The World's My Oyster

I know, it´s a weird title.... So, upon graduating, I can't tell you how many times I've heard that strange phrase "the world is your oyster." My response usually included a confused smile and a head nod. But inside I was wondering what exactly does that mean? And honestly, where the heck did it come from? So, i did some homework, and turns out - Shakespeare first coined the term in his comedy, "The Merry Wives of Windsor." And if Shakespeare said it, then it must have some profundity to it. Right? Well, even if not - it's about as creative as I can get after sleeping a total of 2 hours in well over 24. The point being, if Shakespeare said it, then who's going to argue me for applying it to my account of traveling this oh so small world?

So here I am, in Paris, alone. I've had an interesting last few days to say the least.

But let me first catch up on New York... what a city.



I used to know a good man named Tom. With a long explanation I could show how we were in fact related, but rather than dive into family history, just know Tom was family. (I only said that so you wouldn't think he was some creepy old man "friend" from New York..... cause Lord knows, New York has many of those. ) So, Tom was from New York, and he was quite the Yankees fan. When I was younger, I happened to think I was incredibly "cool" because I played softball and knew a few things about baseball. But because I was from LA, I blindly loved the Dodgers. In fact, one year my little league team was able to go into their locker room before a game and meet the players and get some signatures --- which only made it worse... it went straight to my head. My blind devotion to them is quite embarrassing as I recall it today. So there I was, an annoying 10 year old who thought I was pretty slick stuff because I knew some stats on Mike Piazza. Well, then I got to know Tom. And Tom was good at many things in life. But in particular, what I remember about him was his good-hearted banter about our favorite baseball teams. I remember he would tease me about the Dodgers, remind me real baseball was found inside Yankee stadium, and if and when I really wanted to argue it - that the only good from the Dodgers came from the fact they were originally from New York. Unfortunately, he knew WAAY more than I did, so he always won those little arguments, but I held my ground. When I was in high school, Tom died in a car accident. And it wasn't until this last weekend that I made my first ever trip inside Yankee Stadium. Well, he was right. There is nothing like it. The smell, the announcer, the cheering and jeering, the fans, the sunshine, the hot dogs ... all wrapped up into the grand American pastime known as baseball. And so, if ever any doubt remained in my mind, I discovered on Sunday - Tom was right. As that thought crossed my mind, I imagine God shared it with Tom, and Tom was smiling big.

Kayli and I enjoyed the rest of the weekend, and on Sunday night, her roommates arrived - Sam, Ashley, & Kari.



A pleasant surprise upon my arrival was that we just so happened to be there during Fleet Week... which means that our navy boys - sailors to be exact, were docked in NYC for a week. Everywhere we looked were groups of men in white uniforms taking pictures w/ giggly girly tourists. Why should we be any exception? hehe. The girls and I went out dancing our last night there and we must have found the sailor jackpot. In the sole spirit of Patriotism, we decided to dance with them. God bless the USA.

On a very different note, another highlight was our Memorial Day service. With exception to one of the guest speakers who somehow tried to equate 9/11 with the judgment of God -- (I did all I could to restrain myself from pulling the pulpit out from under him) -- the service was really moving. We spent the morning in St. Paul's Church - with Ground Zero just outside. Kayli and the choir sang for the last time that morning. While their voices echoed through George Washington's beautiful home church, we reflected on the importance of memorials. Sometimes, I think that as Americans we are terrible at this. We are great at the Patriotism we can conjure up after horrific events, and we are great at recounting our strengths - often with disregard to its cost of other´s weaknesses - but it seems, that as a country, we have yet to learn how to grieve, how to lament, or even how to heal. Really heal. Beyond the quick fix. We often seem to opt for the immediate cure-all bandaid assuming we can ignore the future scar tissue, rather than take the time to walk through the entire healing process - which would require us to face the pain, and sometimes the responsibility. Maybe I am reading my own personal struggles into this - and somehow trying to make myself feel better by labeling my nation as a fellow culprit. But I guess it's just been on my mind lately ... as I have been trying to sort through our Western role in many terrible things this world has experienced. I digress. But somehow, the short memorial day service was well spent - reflecting, mourning, and celebrating some of the collective highs and lows our country has undergone. A wise man once said, "Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it." I'm sure this theme will come up again on my trip....

So, all in all, New York was wonderful. The best two hours arguably spent inside Yankee Stadium. Yes, I was a happy girl on Sunday afternoon...

I'll write some more on Paris in a little bit...

love love love,

melody