Music from Lost Time

Tucked way in the very back of my upstairs hallway closet, there's a storage bin filled with pictures, maps, brochures, coins and other bits from the year I lived in Cardiff, Wales. I filled that bin when I returned to my parents house after the year studying abroad and have moved it from house to apartment to duplex to apartment to at least three more houses over the past 15 years.

My intent, of course, was to make a series of photo scrapbooks that would capture all the beautiful places I went and all the things I accomplished that year. I planned to have albums that I could flip through to treasure the memories or share stories with my children of the great adventure mommy had before they were even an idea.

And yet, more than a decade later, everything is still shoved into that same plastic bin -- much to my husband's chagrin.

Thankfully, treasured memories aren't dependent on neatly organized photo albums. Sometimes, a particular scent or sound -- or even a cartoon glass -- can be enough to conjure up the most vivid picture of a day long gone.

Today it was Spotify that served as my Proustian madeleine, courtesy of a playlist built around a mix tape that had been my sound track during that year in Cardiff. A fellow American scholar studying at Oxford became one of my favorite friends that year -- we visited each other and marveled that we, with our parallel lives and similar tastes, hadn't crossed paths sooner. The mix tape she made for me offered an entire Gravity's Pull album on one side, harkening back to the days when we didn't know each other at UNC, and a collection of tracks from Nancy Griffith, Nikki Meets the Hibachi, Shawn Colvin, Del Amitri, Shannon Worrell, Soul Miner's Daughter, Rebecca Riots and more on the other side.

I listened to that tape, my walkman tucked into the pocket of my weather-proof coat, every day for months as I walked to class, to the city centre, to a friend's flat, to the train station, to museums and galleries and castles and pubs. The songs rang of strength and friendship, searching and wonder. They were my constant partner as I found myself able to live so far from home, able to succeed on my own in a way I hadn't been sure was possible.

When I came back to the U.S., I was still listening to that same tape as I walked the halls again at UNC, where I found myself surprisingly ready to meet the man who would be my husband.

This morning, more than a decade gone by, I listened to Dave Matthews hum out his "Christmas Song" on the Spotify playlist that I finally built based on that mix tape. There's no tape deck in my car anymore, but I didn't want to give up the tape -- iPhone to the rescue.

Although I was driving roads in Raleigh, running ordinary errands on this ordinary day, I had the extraordinary sense of being transported through space and time I thought were lost. I felt the blessings of being known by a friend discovered in a moment when I needed that connection more than ever. I recalled the confidence borne out of finding my own way. I pictured the path I walked from my flat toward the capitol, the details of my room, the oceans of daffodils filling the gardens, the faces and voices of people I haven't seen since I returned home after we completed our degrees.

And I smiled to myself, holding the treasure of that year and that entire dusty storage bin in my mind.

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 5

continued from yesterday

Richard, an Australian who has been Mwenya’s partner for seven years, has been supportive of her decision to come to Cardiff. “He feels I’ve got a lot of potential in consulting,” she says smiling. “It’s a really big sacrifice for him, but he says he did it out of love so it’s worth it.”

Mwenya says Richard misses her the most at night when he’s alone in their large home, although she says he copes by staying busy. “You know how men are,” she laughs, filling the house with the sound, “macho about everything.  But we talk every day, and he consults me about everything. We haven’t broken that relationship.”

Her parents have also encouraged her to pursue higher degrees.  “They’re from a very enlightened family, so they value education a lot. Every time my mom calls, she says, ‘As soon as you finish that MBA, you have to go do your Ph.D.’”

Like Carol, Mwenya believes coming to Cardiff was a good decision, but friends – here and at home – have found that choice difficult to accept. “People ask, ‘How can you do that to your kids?’  I tell them I’m not doing anything to my kids,” she says firmly, shaking her tiny braids. “It’s a pity that there will be a one-year separation, but sometimes in life you have to take decisions. They might sound selfish to other people, but sometimes you have to take decisions and get on with your life.”

She hopes that her children will learn from her and never become complacent. “I try to impress upon them the importance of education. They must never think, ‘We’ve come from a good home. Mom and Richard are doing things for us, so we can sit back.’ I’m trying to set an example for them.”

Being a role model is especially important in Zambia, according to Mwenya. “As African women, we’ve got all the odds against us. It’s really some kind of achievement for an African woman – especially a married African woman – to leave her family and come study,” she says. “People think once you’ve finished school and you’re working and married with kids, that’s it. I’ve tried to tell people there are so many opportunities out there. If you’ve got talent or opportunities, you should use them.”

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 4

continued from yesterday

After having a good cry with Carol, talking to Mwenya, a taller woman with high cheekbones and dark brown skin, is easy. There are no tears – only laughter, strength and a determined confidence to be a role model for other Zambian women.

Mwenya has worked as a supervisor for the Central Bank of Zambia for the past 12 years. Her job is very demanding, but provides a comfortable salary of £2,500 per month in addition to allowances for travel, education and utilities. She chose to pursue an MBA to increase her marketability in the private sector. “I don’t want to be a Central Banker for the rest of my life. I need to branch out and do something for myself,” she says, suggesting that she might join her partner Richard in his consulting business or possibly open a small orphanage.

She had considered getting an MBA previously, but something always stopped her. “There’d be a major change at the office, or my children were changing schools,” she says. “But I told myself, come year 2000 I just had to do it.” Although she was offered a place at the University of Zambia, she chose to come to Cardiff’s one-year programme for a more globally diverse education.

“I started telling the kids I wanted to do this about five years ago, and it became a joke,” she says. “It was like, ‘Oh Mom, that’s what you said last year.’” When they realised she was actually going, the joking ended.  “They couldn’t understand why I had to go away because I still had another degree and a good job. Initially it was very difficult for everybody.”

To make things easier for Richard, whose work keeps him very busy, they chose to send the three children to boarding schools at a total cost of over £5,000 for the year. Gamphani, 13, was already planning to attend a residential school, so the separation was less disruptive for him. Mwansa, 10, and Lukonde, 8, who attend a different school that sends them home on the weekends, weren’t happy at first. “They rebelled against it, but they’re really pampered at school.  Now they don’t want to come home.”

Although Mwenya knows her kids miss her, she does not worry much about them. “They’d have probably missed me more if they’d been at home,” she says. “I’m happy because I know that they like their schools, and Richard gives them a lot of support. He doesn’t give them a reason to start missing me.”

continued tomorrow

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 3

continued from yesterday

In September 1998 Carol began her studies in Cardiff’s Diploma in Business Administration (DBA), a nine-month degree and prerequisite for the MBA. “The first month in Cardiff I can’t remember. I was like a walking zombie because my heart and my soul were at home. Only my body was here.”

She says she survived that first year because of her flatmates. “They were lively, happy people,” she says smiling. “We were a family. We had our differences, but they could see that I was suffering and they helped me.”

Returning in September 1999 to complete the MBA after three months at home was not any easier than her first departure. “Leaving gets worse. The distance makes you become even too close. When I have to go, it is like trying to part something that is stuck as one,” she says, weaving her small fingers together.

Carol has found her second year at Cardiff to be even more difficult, missing both her family and her former flatmates. “This year has been the worst for me. I’ve been depressed, plus some of the company I have in this house doesn’t make me feel better,” she says, gesturing that she doesn’t mean me. Envisioning her family relaxing at the weekends in the comfortable lounge of their three-bedroom house doesn’t help matters.

The MBA, a difficult, intensive programme, has also provided academic challenges that caused Carol to fear that she might not pass the course.  “I cannot suffer so much and then get nothing at the end.  The grief, the pain, the torture, and then you don’t get what you came here for?” she says, fidgeting with her rings and fighting back tears.  “But I believe in God and I kept on privately praying.”

She now feels encouraged by assistance from two other students and has adopted a new attitude towards the course.  “From now onwards I’m not giving up on myself.  I nearly buried myself, so I have to fight to be alive,” she says with determination.  Carol often spends 60 hours per week working on the MBA.

In addition to her concerns here, Carol also worries about her family at home.  “Every day I receive emails saying, ‘We miss you Mom.’  I see things deeper, like their results going down,” she says, frowning.  “I know I’m hurting them.  I feel guilty because I know deep down they are not happy.”

Carol says Patrick is counting the weeks until her return, but she sees benefits for him.  “It’s good for him because he’s getting closer to his daughters.  He has to fix them breakfast, buy them clothes, do shopping with them – everything,” she says.  “It’s a learning process for him.”  She also believes the distance has made her marriage stronger, bringing them emotionally closer.

Ultimately Carol knows she made the right choice in coming to Cardiff and sees herself as a role model for her daughters.  “I hope they’ve learned to live without me, to be patient, to know that in order to get something good sometimes you have to suffer first,” she says, setting her strong jaw.  “Staying home wouldn’t be fruitful for me.  In the long run, it will bring pain to me because I could lose my position.  So that’s a lesson for them – they should weigh situations, even if there’s some heartache.”

continued tomorrow

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 2

continued from yesterday

Carol, a short woman with a bright smile that flashes across her brown skin, works as a consultant for the Ministry of Public Service in Swaziland, evaluating new positions within departments. She completed short-term training in Botswana in 1995, earning a Certificate in Management Services. “It was painful to be away from home,” she says, “but I was close enough to go home by bus for the weekend, so it was easier for me.”

When her turn came for long-term training in Cardiff, her managers’ preference, she did not want to participate. “I applied, trusting they would reject me,” she says. “I gladly sent my undergraduate transcripts because they were not nice – I thought they would say, ‘Okay, you are hopeless.’ I was devastated when they admitted me.”

Her next prayer was that the funding would fall through, but she was granted the scholarship. “There the feeling started,” she says, twisting the ends of her short hair. “It’s like your heart is sinking inside you.”

Because the other employees in her department already have MBAs, Carol needed the degree in order to progress. A promotion would also nearly double her current salary, the equivalent of £400 per month, making it easier to afford the private school her daughters attend.

Carol’s husband, Patrick, supported her decision to get an MBA.  He works as an Under Secretary in the Manpower Development Department of the government and already has a Master’s degree from the US.

When they explained the situation to Una, 10, and Sonia, 7, the daughters accepted it at first. “But as the time got nearer, they started crying.  That’s what really tore me apart,” says Carol, her brown eyes turning red with the memory. “Some days I would pretend that I’d be okay, but inside I would be dead. Sometimes I would just cry with them. We’d all be on the bed together – the kids would cry, I’d be crying, and I’d look at my husband and his eyes were red. Everybody was crying in the family.”

As painful as the decision was, Carol knew she had to go. “You feel like your heart is being torn apart. At the same time, I can’t forfeit this opportunity. It’s for my future and their future.” She feared that refusal to complete the training scheme in Cardiff could result in eventual dismissal from her job.

continued tomorrow

Moms Worth Admiring - Part 1

Before I showed up for grad school at UNC and found my husband teaching Intro to Public Relations, I spent a year in a professional degree program at Cardiff University in Wales. That year changed me in so many ways, thanks in part to the women who were assigned as my flatmates.

This week, I'd like to share with you an article I wrote at the end of my course there. It's a little schmaltzy in places, but it tells the story of two amazing women. At the time that I lived with them, I found their stories incredible -- now ten years later, as a mother and wife who is the age they were then, I am profoundly moved by their courage and grace.

The SITSgirls recently asked "What woman (other than your mother) inspires you?" Here's my answer, from May 2000 (retold in five parts, because it's too long for a single blog post):

***

I have never felt as alone as I did last September. At age 26, I had left my home in North Carolina – my family, my friends, my job, my car – to study for a year at Cardiff University. I was living in a very plain university flat, sharing a bathroom and kitchen with four strangers. For two weeks, I was convinced that my heart would actually stop from homesickness, or that my eyes would become permanently red from crying myself to sleep.

But my perspective changed drastically when I began to talk to two of my flatmates who had come from Africa for a Master’s in Business Administration, a programme comprised almost entirely of overseas students. Carol Muir, 35, and Mwenya Nyirongo, 38, had not only left their friends and their jobs – they had also said good-bye to their husbands and children for the year.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so homesick anymore.

continued tomorrow

Ode to the Expired Passport

Last week my husband and I pulled out our passports -- I'm embarrassed to report that both had expired in 2003. It's one of those things we kept meaning to do -- then new job, new house, new baby, another job, another house, another baby, more jobs, yet another house, and here we are seven years later without having needed a passport.

Just hours after I'd been inspecting my passport photo (hello, 1993 -- how's that curling iron working for you?), I read this post by fellow Triangle blogger Fadra. And given that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery (right?), I decided to write my own version.

So, of course, we must start with the photo page. When I showed a friend this picture, she guessed that 6 out 10 current friends would not have recognized this as me. I'm going to take that as a compliment about how current and hip and trendy I look now. And yes, in fact, I did think I had beautiful Brook Shields eyebrows back then, thankyouverymuch.

Sadly, it turns out that my passport never got stamped in many of the countries I visited -- no markings from Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Ireland or one of the trips I made to France. But there are three stamps that hold the greatest significance for me.

First, the stamp shown here at the bottom is the reason I got my passport in 1993 -- summer study abroad in London with a class from UNC.

That trip was probably the boldest decision I made in college -- spending the summer overseas without any friends or family. Thankfully, I made a great friend on that trip who joined me on Eurail after our course was over -- and who is still one of my dearest friends today. Anyone who can survive that kind of travel with me -- and deal with my homesickness -- is a friend forever.

The next stamp, six years later, landed me in the same airport, but with a special pass that allowed me to stay for a full year.

I left Hurricane Floyd behind at the Greensboro airport, but I was my own personal disaster for the next few weeks while I tried to get my feet on the ground. For one year, I studied magazine journalism at Cardiff University -- and traveling around Europe whenever I had the chance -- while I proved to myself that I could not only survive, but even thrive away from the comforts and familiar faces of home.

And finally, for the last stamp in this passport, I wasn't traveling alone -- but the trip turned out to be the most memorable in many ways.

This little stamp from Charles de Gaulle airport marks the day before my husband pulled a sparkling diamond ring from his pocket as he knelt in front of me on the Pont Neuf in Paris. It's the only overseas trip we've taken together -- so far.

Here's hoping that over the next 10 years our new passports will be filled with matching stamps as happy reminders of shared experiences.

Hark the Sound of Basketball (and Rugby) Season

I know for some of you out there, it's still football season (hi Dad!). But this Carolina girl has already moved on to basketball. The Tar Heels played (and won) their first game on Monday night -- okay, so it was only Florida International, but it still feels good to know the blue and white are back on the court.

In honor of the start of my favorite sports season, I'll share one of the first pieces I wrote for my magazine course while I was studying in Cardiff. We were assigned to cover the local reaction to the start of the Rugby World Cup, hosted in Cardiff that year. Given that I knew absolutely nothing about rugby, I had to take a different approach than traditional sports reporting.

In Chapel Hill, North Carolina, we celebrate March Madness, a month devoted to the great sport of college basketball. As college teams from across the United States compete for the NCAA title, Carolina fans flock to arenas and television sets, decorating their bodies, their homes, their cars, even their pets in support of the Tar Heels.

The enthusiasm reaches a fever pitch during the first weekend in April, when the last teams standing compete the The Final Four. If the Tar Heels have survived from the original field, every bar on Franklin Street, Chapel Hill's main street, welcomes a standing-room-only crowd of blue face paint and Carolina cheers.

In Cardiff, Wales, they celebrate the World Rugby Cup. And althought it's quite some distance across the proverbial pond, the enthusiasm of openting day, as Wales hosted Argentina, felt just like home for this Tar Heel alum.

On Friday, 1 October 1999, I was amazed to see the usually drab, grey Colum Road awash in a vibrant shade of red. Bright red rugby jerseys boasting the WRU [Welsh Rugby Union] logo had replaced the typical full-black European ensemble. Cabs flew Welsh flags from their antennae. Even the bank clerk at Barclay's sported a temporary face tattoo in support of her team. The trains passed by, filled to capacity with more red jerseys to spill into the city. Students wearing Welsh flags as sarongs cheered in the streets. And there were still six hours until kick-off.

By the time the opening ceremony began, every pub in the City Centre fortunate enough to possess even one television was bursting with rugby enthusiasts. The pub crowds joined with fans inside the newly built 72,500-seat Millennium Stadium singing anthems and folk songs, cheering for celebrities and waving their inflated daffodils and red-and-green scarves.

When Welsh performer Max Boyce took the stage, even the rowdy crowd at O'Neill's Pub hushed each other to hear the original verses in his song, then erupted with the familiar refrain in his obvious crowd-pleaser.

The volume of enthusiasm only increased when the players took the field. The crowd around me began chanting, "Wa-les! Wa-les!" But another hush came over the group at the sounds of the Welsh anthem, a patriotic tear trickling down the televised face of one of them team members.

Although it seemed impossible, the start of the game brought even louder and rowdier cheers, But as the game progressed, not all of the cheers were friendly. At the sight of an injured Argentinian player on the field, one pub fan shouted, "Let 'im die!"

As the WRU fought for their 23-18 win and their ninth-straight victory, the cans at O'Neill's never stopped their energetic support of "Henry's Army." And although I understood little of the game of rugby, I did understand the sense of pride felt by the crowds there and throughout the city of Cardiff.

The face painted and jester hats, the radio station ticket-giveaway contests and the closed-off city streets are all symbols of something that every Chapel Hill fan recognises: a true love and loyalty for a sporting team that serves to unite the community. Whether young or old, male or female, city professional or country worker, everyone who cheered for the WRU on Friday enjoyed equal status: victor.

Cardiff: First Week

I was hoping to have another Cardiff post for you by now, but two things have slowed me down:

1. My journal entries are fascinating. To me. But to you, maybe not so much. I'm reliving moments I had long forgotten, but not sure how much is worth sharing. Culling through for good stories to share, but I keep getting lost in the flood of memories.

2. My articles and e-pistles home are all trapped on the hard drive of my old laptop. It was cutting edge when I took it to Cardiff, but now I can't get it to access the internet and it won't read my new flash drives. Hopefully my IT department (aka, my husband) will remedy that problem soon.

In the meantime, here are a few choice lines from my journal from the first week overseas:

• "Tonight I am courage on Xanax." [It had been prescribed before I left to help manage my extreme anxiety.]
  
  
• "Today one of the old ladies in the International Office told me I have a very British face. I hope that's a compliment."
  
  
• "Later that same day, an Indian student told me I look like a slimmer version of Gillian Anderson [I wish!]. Then a Japanese girl told me I look like an American. Do I say 'thank you'?"
  
  
• "Heard a radio ad today for a used car lot. Just didn't have the same effect as used-car dealers in the U.S. With a British accent, the "200 cars that MUST SELL NOW" sounds strangely polite and formal."

The rest of the journal entries from those early days are consumed with pitiful homesickness and tedious logistics as I tried desperately to get settled. Hope to have a better post for you soon...

Image from Fused Film.

Floyd, Fear and Flying Far

Ten years ago tomorrow, I boarded a plane at the Greensboro airport en route to Cardiff, Wales.

I was terrified. I don't like to fly under the best of circumstances, but my connector flight to D.C. was to be the last (tiny) plane out before the airport closed due storms from Hurricane Floyd. The turbulence from bad weather alone would have been enough to tie my stomach in knots.

But my fear of going halfway around the world to live for a year -- without my family, friends or even a passing acquaintance -- meant I hadn't eaten or slept much for the few days preceding the flight, leaving me a weak, sniffling disaster with a passport and a whole lot of luggage. If not for the support of one of my dearest friends who waited with me at the D.C. airport and another BFF who made a care package to keep me entertained on the flight to London, I might not have survived the trip.

When I arrived at my flat in Cardiff the next day, alone and exhausted, I was certain I had made the biggest mistake of my life. That night, I began my first journal entry with these words:

"I am courage. At least that's what Mom said when I called her from my host Rotarian's house sobbing at 5 p.m. She said that courage isn't being unafraid; it's being afraid, but still facing your fears. So, here I am, facing them."

She was right, of course (moms usually are), although it took several weeks before I believed her. And the year, spent studying magazine journalism at Cardiff University as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, was one of the best decisions I ever made.

In celebration of that decision and in thanks to my parents for helping me find the courage I needed a decade ago, I'll be posting excepts from my year abroad over the next month -- some snippets from my journals, but also copy from feature articles I wrote while I was there. Since I wasn't tech-savvy enough to be on the forefront of blogging in 1999, I'm taking this opportunity to relive the experience now -- hope you don't mind coming along on the trip.