Belgrade~Beograd

Belgrade has elements that are so familiar, yet distinctive. Kind of like when you get a wisp of thought that reminds you of last nights’ dream, but the details are blurry. Had a strange experience having stepped off the plane, and then the bus, of having directions given to me in Serbian and somehow understanding. I can cobble together a piece-meal understanding through Spanish and English similarities. I haven't travelled somewhere I don't speak the language in a long time, and it is humbling. Which feels healthy in the same satisfying way that salad does.

Its as though my skin is coated in a light film of emotions rising to the surface. Reading the most beautiful book, and I'm like an old lady crying at every little thing- whether extremely sad or beautiful or both. Imagine what an emotional time-bomb I will be when I actually AM old, yikes.

Having made my way up a precarious elevator to Three Black Catz hostal, I was offered a shot of home-made plum brandy. And since then have been amused and amazed by Belgrade. Think: Turkish coffee. There is also such recent violence, and I'm only beginning to get a grasp on the history. It was eery to see children playing on old tanks and weapons at the fort, as well as the eardrum-destroying sound of planes thundering above. Though it was an aerial show, mere years ago the planes could have been dropping NATO bombs. I'm hoping to meet with the anti-trafficking NGO goddesses tomorrow. I have ganas de getting my ass settled in Novi Sad. I want to be able to sleep naked, do laundry and unpack my stanky bag for awhile.

London beauty by night

(So, I actually didn't feel that emo walking the waterfront, but I couldn't resist- I just felt so damn cool listening to my Coldplay and strolling with my date [my camera])

At night they would go walking ‘til the breaking of the day,
The morning is for sleeping…
Through the dark streets they go searching to seek God in their own way,
Save the nighttime for your weeping…
Your weeping…

Singing la lalalala la lé…
And the night over London lay.
So we rode down to the river where the Victoria ghosts pray
for their curses to be broken…
We’d go wandering neath the arches where the witches are and they say
There are ghost towns in the ocean…
The ocean…
Singing la lalalala la lé…
And the night over London lay.

God is in the houses and God is in my head… and all the cemeteries in London…
I see God come in my garden, but I don’t know what he said,
For my heart, it wasn’t open…
Not open…

Singing la lalalala la lé…
and the night over London lay.
Singing la lalalala la lé…
There's no light over London today.

Too much tea- weighing me down this London afternoon

Its strange how I’m studying the breaking of silence through being quiet myself. I am learning so much about listening. Spending so much time with others, absorbing their stories, so that when I have company, I feel more quiet than usual. And of course spending more time alone also means more silence; even though thoughts are ricocheting through me quicker than usual.

At slightly melancholy moments like this, I feel like a kind of neutral receptacle, a bit of a non-person. Going so many new places, making so many rich new acquaintances, but aware that no one knows me deeply, or perhaps not as well as I think I know them. I suppose I am sharing of myself in a different way than I am used to. That's how we remain open, by voluntarily sharing of ourselves. And I need to remind myself to speak out, whether asked to or not, to remind myself of who I am. Most times I feel more intensely myself than ever, but there are moments when I get lost.

And I feel so lucky to be in this experience, that I feel guilty for feeling lonely, or cranky, or whatever, because even in the midst of that is my privilege and my gratefulness for this opportunity. I remember reading some of the Watson blurbs, and they felt so self-pitying to me, so focused on the self, when I want to focus on my project, and I figure the self revelation will naturally accompany that.

I'm thinking a lot about the devastating violence Eve told us about in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and how to know these things, and let them in, and not choke. She said, 'These women lived through hell, and survived. You are not going to die just hearing it' No, but I'm trying to learn how to give myself over to being this useful tool, and at the same time remain that "seeker of beauty" that I used to envision myself. How to care for ourselves enough to maintain our efficiency and drive, without floating indefinitely in the mundane, or petty. So after I finish transcribing this endless interview, I'm going to go out into the sunny autumn day. I'm going to go to the FREE National Gallery and look at some Boticelli, DaVinci, and Duccio. I'm going to brush up against strangers, and probably see some incredibly human detail that fills my heart and reminds me that what we are fighting for is a revival of our full humanity.

V-Day European Workshop

The "vagina godmamas" dancing it out and healing ourselves at the V-Day European Workshop yesterday

(Ana, Eve Ensler, and I!) I got not only hugs, but her blessing and a renewed sense of purpose)

Text to come tomorrow!

Brighton, the Robin Hood, and the kindness of strangers

(Brighton from the pier)

I’m sitting in the Robin Hood, a People’s Pub that donates all the money to charity, and allows puppies inside. It is a block-ish from the boiling ocean, and I am feeling rejuvenated. The beach is wild and cold and windy in a very Oregon way, it saltily smacks your face and wakes you up. Reminds me of the surreally beautiful beach trip with Anyel when I got back from Ecuador and was heart sore. The way the foam was piled as deep as snow drifts, the dramatic lighting, rainbow, and wild joy that I could still feel.

You know the old saying, “wherever you go, there you are”? Well, I feel that I am rediscovering the parts of myself I like best, and am remembering to enjoy my own company. I am a woman who doesn’t mind the rain, and who is drawn to the ocean. There I feel more thoughtful. It is easier to be intentional as well as kind. I feel a renewed optimism. In myself, in love; I feel the Regina Spektor lyrics, “You peer inside yourself -You take the things you like - And try to love the things you took - And then you take that love you made - And stick it into some - Someone else's heart “. I have worried my heart is closed, but it isn’t. I love in many other ways, and in time another person will come along who, like the ocean, brings out the best parts of me and loves me in spite of the rest. When I was with Andrew before things got so hard, I was so damn happy my heart was that much more open to the other relationships in my life as well.

My project is going good good good! Ana kindly offered for me to stay this week, and it is so wonderful to alight here in the lovely Brighton with such good and intellectually stimulating company. I plan to transcribe and translate all my remaining (read: NUMEROUS) hours of Mexico interviews. And then we’ll go to London for a UK Feminist Conference, and then hopefully back to Cambridge which is showing the VMs! What a crazy coincidence; I’m not sure if the Vagina Monologues really ARE everywhere, or if I’ve just had the most incredible luck thus far. Then back to London for the European V-Day Conference. Serbia plans are (tentatively and with much pushy Americanism) falling into place.

Point is, I am learning to walk alone but not be alone, and when I am, to not be lonely.

(Tlatelolco- Plaza of the three cultures in D.F.)

Imagine suddenly being in a land where the postman serenades (not propositions) you, and you escape into a pub from the wet chill, accidentally order a heaping piece of chocolate cake and “white” fair-trade coffee, which you eat in front of the fireplace where Pink Floyd began. Cheers! Welcome to Cambridge. I’m staying with Emily in her quaint 800 year old college, where Silvia Plath lived. The poetry and history is blatantly present, as it was in Mexico, but so so different. It reminds me what a young country the U.S. is, and how much we have to learn and change (if the debates last night weren’t enough of a reminder).

I keep having, “I’m not in Mexico anymore” moments- though the instinct for constant comparison is wearing off, as is my horror at the GBP. I need to balance my natural penny-pinching with a realization that travel inherently involves a near constant spending of money. Because of this, I feel an urgency to justify the extreme privilege of my life right now with a lot of work and budgeting. Especially meeting all of Emily’s brilliant and specialized peers here makes me feel a bit insecure about my own intelligence and lonely about what can sound like a bizarre and flighty year when described to the classy folk here over a pint. But in the end, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing, or a way to be learning so much about violence against women, and also about myself.

At the Red Bull Pub the other night, I realized with joy that the Vagina Monologues is never really that far away. The very act of talking about what I’m up to inevitably leads me into dynamic conversations about peoples' impressions and experiences. I met Danika, from New Delhi who saw it there twice and passionately ranted over pear cider about how much it moved her and about what she learned about female circumcision while on a dig in Egypt. I also met Katie, who along with an enthusiastic sky-diving conversation told me that Cambridge also has a V-Season every-year and who promised to put me in touch with her friend who organizes the womens group, which has a representative in every college.

After my little rest from jet lag, hopefully a few interviews, and a beautiful breath of home in the form of one of my oldest friends, I’m off to Brighton for a few days. The woman who is getting her PHD in Medical Anthropology, studies Breast Cancer in rural Spain, and organized the VMs there, invited me to go to a breast cancer walking through the “rolling beautiful hills of rural England”. I couldn’t say no to the opportunity, and hope to learn more about the Zaragoza production while I am there.

In London I am going to interview leaders in PozFem, as especially with the New V-Day developments in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, I want to learn more about the connection between violence against women and the spread of HIV/AIDS. And I am getting ridiculously excited about this upcoming V-Day European Organizer conference, where I hope to learn much and make contacts who will inform my next few months. Though I will meet and talk to Eve, I won’t be allowed to interview her. Though this was initially disappointing, just being in the presence of this world-shaking goddess is going to be mind-opening.

Sitting between Rachel and Kasra and watching the Monologos de la Vagina in Mexico City for the last time, I felt a sense of peace. I had interviewed each of the three actresses, so for me their own voices and love for the text combined with the script, making true the title of my project, “Women Echoed eachother”.

I have few regrets from this first stage, having squeezed in a few last interviews with actresses, the NGO the money is donated to, and the original translator/adaptor. I wish I could have interviewed the director, and I feel I should have gone to Juarez to visit the shelter there and to try and better understand the femicide there. I should have gone. I was afraid and didn't prioritize it, and that was wrong.

Listening to the final words of the Mexican version, “Yo estaba alli, yo recuerdo” felt final, and right. I was there. I learned. I will remember. It is time to move on.