When did that start; and how have I missed said occasion before now? Sounds like an excuse for folks to toss a platitude or two (and maybe even a coffee mug) at teachers--all in an attempt to show support.
Funny. I've never been the beneficiary of Teacher Appreciation Week. Alas, my exorbitant educator's salary and subsequent insanely adventurous lifestyle are all the thanks I'll ever need.
Other notable appreciation weeks: Grave Digger Appreciation Week, Stun Gun Dummy Tester Appreciation Week, Theme Park Janitor Appreciation Week, Toll Booth Operator Appreciation Week, and the Guy Who Scoops Up Roadkill Appreciation Week.
So, I guess ... to all of my friends and colleagues who were insane enough to take on careers in education: Happy Teacher Appreciation Week!
(saw a t-shirt with that apropos moniker & loved it)
As part of my and my colleagues' annual quest for increased knowledge acquisition, collegiality, and--in great truth--to fulfill those parts of our grants that require dissemination of our research findings ;), I journeyed to San Francisco last week for a professional conference. Crazily, in my 40 years of life, I had never before visited the City by the Bay. It was ... interesting. And pretty. And inspiring. And interesting. And hilly. And odd. And interesting.
I continue to be amazed at how different are these 50 united(?) states from each other (to say nothing of the regional differences within larger states like California, Texas, and New York). SF is most definitely not home to some of my most favorite things (trucks, howdys, welcoming hugs, lone stars, real cowboys); but it does have some pretty fantastic weather, bread, chocolate, and opportunities for people-watching.
A few San Franpsycho images I captured with my camera:
Alcatraz
Wharf
Ghirardelli Square
Golden Gate Bridge
Fisherman's Wharf
One parting thought (with a tip of the hat to Train): If I could wish upon a star, I most definitely would not hitch a cable car. That experience--along with the cab rides--took me about as close to heaving as has any icky vehicular situation I've ever endured. SF, your streets are a never-ending roller coaster. I just can't do it.
One of the countless oddities about Qatar is that time is meaningless and schedules are mere suggestions. Nothing is ever as it ought to be. A sign on a business may read Open, when in truth, the establishment is closed.
Today is my birthday. Our plan was to have foot massages in the morning at one of the two hotel spa options, as we were told the three of us (I'm with two dear friends and colleagues) could do so at the same time. Nope. Only one person was working. So we journeyed to hotel option #2--the other locale where we could have a spa treatment. Guess what? Closed ... "for the holiday."
Oh well. We're easy-going. We'll enjoy a beverage at one of only three places where one can purchase a real drink in Qatar--the cove behind our hotel. We sat. And waited. And waited. Finally, after hunting down the waiter who refused to visit our table, we were told, "Nope. Coffee only. You have to wait four hours." Damn.
So we walked to option #2 for a drink. Closed.
Option #3? Take a guess.
Enter the "sure-thing contingency plan:" We convened in my room, chose one of the two bottles of sparkling wine from the room service menu, and placed the call downstairs. I think you can probably guess where this is going. Bottle #1 was unavailable, and bottle #2 would be ready to purchase "in two months."
At this point I asked the woman on the phone, "Vodka?" Room service responded, "Yes, Dr. Alford" [I love that part :) ]. So we ordered 6 shots of vodka and a pitcher of orange juice. Each of the three of us brought snacks in our suitcase, and we decided this was the perfect time to bust 'em out. Pictured below is the result: My birthday feast.
The site of the party: This table/floor in my room
The party spread, prior to kick-off:
Drinks are being mixed! We call this one the Doha Stinger (a screwdriver with Sour Patch Kids):
There's so much to say about this place and the infinite number of experiences I've already had, I just don't know how or where to begin. So I've said little.
Few--if any--in the Middle East acknowledge (allow the acknowledgement of may be the better way to put it) Christmas. It's hard. It's also ironic, since I'm as geographically close to the birthplace of Christ as I've ever been.
Over the past week I've thought countless times about all of the soldiers who are stuck in this part of the world every year, away from their families. At least I'm in a hotel, out of harm's way (relatively speaking), regardless of how surreal the desert, culture, and people that currently surround me make me feel.
To their complete credit, the Sheraton Doha, our home base, has attempted to bring some cheer to those guests who celebrate Christmas. In terms of depth of meaning, the result is as superficial as can be (e.g., Santa, gingerbread, snowmen, etc.--no mention of Christ, obviously), but it's something.
A couple of nights ago in the lobby of the hotel, a group called the Sheraton Doha
Choir "performed." :) It was hysterical. We'd never seen anything like it and were kind of speechless. They were all of Singaporean descent--not Qatari, Egyptian, Iranian, Jordanian, Iraqi, etc., like almost everyone else we encounter. Later we were told that the choir was comprised of the workers who clean our rooms, man the restaurant, etc. (foreigners make-up almost the entire labor force in Qatar, as the locals tend to look down on work. Seriously. They're happy to tell you that).
Anyway, I captured a tiny snippet on video. The quality is worse than horrible, but you'll get the gist of it. The singers didn't know the words to the songs they sang, as evidenced by the giant display of lyrics that they stared up at during every song. It was simultaneously so wrong and hysterical. At one point I looked at my two dear friends and work colleagues who were with me and asked, "Dear God, is this what people over here think of Christmas and Americans?"
So without further ado, I bring you the singular "Christmas" moment we've shared in Qatar ... the Doha Sheraton Choir.
Well, hello, Blog. It's me ... your muse, your creator, and now ... your long-time neglector. Without going into the sob story of where I've been (sometimes it's best to simply let the past be the past), I'll dive back in with what is possibly the most obnoxious, self-indulgent, shallow, beastly, and meaningless blog post I've ever formulated. I'll apologize now, rather than later (the content of this post speaks for itself).
I bring you: Some photos from my journey to the Middle East ... the 'flying First Class' part. Yes, I did manage to eat all of the food depicted herein.
(I should mention that I'm currently in Doha, Qatar, working on an evaluation project)
Anyway, back to the seminal part of my current trip ... First Class. I thought Business Class was spectacular. HA! Such amateurs. Never again will I be able to journey on an international flight (particularly a 19-hour flight. Dear God) without recalling what the past 48 hours were like in First Class. The worst part: Now that I know how the "other side" lives, I know that every time I board a plane--only to make my way to my typical seat amongst the other flunkies--I'll involuntarily scowl at each passenger in First Class.
I'll start with the multitude of "Fast Track" lines. Upon first glance, these may not seem like a big deal; but somewhere around the 5th security check/immigration/customs/plane boarding/luggage screening etc., that oh-so-pompous "Fast Track" sign becomes pretty darn choice. And the lounges? Yeah, I could get used to 'em.
I could go on. And on. But I won't. It'd be ridiculously gross. I mean, I'm somewhat ashamed of my new-found love affair with First Class. What's worse is that prior to my trip, I made the mistake of watching a John Lennon tribute video, set to the tune Imagine. More than once, whilst luxuriating in First Class, the words, "Imagine no possessions; I wonder if you can ...." popped into to my mind--as if Lennon was taunting me from the grave. Needless to say, I quickly swatted those silly thoughts away, emphatically telling John to get out of my head. After all, I had warm, wet cloths, designer lip balms, and cottony airline PJs and slippers to which to attend.
In closing, I'd like to thank darling Mark, the cheeky yet oh-so professional flight attendant on British Airways (the Houston to London leg, anyway): Thank you for making both my "pre-departure" and "just after take-off" cocktails so blissfully strong. I know that whenever I think of Glasgow, I'll think of you and the way you so artistically made-up my 500-thread Egyptian cotton sheet-covered bed.
I told you. It's gross. I'm out of control.
(I'll share more of my actual trip to Qatar in the coming days/weeks ....)
As part of an evaluation project on which we're currently working at the ol' place of employment, I've recently been conducting classroom observations at several public schools. As a long-time early childhood person, it's been--literally--just about 20 years since I've spent any time in high schools. That's changed quite a bit over the past two weeks.
Kindergarten & 10th grade are very different beasts. (these are the insightful, scholarly revelations I have, resultant of extensive, systematic observations)
Five-year-olds say things to their teachers like, "Do you want to come to my birthday party this weekend?" Fifteen-year-olds say things to their teachers like (and I quote): "Aw man, Coach [male teacher] ... gettcha some."
Anyway, this morning I snapped the photo on the left in the hallway of one of the high schools.
I'm an opinionated lass, living in Oxford, MS (how'd that happen?), taking time for good food, drink, and friends. I'm forever on a quest for quality farmers' markets & roadside boutiques, life's answers, and the perfect camera shot. And I really love me some Jesus.
Posts
