It's a brand new year, or, fish out of water

I consider myself fairly cultured. In a weekend of games, I was voted the most likely to be invited along by friends considering an art purchase. At least I've got that going for me. Right now, I am on my last day of forced vacation, ridiculously procrastinating all the things I should be doing. Item number one: blocking for the EGF competitive one-act.

I sit here, avoiding the blocking and awaiting the arrival of my financial consultant/insurance/investment guy. His name is Michael W. Smith. I know, I know, it's all very "go west young man" but there is an aura of trust about him. Even though, it is because of him that I am painfully aware that I have no worth.

Disjointed as my thoughts are, the future looms. New Years, besides being a painfully ridiculous holiday, makes one ponder their place in this life, and what is next. This year, we celebrated with a few wonderful and bitter people (artists, you know) at a friends apartment. This apartment is a corner unit in St. John's Block, so it gave us a fabulous view of the fireworks all from the comfort of home. Because it was a lot of musicians and theatre folk, much of the night was spent mocking one another through games or around the piano belting out showtunes. Evenings like this, regardless of their placement in the calendar, give me pause; but when we are ushering in a new year, and I am placed one year closer to 30, thoughts of the future take hold.

Because I am a smidge OCD, I have been writing a five year strategic plan for me, and was shocked when all options took me abroad. I am not sure if this is just where my soul wants to be right now, or if I am harboring some jealousy towards my friend Melissa who is teaching in Ireland this semester.

I have spent much time abroad, having toured Eastern Europe while in college, and then spending time abroad in Oxford studying and doing an internship. This opportunity afforded me the ability to travel a lot. It's easy to go to Paris or Göteborg when it's only a 2 hour flight and $50. Same goes for anywhere - looking to blow a week holiday from class? Grab a Euro-pass and jump a train from Paris to Rome.

Living in England was a fantastic experience for me - it is truly a world center. This is not to say that I don't love America or North Dakota, quite the contrary. However, I felt very at home in England. Here, there are times I feel like a fish out of water.

The most obvious difference I note here is my aversion to all things "eco-tourism" or "nature." I don't snowmobile. I don't hunt. I don't ski. I don't boat. I don't hike. I don't bird. I don't fish. And, I most certainly do not walk on frozen bodies of water, drill holes in them, and fish.

That said, I am not obtuse enough to believe that those things aren't cultural. This concept of eco-tourism is a culture on to its own, and while the stuffies that spend all of their disposable income on opera and theatre can snoot about how much their cultural choices cost, eco-tourism, especially hunting and fishing are not cheap sports.

In my effort to extend my vast cultural knowledge (scoff) too those less fortunate (snort), I drag James to a lot of things. When he first told me he wasn't a fan of theatre or musicals, I asked him how he knew. He said he had seen "The Nutcracker" and hated it. Truth be told, I've never made it through "The Nutcracker" and I find the show almost offensive in how terrible it is. (I know, some people love it) I told him straight up that "The Nutcracker" is no representation of theatre, and forced him to go to Sweeney Todd. He loved it. He went twice. Two times to Cabaret. To a Ballet. To a Concert. To the Fall Art Auction.

So, when he proposed that I accompany him on his first ice fishing excursion, I begrudgingly agreed. Imagine the process. I have no jacket appropriate for this adventure. I had to borrow one of his. I don't own the correct gloves... or, more accurately, any gloves. My only stocking hat has a Human Rights Campaign logo on the front, and is a skull hat. I had no boots, or warm socks (bamboo black argyle don't count apparently). It was quite the process, but I managed to get to the ice none the less.

Apparently the large blue thing in the back of our under-stair storage is an ice house. Who knew. Apparently tackle boxes weigh 50lbs. Who knew. Apparently the ice house converts into a sled, so we can pull said 50lbs tackle box, the ice auger, coolers, chairs, underwater camera, last season's camo ski pants and other ethereal items whose purpose i couldn't ascertain. Apparently you must purchase a license for this activity.

The drive to Larimore Dam in James' 1982 Blue Chevy Celebrity, smoke billowing out the windows, was tenuous. A blizzard was moving in to the area, but we were fishing, hell be dam(n)ed... pun completely intended.

I must confess, it was an enjoyable experience. From the first fish I caught, through the 14th. Yes. I caught 14 fish. James caught 25. We released all of them (Fishing was a concession I was willing to make. Cleaning fish was not.) and had a great time. I baited the hook myself. I took the fish off myself.

It was a very manly day, so we countered with a good night of showtunes when we got back to Grand Forks.

At some point throughout this process, the "fish out of water" feeling, at least for me, ceased. It seemed more natural the 5th time your removed a fish from a hook. The meal-worms got a bit less gross each time I had to bait the hook. The 3x6 hut that sheltered the two of us from the storm a'brewin outside felt more like home. It made me wonder how easily we acclimate to our surroundings and how easily we settle into our lives. I suppose the cigarettes and Capt. Morgan helped. So did the company.

This is not to say I'm having a "grass is greener" moment, or anything like that. I adore Grand Forks.

Now, time to sit down and write this five year plan.

Peace::Ben::Team CulturePulse