Category Archives: Atmosphere

New Orleans Visit

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Tulane Law School, the institution I’ll be attending next year, will reimburse prospective students up to $300.00 to come down for a visit during 3 scheduled visiting days. After a good deal of Expedia searching, I was able to secure a plane ticket from Boston to New Orleans for exactly said amount, all fees included. The catch was that I’d have to fly down on Thursday and come back Monday. Since I’ve been pretty good about my vacation days (think just a few for emergency mid-week ski trips,) I could spare to take a few days off of work.

To make the most of my time there I decided to stay with a few different current students; this way, I figured, I’d get some insight into how law students really live. Through the wonders of Facebook I was able to contact some students, mostly 1 and 2Ls. On this front the support was tremendous. I lined up three hosts and another guide.

After being met at the airport (funny aside, my bag was delivered later that night by Continental thus freeing me from lugging it around that night,) my first guide and I headed directly to a bar review. For those of you unfamiliar with law school lingo, a bar review is pretty much just an occasion for a student group to sponsor food and booze at a local dive. That evening’s bar review was sponsored by the Lambda Law group and the Women in Law group. After some time chatting with current and prospective students, my host and I left for some dinner. Later that night I made it over to the place I’d stay Thurs and Fri night and after hanging with the roommates hit the sack.

The following day, Friday, was when all the official law school stuff happened. My second host and I took the St. Charles Ave. streetcar to campus and then parted ways. During the day I meet a bunch of current and perspective students, sat in on a class, toured the library and ate a good lunch with faculty members. All in all Tulane organized a solid program.

After the program ended, of the guys I met during the day’s events and I went for a drink at a nearby student watering hole. We decided to be roommates and discussed housing options. Early in the evening a group of students involved with environmental law were staging a play so we decided to check it out. It was surprisingly good, if a tad polemical; the audience seemed to be mostly other law students, and the refreshments (beer and sandwiches) certainly helped buoy everyone’s spirits. Following this play we made our way back to my second host’s place and then joined him at a phat (I know, I never say that,) party at a revolving bar overlooking the city.

On Saturday, my task was to check out the housing available around campus. My potential roommate and I got together and meandered around the neighborhood, calling numbers on for rent signs and poking around a bit. He had to leave that afternoon, so we parted ways. I eventually made it over to my third host’s place, and after a delicious sushi dinner, took an early night (little did I know that I was halfway to being sunburnt to a crisp.)

On Sunday I continued to apartment hunt, and although some promising leads were followed, the perfect place didn’t materialize. That evening I connected with my fourth host and we went with a friend of his to the Bywater to hear a law student playing with his band. The place was very cool; it looked like a ramshackle dump from the outside, but on the inside there was a great vibe. They sold wine out front and then you’d take it back to the rear courtyard where a local restaurant had set up a portable kitchen. The offerings, ranging from duck to collared greens, were being sold as part of a fundraiser, and I learned that each week a different city eatery was featured. All in all it was very cool.

Then before I knew it it was Monday morning. I flew my sunburnt self to Boston and then I was back in Maine. The bottom line is that I feel much more relaxed about this transition I’ll make in August. In addition to knowing a few current students, I got a very positive impression of everything surrounding the school and its inhabitants.

Thanks to everyone who helped me get this far. I hope this next chapter in my life is as exciting, if not more, than those that have come before.

Sweet Music

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Sitting on my porch (it was warm today!) and contemplating a placid sunset over an urban tableaux, I got a chuckle thinking about the time I made my American History class a music class. Don’t get me wrong, I used multimedia in my courses to the extent I could over there but this one class was special. They were 11th graders in a highly advanced hard science/bilingual English profile (track) and were just an odd bunch. A mix of oddballs, stoners, very smart and very clever kids who had clearly come to a compact of how they would conduct themselves as a class, they were my most difficult during my first year at the Hungarian school.

At one point that year I cursed at them in the class, which got me a small reprobation among the staff but marked the beginning of a general change in attitude. Since this happened when they were 10th graders, the following year I was to teach them American History, which, by the way, was my favorite course that I taught over there, if the most difficult. So, they were a great class and we did American History.

I wanted to get up to the Reagan revolution but didn’t make it that far, so we were going to have to end amidst the counterculture. We had watched “Berkeley in the 60’s” and sniggered a bit at some of the antics, but overall it was much appreciated. I figured we’d go out in a bang, and it seemed that a big group sing along would be the perfect way to do so.

As was the difficulty with teaching such a course, it was tough to select just the right few songs. The play list was: Buffalo Springfield – “For What It’s Worth,” Janis Joplin – “Me and Bobby McGee,” Jefferson Airplane – “White Rabbit,” and closing out the set, two from Peter, Paul and Mary – “This Land is Your Land” and “Puff the Magic Dragon.” I cleared out my new language lab and set it up as best as I could as amphitheatre so we could sit without desks (something that is rarely done within Romanian schools.) Our resident guitarists had a hard time keeping up, but we got into some full fledged singing.

I think that’s part of what they find amusing about us Americans; the passion with which we approach certain things in life are not valued as a priority in their traditional culture. So as we sang about that magic dragon, the one who is known by all of a certain tradition, I felt as if we had come far and benefited one another. To sing with gusto is to live.

Round and Round

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I just spent a few hours at the local roller skating rink. I was trying to think about the last time I actually went roller skating, and if my memory serves me correctly, it was at Wal-Lex. Wal-Lex was this great 50’s style entertainment venue. There were two buildings, one housed the roller skating rink and the other was a bowling/pool hall place. It was a perennial favorite among friends and many a birthday party was held there.

To keep things in check there was an old Chinese man, Wing, who would wear a referee uniform and skate around, whistle in mouth, ready to call you out if you pushed the limits a bit too far. Another great thing about Wal-Lex was that every time you went, at some point they would stop the regular music and play the “chicken dance.” Wing would lead the crowd, and en masse, everyone would stoop down and flap their arms at their side… it was corny but we all loved it.

I remember after I had been away at college for a while I came back home for a break and happened to be out by Wal-Lex. Sadly, the times had moved beyond such simple pleasures, and in its place was a generic Petco/Staples shopping plaza. It was sad to see the place gone, it was as if a certain part of my childhood had been erased. So tonight’s pleasures were a bit nostalgic, and yeah, I didn’t fall.

Return to an Unknown Familiar Place

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Dreams. For me they come and go in no particularly discernible pattern. Last night they came. I found myself back in an unknown hotel. This time, however, my parents were visiting. I was there as me, i.e. a VISTA, and I had been there before. This was a grand place, but as with many of my dreams, wrought with some glaring inconsistencies.

I was involved with a few things: 1) helping to prepare a meal for unknown guests in a basement kitchen, 2) showing my parents around and 3) worrying about a meeting that I probably would not be able to make. Within this unknown familiar hotel I was aware of another theme of previous dreams of mine – broken elevators. Although the hotel had 6, in some shafts they creaked by slowly and crookedly, doors agape; others beckoned but seemed a bit off and as a result I did not trust them.

Instead we took the stairs down to the 2nd floor which was where the great ballrooms and the balcony of the theater were located. The place was occupied with other guests, setting up for events, rehearsing formal dinners. One particular ballroom had large square windows on each side – it was dark outside, with just the faintest hint of the retreated sun. A black family in formal wear was taking pictures and enjoying themselves before their guests arrived. The next room was a magnificent bar, well stocked and already with a bit of a buzz that would surely increase as the night progressed.

But the real treat was the room behind the bar through the door on the right. This room I remember the most vividly. The entire space had been preserved in the style of the original hotel owner, an eccentric man who is believed to haunt the room. The kindly but strange Italian caretaker greets us and points out some of the notable features, including an old bed, chair and scattered reading material. Unlike the rest of the hotel, this room is dimly lit, as it would have been in olden times, and faintly musty. Though spooky, it is not, however unpleasant.

At some point I am lying in the bed until I feel a poke at my feet at which point the attendant warns me of ghosts. Outside the window a diorama has been constructed and from it I can view the old port city, itself bathed in late twilight with the fog rolling in. But my breath quickly obscured the window and it’s time to leave. I thank the man, kissing him on both cheeks, Italian style, and wonder what kind of strange person calls this haunted room home all day. As for the dinner and meeting, those matters remain unresolved.

And I can’t help but wonder about the people in the town as the fog rolls in.

Approach

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I went skiing today at Shawnee Peak, a well put together mid-size mountain about an hour away from where I live. Tempting as usual was the terrain park. Back when I skied more often, I was always really fast and loved to get air. But over the past few years, what with being in the Peace Corps, I have not been skiing as frequently as before. As a result, for these first few times skiing this season I’ve been more cautious, working on perfecting my form rather than achieving maximum speed.

But today the terrain park beckoned.

Given that it was a Thursday, the mountain was not at all crowded – I didn’t wait in a lift line and always had my own chair. The terrain park, too, was quiet, as most of the snowboarders are younger and one would assume that they would be in school today. There was this one feature of the park which consisted of a jump on top of a mound… see illustration:

Anyway, my first time over I went very slowly, got only a little air and landed uneventfully. Second time around I took it a bit faster and had a hard landing, the back of my skis plopping down like that 777 at Heathrow. This second jump was the worst because although I had resolved to take it head on, at the last minute I hedged and completely ruined the flow of things.

Not content to have taken a day off just to do two lame jumps, I headed back up to the terrain park one last time. After two careful turns (thus avoiding the rail,) I set myself on a trajectory directly towards the jump. My mind was racing and fear was pumping through my body. The worst moment is when you just begin the ascent up the jump. At this point of no return, your view is of only the sky above and the tips of your skis. Off I went, sailing through the air, launched upward. Then, shifting the weight of my body, I angled downwards as the ground dropped out from below me, and for a brief moment I sailed before a flat, smooth and crisp landing.

On the chairlift back up for my next run (bombing down perfect corduroy,) my latest favorite song was at full volume in my mind… I was a free man in Paris.