Of black dresses and worldly lust

This past Saturday was the Travies (the Academic Travel Photo Awards ceremony, for which I was a judge) and Arabic Night (essentially food and a dance party). I wore the closest thing I have to a black dress here, a black top and skirt, with my lovely stilettos that make me nearly 6 feet tall. I didn't get to show cleavage this time, but it was slinky. Yay curves. And suddenly being really tall.

So the winners of the photo awards were a bit of a surprise to me, even though I was one of the four judges. I had voted for most of the winners, but some of my favorites weren't even finalists, and some of the finalists were pictures I had barely glanced at. And funnily enough, the photo that was a finalist taken by my friend Katey was not either of the two of hers that I had picked, and while the presenter was opening the envelope, Marissa and I were trying to decide if, should she have won, we should have gone up to accept the award for her. What would we have said? Told a story about her? About our travel experiences? But alas, it was not necessary. We miss her though, as she has returned early to the States for personal reasons.

And then there was Arabic Night, with all its good food and crazy dancing. I really had missed tabouleh and hummus. Despite the open bar, I spent the whole night drinking water, especially during the dance party. It had been a while since I had had the chance to just dance around like an idiot with other people to really loud music, and I had kind of missed it. Unfortunately, said dance party was almost entirely female, as the guys were all too entranced by the shisha tent outside (and admittedly, it was really hot in there). One of these days I want to dance with not-creepy guys that are not almost old enough to be my dad (like many of the guys you will find at clubs in Lugano).

And that brings me to, yet again, the Object of My Worldly Lust (I can't believe I'm writing this in the campus computer lab). He really needs to stop unknowingly tempting me. Stop inducing, as Amy has termed them, "homicidal barber moments" (can you tell we've seen a bit too much Monty Python?), though instead of me wanting to kill him, I want to, as Amy put it, "jump his bones". Really, I wish I could turn off the sex drive when I don't need it. But then again, would I really feel like myself without it? Would I still be human if I could perfectly control myself, with no unexpected urges? Alas, it's not going anywhere, and neither is the latest object of my earthly desires.

So why is he only "the Object of My Worldly Lust", you might ask, as opposed to "The Guy I Like" or something along those lines? Because the only certain part of my attraction to him is sexual. I don't even know if I want the person that comes with that oh-so-attractive body. Don't get me wrong, he's not a bad guy. He has always been nice to me, but there is some not-entirely-known element that keeps me from falling headfirst for him. Are we just too different? Do I want someone more like me, someone who can appreciate good vegetarian cuisine, speak multiple languages, and captivate me with his brilliant wit and vision for a better world? A fellow liberal, compassionate, sexually attuned Christian also trying to make that decision of how to go about changing the world? Not that this necessarily excludes the Object of My Worldly Lust. I honestly don't know.

Lord, grant me clarity and some sort of resolution. Help me to see him for the person he really is, not just the Object of My Worldly Lust. We both need it.

Exposing myself in Barcelona

And no, I don't mean any sort of public nudity. I did not physically expose myself while visiting my friend Irene from UCSD in her European home of Barcelona, where she has been studying for the year. I can honestly say I had one of my best European experiences this past weekend while visiting her, between going to her church there, meeting some of her friends, and seeing a few of the city's most famous sights. I haven't felt so comfortable yet so vulnerable in quite a while, and it was kind of refreshing and cathartic.

It wasn't until I met the customs agent in Barcelona airport that I realized how automatic the Italian language has become in my brain. When he looked through my passport, he came across my stamps from crossing the Switzerland-Italy border at Chiasso, at which point I mentioned that I was studying in Switzerland. I was quite surprised that he asked to see my Swiss residence permit, but I assume he was just curious as he just glanced over it and handed it back to me. Then, while taking the metro with Irene, a machine ate my ticket, and I asked for help from the attendant...in Italian. However, as the weekend progressed, my Spanish became more pure, especially when I met Irene's friends from her church. I was kind of impressed with myself: I was able to communicate more or less effectively and follow all of their conversations. Not knowing their inside jokes, my participation in their conversations was somewhat limited unless they were addressing me directly. However, it's nice to know that I can still speak Spanish.

But more than anything, this Easter weekend would prove to be more of a spiritual experience than anything. It began on Sunday morning, when Irene and I went to the service at the church she has been attending during her year abroad. It felt much like a modern evangelical Protestant church in the States, much like an IV large group. The people were nice, the music was of a similar style, and the pastor that gave the sermon reminded me of a Spanish Ryan Pfeiffer. It also was interesting being able to take communion for the first time in my life, after my past in Catholic high school. At a Catholic Mass, you must be Catholic in order to take communion, so I'm accustomed to just proceeding to the altar with one hand over my heart to ask for a blessing. But this time, I was able actually partake of the offering. I guess that's one nice thing about us Protestants, though I still have my respect for Catholicism.

The best part of it however was being told, yet again, by Jose Luis, the guy who gave the sermon, that I really shouldn't worry so much. As he said to all of us, worrying really isn't healthy, and I guess that really is God's way of telling us not to worry so much and trust God more. Many of the things we worry about really are out of our control, and wallowing in misery really doesn't solve anything. Reminds me how therapeutic prayer is, offering my concerns to God even if it is hard for me admit that there are many times when I have no control. As Irene and I discussed last night after I returned to my apartment in Lugano, it really is easier to trust God with our eternal destiny than with pressing concerns in the present. Worrying is easy, but learning to trust and admitting that sometimes all you can do is pray ultimately is more productive.

My most revelatory moments came though in my late night conversations with Irene over a few glasses of cava and sangria. I guess the alcohol may have been a factor in my willingness to offer numerous testaments to my weaknesses, but I blame it more on my comfort with Irene. It was cathartic to admit to such things as having an Object of my Worldly Lust (don't get too excited, Mom) and that I may harbor a certain bitterness toward certain people from my past (especially middle and high school, as my current dear friends that I met during those times probably can understand). I basically unveiled all of my imperfections for Irene, and fortunately she didn't run away screaming. Sometimes it's hard for me to admit that I am incapable of perfection, but at the same time I'm thankful for Irene's affirmations that being unabashedly me is still a good thing. And I can certainly say the same things about her. Thank you again, Irene.

And another thing I learned: such lowering of inhibitions can also result in sending facebook messages to said Object of my Worldly Lust... should be interesting...

Things I Find Amusing Today

The weather here in Lugano is quite gorgeous today. Sunny, warm, and I'm wearing a brown tank top. It's the day before the last of our 2 3-day weekends we get here at Franklin College, so my classes have all been missing at least 5 people today. Granted, it's not like I'll be any better, as I'm skipping the Tuesday after our free Monday in order to fly back to Lugano from Barcelona, where I will be visiting my friend Irene from UCSD. I leave tomorrow morning. Should be fun.

So, for funny things. I begin to read God's Politics this morning, my favorite progressive Christian blog, and realized the Beliefnet put some really funny ads on their page today. What made them so funny, you might ask? Well, the first one was advertising the latest installment in the Left Behind series of novels, those often-lampooned apocalypse tales that have spawned a strange fascination with the Rapture theory, which many Christians of various traditions don't believe anyway, and the first Christian first person shooter video game. Fortunately for all of us, as the advertisment graciously told me, this is the last novel in the series. Thank you, Dear Lord.

And then, a little further down the page, as I was reading Diana Butler Bass's reflection on the Resurrection, I see Joel Osteen, of Texan megachurch fame, posing with a blonde woman I'm assuming is his wife, baring his signature, goofy, too white to be real smile. The ad is inviting me to spend "An Evening with Joel Osteen- Coming to a city near you!". Goody. Yay me. I have the opportunity to hear the face of the prosperity gospel tell me all about how to live "my best life now" and probably allow some second-rate worship band play a few songs while his loyal followers raise their hands and sway and possibly break into tears. Oh evangelical megachurches and the culture they have spawned. And then there is the wife, the stereotypical fake-blonde televangelist wife whose purpose seems to be to look pretty and possibly sing some mushy worship song and rave about how wonderful her husband is. And maybe appeal to other evangelical wives trying to fulfill that term that is oh-so-trendy right now: "helpmeet" to their husbands. Can you tell I'm not a huge fan of complementarianism?

In other news, I'm in the Franklin computer lab, and the computer next to me isn't letting anyone log on. It claims that it doesn't recognize your account information. I say it's just throwing a tantrum today. I'm also in the process of writing a more provocative entry with a particularly provocative title. I'll get to finishing that when I'm done eating lunch, going to my Italian conversation class, and frolicking in today's sun.