considered themselves true academics.

But Cheesy’s gonna do it anyway. She would like to show you that traditionally cheesy subjects can be talked about in a professional, and even pleasant, way.

And since all cheesy things start with a story, we’ll begin with a story about Cheesy’s weekend. It was pretty outstanding. She hopped across an ocean for a surprise birthday visit, went to the concert of a South African peace hero, partied with friends and family from across the globe, and even got serenaded by mariachis.

But of all the outings and celebrations, there was one simple moment that kept resurfacing in Cheesy’s mind (like the English teacher’s entrance, but cheesier). Most of the birthday girl’s friends were staying overnight as guests in her house. One afternoon, a neighbour came by to introduce herself. One of the guests said hello back. This is the moment Cheesy remembers: the simple sweetness of the friend saying hello. The neighbour could have been anyone – an astronaut, an axe-murderer, an abortionist. What amazed Cheesy was how her friend immediately and unconsciously treated the neighbour as a sweet person, without knowing a thing about her.

Cheesy had always considered herself a more or less tolerant person. She had friends of all kinds of ethnicities, religious beliefs, and professions (although she’d never knowingly met an axe-murderer) (which one of “axe-murderer” or “axe murderer” means “person who murders with an axe” versus “person who murders axes”? Place your vote now). But until that simple, sweet hello, Cheesy had never realized that tolerance involves way more than race or religion. It means approaching every person as an individual, thinking of everyone you don’t know as a blank slate.

It’s surprisingly difficult to give people the benefit of the doubt. Prejudice pops up everywhere. We approach tall people with the assumption they’re more confident. We approach Asian people with the assumption they’re shier. We approach smiling people with the assumption they’re generally happy. We make assumptions based on makeup, gap teeth, gait, vocal pitch, and facial hair. One time Cheesy even assumed a guy was a dunce because he wore a track suit into a restaurant. Such stupid, meaningless things lead us to judge.

And we don’t just prejudge strangers. We do it even with the people closest to us. We assume that if a person liked Tom Petty ten years ago, he still does. We assume habits persist. We assume values persist. We assume beliefs persist. But all of these things change. It’s the hardest thing to approach someone you’ve loved for ages as a blank slate.

But it’s freeing. The best friends are ones you can continue to learn from. And it’s so cool to meet someone thinking, “Dude this person could be a leader in Scientology.” What fun conversations that would make. And it’s so cool to see someone and think, “Dude I’ve known this person for years, and I’m still learning about them.” Every person out there knows something you don’t. You can learn something from everyone. The track-suit boy indeed turned out to be a bit of a dunce, but a sweet one, who inspired Cheesy in many ways (and who she’d happily meet again, anywhere in the world, wearing any kind of track suit he pleased).

A blank canvas can be approached a million different ways. Some artists attack it. Some artists fear it. Some artists flirt with it, very gingerly, for a very long time, until they jump in. But the best artists retain that initial childlike enthusiasm with which they started off. And as many great artists have said, the artist’s job is to discover and reveal the beauty that is already there. It’s an attitude that can be applied to people just as well as art.

Cheesy’s English prof had taught Shakespeare for years and years. But you could still see the pleasure he took from it. He was still learning from Shakespeare, after four hundred years, after four thousand readings of the same forty texts. He was childlike about it. He was excited to discover and share interpretations. Cheesy does not want to moralize, because that isn’t professional. She only wishes to suggest that a particular approach to people leads to a particular state of mind which yields particular results and gives rise to particular emotions– respectively: blank slates, inspiration, education, and happiness.

There, was that so painful? If you said yes, then you’ve engaged in a conversation about pain, which is an emotion, which means you have no choice but to face the pain of talking about emotions. But don’t worry, we’re starting slow – open-mindedness isn’t really an emotion anyway.

Month 15.2. The Real Split.

Split people are proud, stubborn, and cynical. They sip their espressos, eyes twinkling through cigarette smoke. They smile when they think you're wrong. They talk, and talk, and talk; their voices get louder, and louder, and louder.

Their talk seldom turns into action. Splićani are energetic – by 9 a.m., the boardwalk is full with people strutting along the seaside. But they have an overarching laziness, which they call fiaka. Good idea, they say, we'll do it next week. Next week comes and goes. You insist, and they insist that you shouldn't worry. They talk some more, have another espresso, smoke another cigarette, tell another joke, and before you know it a month has passed without anything happening.

Splićani women are beautiful and deep-voiced. The men are strong and careless. Everyone has presence. They are tall, loud, and charming. They dress up to go to the market. Where does their confidence come from? In a big city, you can at least hope to be "seen" when you strut your stuff. In Split, everyone knows each other. They know that the rest of the world probably couldn't find them on a map. Their local ties are strong - most women are sporting wedding rings and pushing baby carriages before they're even 30. So why all the pomp and attitude?

I think Splićani's self-confidence is actually a product of their closed culture. Splićani don't travel much. What they see of the rest of the world comes from tourists. When you live in a bubble, it's easy to be confident. You're the most important thing in your world, because you're the only thing. I live in a city of kings and queens. I am somewhere between a curiosity and a guest.

Even within Split, the culture is divided into impenetrable spheres. Everyone has their "place." The gorgeous women go to the boardwalk. The smart kids go to the math school. The dumb, rich kids go to cooking school. The rebels go to Pancho's bar. If you roll your own cigarettes, you're a hobo. If you wear red shoes, you're gay. It's this reliance on categorization that allows Splićani to be so smug. The rich kids know they're rich, the gorgeous ladies know they're gorgeous, the smart kids know they're smart. Everyone criticizes each other, but everyone is proud of his own position.

I guess it follows naturally to ask whether or not a self-contained culture is a good thing. Turkish/French/American author Elif Shafak makes an interesting case that "if you want to destroy something in this life, be it acne, a blemish, or the human soul, all you need to do is surround it with thick walls. It will dry up inside." She claims that cultural cocoons are one of the greatest dangers in a globalized society. Stereotypes arise, compassion is weakened, and imagination is stifled.

Croatians scorn their corrupt government (the mayor of Split owns a major grocery store chain and gives all the top political jobs to his family members). They resent the lack of jobs. They scoff at the poor infrastructure in the country. They complain about the high cost of living. But they remain fiercely confident. They are happy. Maybe it's because they've set themselves low standards. Maybe it's because they prefer to laugh at their problems than struggle to change them. Maybe it's because they don't know any alternatives, except for the handful of people who still talk about the communist era with stars in their eyes. At least everyone had a job and a place to live, they say.

I'm a foreigner in Split. I agree with Shafak – it would be nice for the Split culture to be a bit more dynamic. But it's actually a selfish wish. I'm used to having more options – things like bowling alleys, live-model drawing groups, good cheap restaurants, and choirs. But who am I to say Split is "missing out"? Model drawing is not part of Split culture. If I made it available, they probably wouldn't use it. I have no right to burst their cultural bubble, especially if they're happy in it. The best I can do is make myself useful by catering to their needs. I'm also proud to have burst many stereotypes about Canadians and Americans. Do you know how many times I've been asked – seriously – whether Canadians are afraid of the dark?

I'm wary of volunteers with a holier-than-thou attitude. It's a mistake to believe that a good volunteer must have something "better" they think they can offer to a community. I think a good volunteer is more of a caterer than a revolutionary. Just go in with the best of what you've got, whether it be knowledge, a skill, or simply a good heart. Help someone, learn something, give something. Volunteering is a lesson in service and humility. Only once we've learned the lesson in humility can we break the barriers separating us from other individuals. And only once we've connected to other individuals can we connect to other cultures.

That was pretty cheesy, wasn't it. And kind of preachy. Sorry, still learning.

 

Month 15.1. Cheesy’s Reawakening, Part II.

Cheesy had lived in four places in her life: Montreal, Quebec City, Istanbul, and Split. She was beginning to have a picture of the phases one goes through when one relocates:

1 – 3 weeks: The Boo-yah phase. Enchantment, thrill, anticipation. You feel awed by the locals, but connected to them in some special way because you think that now you know what they've always known. You're "in." Boo-yah!

3 – 6 weeks: The Groovin' phase. The sparkles fall away and a sense of normalcy emerges. You have a routine and a comfort zone, which makes you feel special because now you're "really" a local.

After 6 weeks: The Dark Side. You begin to the downfalls of where you live: things aren't there that you wish were, and things are there that you wish weren't. Your routine has become tedious. You realize you're pretty different from the locals. You feel nostalgic for the Boo-yah phase.

6-8 months: The Reawakening. Cheesy was pleased to discover the existence of this phase. The Dark Side builds and builds until it breaks into an explosion of tears and snot. Then the seas become calm and your vision crystallizes. The sparkles and shadows have lifted and you begin to see the place for what it really is. You revise what you thought you knew and realize what you don't know.

1-23 years: The Maze Phase. After you see a place for what it is, you lose sight of its context in the greater world, just like after living with yourself your whole life it becomes hard to grasp who you "really" are. So, you go away to another place to try to put things into context. (a) You've relocated. Go back to Phase 1. (b) Dally for a while in a new place or two. Get a fresh perspective of what the old place is "really" like, and return to it boo-yah-style!

That's the beauty of traveling: you're constantly gaining and changing perspectives. It's too bad we can't step out of our own skin sometimes to get a new perspective on ourselves. Or maybe we can.

Enough with the psychological breakdown and philosophizing. What was Split like without the sparkles and shadows? After eight months, what did Cheesy reawaken to see? (a) Go back to Blog 14.5. (b) Go forward to Blog 15.2.

(Hint: Beware of (a) – Cheesy saw more than horses with long faces walking into bars. Although that was pretty cool, too.)

Month 14.6. Banana Cheese-shake.

Hi! She's Cheesy. She's happy to meet you. Cheesy just woke up. Cheesy was hibernating. Here are some good-morning greetings that Cheesy would like to share with you.

1. Wiki-wa, wiki-wa, wiki-wiki-wa-wa wess, Jim Wess, desperado. Rough rider? No, you don't want nada.

2. What sound do the heebie-geebies make?

a) meeeeeoooooooow

b) ooga-chaka, ooga-chaka

c) Ska-bo-beh, babadaba ba-bo-beh, I'm the Scatman!

d) None of the above

e) All of the above

 

Answer: (e). Which by process of elimination means (d).

 

3. Shizzle on my hizzle, what the fizzle? Let it drizzle.

4. Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is not a dream.

5. If you split a banana, you get a banana split. So to get a split banana, do you have to banana a split?

6. With a knick-knack patty-whack, give the dog a bone: this old cheese came rolling home!

7. Horse walks into bar. Barman says, "Why the long face?"

8. And now you better be ready, Betty, cause spring is a-comin in, and Cheesy is spreading the fevah! Fever in the morning, fever in the evening, fever at suppertime. With fever on a bagel, you can have fever any time!