In the past, I've always found that having to go the airport, check in your bags, go through security, have your passport checked multiple times, wait for the boarding to start, wait for the plane to take off, get a headache or become uncomfortable from sitting too long on the flight, and be unable to sleep...It was such a hassle. I still wanted to travel, that's for sure. But besides getting to see picturesque bird's-eye views (good photo opportunities!), I thought flying was rather troublesome.

It was especially difficult this time, when I was trying to get home from Barcelona after I had finished cruising. We were supposed to fly to London, and then from London to San Francisco, because there is no direct flight from Barcelona to San Francisco. Apparently air control people in France were on strike, so our flight to London was delayed. (I mean, if there aren't enough people working to make sure the planes don't crash into each other up above, then everything gets backed up) This meant that we would miss the flight from London to SFO. We were told to go to Iberia's ticket sales (Iberia is another airline) so that we could find a way back home. (I believe that Iberia and British Airways are part of some alliance of airlines or something like that.) However, we didn't see Iberia's place right away, so we lined up at the wrong place. Then eventually we left that line to go join the line for Iberia. When we got up there, we were told to go to American Airlines and try to check in our bags and get onto one of their flights instead. However, we were told it was too late and they couldn't accept more passengers. I was very annoyed at the time because I believed that if my parents had listened to me and spent more time searching for Iberia's ticket sales, we might've made it in time to catch a flight home that very day. But after a while my anger dissipated. (I still have to work on anger management.)

The lady who was searching for a flight home for us came up with a solution, although it was a complicated one.

Bsrcelona to Madrid, Spain
Madrid to Miami, Florida
Stay overnight at Miami in a hotel
Miami to San Francisco

I thought we might as well take it since I wanted to see Madrid's airport and Miami's airport. But my mom thought it was too much hassle, and plus we would have to stay in Miami, so my parents asked the lady to find another way to get us back to California. Eventually she discovered something that everyone in my family could accept.

Barcelona to Zurich, Switzerland
Zurich to San Francisco

The only catch is that we would be flying the next day. But we took the opportunity nevertheless and looked for a hotel not far from the airport where we could stay that night.

When the time came to fly home, I was filled with trepidation, thinking that some other catastrophe would befall us and force us to be stranded in Barcelona for a longer time, but we did manage to get on the planes without mishaps. I have decided that I like Swiss International Airlines a lot. They gave us some lovely food, like croissants and milk chocolate, and even ice cream on the long flight from Zurich to SFO. I would have been content to stay on the plane forever. I didn't feel particularly airsick, and it was very enjoyable photographing what we saw (like the snowy mountains in Switzerland - I think those were the Alps). Since we were flying west, it was like going back in time. It was as if night would never fall and the daylight would last forever. I haven't felt so peaceable and content when traveling in a very long time. For the first time, I didn't want to go home.

Labels: airport, anger management, barcelona, daytime, flight, food, happiness, hassle, home, iberia, london, missed, options, photography, san francisco, strike, swiss air, travel, trouble, zurich

Y'know, Andrew Jackson's name is very similar to the name of my favorite teacher...

Andrew Jackson was the 7th President of the United States.
A war hero, from the Battle of New Orleans and an invasion of Florida.
A husband and father, married to a woman named Rachel (very complicated situation regarding that, but never mind it for now).
The installer of the spoils system and Jacksonian democracy.
A person who tried to kill the National Bank.
(...If you're confused about this, look it up. Personally I recommend Wikipedia. XD)

And this is my retelling of his story. It is mostly made up, so do not take it seriously. It's just for fun, seeing as we haven't gotten to write fiction all year in school.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a boy. He was born to two people who were quite vocal about their opinions. Even at the age of five, he was already a mischievous, energetic boy who threw terrible tantrums when he didn't get his way. His family moved to a new town, which unfortunately did not welcome them. The town was a small one, set in its ways, fearing the changes that the outspoken, troublemaking family might bring, tried to drive them out. When the family stubbornly refused, a few particularly fearful townspeople encouraged others to help them burn down their house. Although the family managed to escape the fire alive, their home and farmland had been burned to the ground, the animals had disappeared, and they were all injured from the fire. Andrew's parents had been burned and were coughing heavily from the smoke that had entered their lungs, and they lived for a while, all of them in the wilderness, before they died.

Only Andrew was alive, and he was very weak and confused. This wasn't his first time facing death - truth be told, he actually spent time burning ants with a magnifying glass in his backyard (Oh! The horror!) - but he hadn't thought his parents would die on him. He didn't believe it at first. He poked them and tried to peel their eyes open and even screamed as loud as he could in their ears. But soon he was worn out and frustrated from his lack of success, and very hungry. He couldn't find anything to eat, besides mushrooms, which looked rather poisonous. Frustrated, he curled up in a ball on the ground, and fell into an uneasy sleep, accompanied only by his growling stomach.

While he was dozing, a few wolves came along, cautiously sniffing their way through the forest. Farmers often tried to shoot the wolves whenever they saw them, thinking the wolves would eat their livestock. The wolves smelled death, and followed it, but the meat did not look too appetizing. The two dead humans that the wolves discovered had all sorts of weird things on them, something that looked like a band with metal on it, and something on their feet that was hard and brown. The wolves smelled something living, too, and that was Andrew Jackson.

The wolves were faced with the decision of what to do with him.
1. Eat him (Not good...He didn't have much meat on him)
2. Leave him there (Not good either...He might scare away the other wildlife if he was left to his own devices)
3. Bring him with them (Not really that great either, but the wolves decided on that. They were curious to see what he would do.)

And so he was dragged along by the collar of his shirt to the wolves' den. The feeling of being pulled along on rocks and dirt woke him up, but he was still too tired to realize what was going on, and once he had been laid down on the ground, he went right back to sleeping.

He woke up later, feeling something poking him (it was a wolf prodding him with a paw), and sat up with a jolt. The wolves leaped backwards, startled. Andrew rubbed his eyes and studied his surroundings. He was lying in the shade of a tree, and there was a rocky outcropping nearby, under which the wolves lived, presumably. The wolves looked at him warily, wondering what the human boy would do now that he had been revived. Andrew realized his parents were nowhere to be seen, but then his stomach grumbled in protest, and he forgot about it.

Andrew noticed a dead deer, which had been killed by the wolves. He wasn't sure he'd be able to eat raw meat, so he tore at the deer until he had a hefty piece in his hand, and then left the area, looking for a fire or some other thing he could cook it with. One of the wolves almost chased after him, unhappy at the loss of food, but was stopped by his brethren. They decided that the human was probably leaving and would not be their problem anymore.

But that was not to be. Andrew Jackson soon trotted back, holding a stick on which the deer meat was skewered, and he was eating it with relish. He had poached some flint and managed to make a fire, and then roasted his meat campfire style. Jackson was already on the way to being a gourmet chef (but unfortunately, there was no TV at the time, and so he couldn't host his own cooking show).

Andrew's mind was much clearer now that food had quelled his hunger, and so he watched the wolves curiously. They, as well, stared back at him in interest. Andrew figured that if he seemed like one of them, he'd be able to interact with the wolves. He tried a howl, but it sounded terrible, because Andrew had never been a good singer. The wolves found this hilarious and began to bark in laughter.

Andrew began taking on the ways of the wolves, trying to become one of them. He would run with them, but he couldn't keep up, nor did he have the ability to hunt the way they did. He had to make do with traps he had devised, which could catch small prey. He slept with the wolves in their den now, and it was a cozy and pleasant time. Each day seemed fresh and new and exciting, and Andrew felt glad to be alive, for he enjoyed being in the outdoors, with so much freedom.

These days, however, were not to last. Years had passed, and by now Andrew was about ten years old. The wolves were relaxing after having eaten and Andrew was experimenting with his new idea for a food (he thought that perhaps he could create a sweet treat, a kind of fluffy white candy that could be cooked over a campfire, which he later called a "marshmallow") when they heard the sound of voices and feet stepping on brush. The wolves perked up, baring their teeth, and seeing their discomfort, Andrew put aside his primitive cooking utensils and hid himself as best he could.

The noise turned out to be from people, rugged men on horses with loaded guns and who chewed and spat and peered around with squinted eyes. The wolves were immediately alarmed. These men had probably come to exterminate them, as wolves were considered pests. The wolves had dealt with human guns in the past and knew just how deadly they could be. There was nothing to be done but to leave and run away until the men gave up chasing them.

Andrew couldn't keep up with the wolves, unfortunately, and the wolves were in too much of a rush to wait for him. Though he was a wiry and strong boy, he tripped over a tree root. Frustrated, he let out a yell and tried to break off the limb of a tree, but it only swung back and thwacked into his face. He could hear footsteps again; the hunters had heard him and realized that there was a person in the wilderness.

The wolf hunters came over to him, and one of them, a man with bushy eyebrows and a mustache that he could wiggle, said to him, "What's yourr name, son?"
Andrew could still understand English, but not very well. His brow furrowed in thought. But no matter how long he thought, he couldn't think of it. "Not know," he said to the man.
The man gave him a puzzled frown and conversed with his fellows before saying, "Well, where is your family, son?"
Andrew thought of saying the wolves were his family, but he figured the hunters would not take too well to it. In fact, they'd probably think he was lying and burst into hearty peals of laughter. Later they would probably talk about the funny boy they'd met when drinking in a pub.
"Not know. Maybe dead."
The men talked amongst themselves once more, and then the man got off his horse and lifted Andrew onto it. "We'll go to town, then. There's a family that might take ya." And off they went to the town just outside the woods, with Andrew looking back wistfully, having left behind the kitchen tools he'd just made.

Andrew Jackson had to get used to civilization again, and it was an uphill battle. He had never been formally schooled in his life and was illiterate. At first the other children made fun of him, but they soon learned that he had a short temper and settled all disputes with violence. Many a child had to stay home and recuperate from black eyes, broken noses, and all other sorts of scrapes and bruises. Andrew was sent to church over and over again to repent, but he would just slump over in a pew, stubborn and sullen as usual. The reverend took this to mean that Andrew was not willing to atone for his sins and apologize to God, and so Andrew Jackson earned the reputation of being "unchristian and unfit for civil life".

Jackson continued to be misunderstood by his peers, even as he grew to be an adult. He wasn't really such a mean person, but he had become bitter from all the things people had said and done to him, and so the boy he actually wanted to be, a quiet, happy boy living a peaceful life, had disappeared, covered by the self he showed to others, so frustrated and lonesome he had felt. One of the first people to sympathize with him was a woman named Rachel, who could understand that feeling of other people being so hard to deal with and how sometimes you just felt like running away from life.

Having lived away from people, Jackson needed a bit of help melting back into human culture, and Rachel suggested marriage. It was a human tradition to get married, after all. Jackson learned about Rachel's unhappy marriage and how her husband was saying he wanted to get a divorce, so they got married, since Rachel was the most reasonable choice for Andrew.

Jackson also learned that politics was the human thing to do. So he got into it, as well as war, though war was a dreadful thing. But he was still impulsive and made decisions like taking over Florida (wanted to try the orange juice, and he was forbidden by Spain to take any).

Then he was shocked by the death of Rachel. This was the first death he could really remember. At least his parents had died long, long ago, and he couldn't remember too much of it. But now, here was his best friend of more than thirty years dying on him. Andrew forgot about all that he'd been working on and let his inner anger take over. That boy who had been wild, partying and playing games when he was supposed to be studying to be a lawyer, came back, after he'd spent so much time crushing it down. And after he avenged Rachel, by kicking out everyone he thought was to blame for her death, he still felt empty inside. And he went on to get rid of the Native Americans and the National Bank.

But it was never enough. And it never would be.

(Ugh...This story didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. I got too confused because I would stop and starting writing it once in a while. Oh yeah, and I'll be gone from March 7th-12th, so don't expect to hear anything from me in the meantime)

Labels: andrew jackson, anger management, church, death, education, family, fiction, florida, horse, hunters, marshmallow, meat, politics, rachel, revenge, story, violent, war, wilderness, wolves

This is a phrase that I learned from orchestra, which I used to take back in 6th grade. I think it was on a wall hanging that my teacher had.

Music didn't used to be a big part of my life. Sure, I'd always heard classical music and the sort of music my dad listened to (John Denver, the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Kenny Rogers, Lionel Richie, and so on). And I started taking piano around the age 5 or 6. But at first it wasn't a big deal for me. It grew in importance only after time passed.

We would take music just maybe once or twice a week in elementary school. Mostly we sang, but occasionally we got to play the drums or xylophones, and I always loved that. I thought it was fun - it was something I didn't get to do often, unlike piano, which I had to practice everyday, and I was frustrated by playing piano. I had already accomplished my original reason for starting, which was playing the song Fur Elise (it's really not that hard a song, but it's pretty famous). I was not too good at controlling my temper (and I'm still having trouble in that regard...) so sometimes I would get violent and try to punch the piano or scratch it. Usually resulted in me getting hurt. One time I got mad at Bach (sorry, Bach, but I can't say I'm the biggest fan of your music) and tore part of my book. Not a good idea. Now I can't really put it back together.

I wasn't really a prominent singer either. I suppose I wasn't the worst (no matter what you think, there are always people better than you and always people worse than you, simply because we're all different, and anyways, how good your life is also depends on how you perceive it) but I wasn't the best, either. I mean, I couldn't hit certain pitches and I just really hate it when I'm trying to sing something and it sounds off tune and messed up. I suppose maybe if I practiced very seriously I could improve it, but I'm a lazy person, and anyways I wasn't really considering a career as a singer.

But in seventh grade, I started to listen to music. If you've watched anime, you've probably noticed that there are opening and ending songs, and there's also insert music you might hear during episodes. After a while I started a playlist, and that's when my exploration of music really accelerated. I didn't even listen to English songs much before, but then I started listening to music in Japanese, and even a little in English and Korean. (No French yet, I'm afraid, but maybe someday I'll try it out)

I didn't used to enjoy playing the piano so much, but now I do. I feel like it's a way to unwind at the end of the day by hearing something nice that you yourself worked hard to create (by practicing all these years). And it's a good way to relieve stress, at least for me. I think music is how people who can't necessarily put their thoughts into words express themselves.

I feel guilty because I used to be so mean to my piano. I was often frustrated by not being able to get a certain part right or not being able to play loudly enough (my hands were small - and they still are - and I didn't have much muscle strength). It seems funny now, because I hear the younger students of my piano teacher have trouble making a loud sound on one of her pianos, but I thought it was fairly easy. I suppose they'll be able to handle it when they're older.

My piano has always been there for me, ever since I first obtained it so many years ago. It's always been sitting in the same spot, patiently waiting for me to play it. If I were to tell my problems to it, there is no risk of the piano telling anyone else or being repulsed by what I say. (Though it might look a bit funny, if I were talking to an inanimate object. There are psychologists near my house, after all.) That does make me concerned, though; if I go to college and I can't live at home since it's far away, what can I do about the piano? Should I have it moved? (But if I lived in an apartment or dorm, it'd probably take up too much space.) Or do I have to give up playing the piano? The latter choice seems painful. (I don't want to have to buy a stand-up piano just for when I'm away from home, however, so I don't see what I can do about it.)

Not long ago, I read a bout called A Crooked Kind of Perfect by Linda Urban. It's not a difficult book to understand, but I thought it was pretty nice. What piqued my interest was that the main character plays the organ. I've never played the organ and have always thought of it as an antiquated instrument seeing as I've only really seen it in old churches and other historical, touristy buildings. Apparently, the organ needs to be turned on and various rhythm styles (this leads me to think it is actually kind of like a keyboard...). I've never met anyone who has played the organ, so I'm really curious about it.

Labels: a crooked kind of perfect, anger management, anime, bach, best friend, book, challenge, college, expression, fur elise, instrument, moving, music, organ, piano, school, self, singing, strength, stress

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