Congrats, Grad!

Tatou O I Ioritana

"We talked all night about the rest of our lives

Where are we gonna be when we turn twenty-five?"- Vitamin C, 'Graduation Song'

December 5th, 2013: After receiving our Secondary School Graduation Certificates, with my two high school besties, Isabella and Jasmine J (remember those monikers they'd dish out if you had the same name as another kid in class, lol?)

Tomorrow, the high school I graduated from- and which I now teach at- will have its Prizegiving and Graduation Ceremonies. I'm feeling super nostalgic for two reasons. 

Firstly, wow! "Another lot", as I used to hear my father say at the end of every academic year. The senior graduating class is one I've taught English and History to for two years. Over the year-and-a-half we've spent together, we've developed a great dynamic. Everyone speaks their mind, whilst keeping in mind that, as I said, EVERYONE speaks their mind. That is, have your say, but know that others will also have theirs. For me, this fosters an appreciation for open communication, and a respect for others, which will last these young people a lifetime. With uni, work and whatever else they may choose to do looming just on the horizon, I have every hope that they will go out into the big wide world with love, compassion and resilience. That they will make space for others to grow and succeed. And that, as they navigate the vast ocean that is the 'outside world' (lol), they'll be able to say they learned a thing or two from us, their teachers. 😭

Secondly: it's the ten year anniversary of my own high school graduation! Where did the bloody time go? This time a decade ago, I was among my classmates, cleaning and decorating the SDA Youth Hall. It was a lot of work, but we were so excited to finally be graduating. We did flower arrangements, changed the seating arrangements eighteen million times, got mini-mini heart attacks every time a balloon popped (and then ended up going to look for more white balloons at midnight!), and then watched midnight turn into early morning as we sang our hearts out to the gentle strumming of an old guitar. I still remember the songs we sang: Cups (by Anna Kendrick), and Ou Te Ofo Ina Atu A'u Nei Mo 'Oe (as sung by Punialava'a). I know, nostalgia galore! 

At work today I watched as the various prizes were being organized and readied for presentation tomorrow. I can imagine the anxiousness that some kids are probably wrestling with right now. "Did I do well enough?" "Am I getting that top prize like I did last year?" "Are my parents going to be satisfied with my effort this year?" "What's going to happen to me if they aren't...?" Lots and lots of questions, and even we as teachers certainly don't have all the answers. Not to your questions, and definitely not to a lot of our own. We are all human, at the end of the (long!) day. I'll be honest here- there are still errors I made on some of my final exams in 2013 that I regret, to this day, and think back to, often. No matter that I have enjoyed much success after high school, and in my professional life. Silly things I said as a teenager, graphs I didn't construct neatly enough, maps I misread, calculations I went over multiple times and still got completely wrong...those come back every once in a while to check in on me and remind me that before this, there was THAT. I was THAT. And no matter what any student is NOW, we cannot say that they won't go on to have wildly successful, extremely productive, wonderfully fulfilling lives. 

That cliche Samoan proverb is right. E toe oso fo'i le la. The sun will rise again tomorrow. It has never once failed to rise- even on a cloudy day, Mr. Sun is there, you just can't quite see him very well. Where there's daylight, Sol is smiling. And even in the densest darkness, if there's a little light, there is always, always hope. 

What's In a Name?

I AM VASHTI

"But the queen Vashti refused to come at the king's commandment by the eunuchs. Therefore the king was very angry."- Esther 1:12

Who are you named after? 

In Samoa, names are super important. And we don't necessarily get named after important people. A lot of folks I know are named after places, months of the year, body parts, numbers, weather patterns, colours (not just the traditional ones like Brown and White), and even movies! I actually once met someone called 'RoseTitanic'. We, as a people, are super invested in the stories (and details!) that catch our attention and impact us deeply. Names are a crucial part of the fabric that makes up Samoan (and Polynesian) society. We are, first and foremost, story-tellers. Words are of the essence. Your name has to be a word that means something, and that shows the way back to where you come from as well as forward, to where you're going. 

I've listened to many debates about names before a child is born. My gosh, I've even heard people argue over prospective children's names mid-way the wedding planning process. I know of many people, even those in my age group (mid-20s) who still choose to go the traditional Samoan route and give an eldest child a name from the father's side of the family. Whatever people choose, one thing's for sure: In Samoa, it's not our custom to give a child a name 'just because'. Your whole fa'asinomaga*, or the whole history of your parents' or grandparents' love story, usually has to be in there somewhere. 

I've heard it said, even, that a name can either be a curse or a blessing. I don't believe that, but I do find it interesting. They say people often become what you treat them like, or what you say they are. Super fascinating that sometimes it is possible to trace 'failure' and 'success' back to the most common thing we get called every day: our names. 

My paternal grandmother, Vasati Ulaula La'ulu-Tafuna'i, was born on May 12, 1939. This was twenty-two years before Samoa gained independence from the British Empire, and only twenty-one years after the deadly Influenza Epidemic. It killed at least twenty percent of Samoa's population. When my grandmother was born, Samoa was right in the middle of its independence struggle, and Eurocentric values as well as customs had infiltrated almost all spheres of life. Christianity, with its long dresses and even longer prayers, was the staple religion by then. Christian names were the norm for children born in those years. And not just any Christian names. If you were born into a God-fearing family, you would be given the name of a brave hero or an exceptionally obedient heroine. Think Joseph (Iosefa), Miriam (Miriama), Moses (Mose) or Esther (Eseta). For reasons I still don't know, my great-grandmother gave her eldest daughter the name Vasati. Translated, it is 'Vashti', the name of the defiant Persian queen whose disobedience cost her her marriage, her family, her home and her reputation. 

My great-grandmother was a pastry chef at one of the early Chinese eateries in Apia (Fong's, I believe it was called.) In many ways, she was a woman swimming against a stubborn tide. 

Smack-dab in the middle of colonial Samoa, at a crux between two major value systems, Leoi Baice did what women all around the world were still being discouraged from doing in the 1910s and 20s: she had a career. She is one of many strong Samoan women of that era who dared to dream, and dared to live those dreams to the fullest. Whether this influenced her to name her daughter Vasati, instead of Eseta, I will never know for certain. But I do know that my grandmother lived up to her name, and that I wouldn't be where I am today if she didn't.

Vasati had fourteen children, all of whom she raised and put through school despite various seasons of widowhood and divorce. She worked no less than three jobs at a time, beginning when she was a teenager (1940s) and only retiring a few years before I was born (1990s). Vasati's ultimate dream was to become a playwright, musician and actress. She wrote stories and songs which only ever got performed for the missionaries and people of her village. She learned to read and write in English, the colonial language, and made many friends, both Samoan and non-Samoan. One of her best friends was a German woman named Moola, who became like a sister to her. My grandmother never talked herself down, or displayed self-depreciating behavior in the presence of non-Samoans. She believed she was just as good as any woman OR man, black or white. She dared to think that. That all people were created equal. 

Whenever I hear the name 'Vashti', in Bible study or on television, I remember a story my grandmother told me when I was a kid:

"I was working at a guest house- reception, housekeeping and that sort of thing. It was just a few years after Samoa became independent, so there were still many rules in place. Tourists and locals alike had to abide by them if they stayed at our guest house. No cursing, no littering, no public nudity or inappropriate behavior or words. We were trying to balance things between fa'aSamoa and also Christian teachings. Be respectful to everyone, you know? Well, one night, these fine European gentlemen came in. They bought some beers and sat together chatting for a while. At first, everything was fine. Then, towards midnight, they started talking very loud and saying some very silly things. It was mainly us girls on duty and you imagine it- three or four Samoan girls and a whole lot of drunk men. My colleagues felt so nervous, especially because the men were breaking the rules of our guest house. I asked them what we should do and they said, 'just leave it. They're white. They'll make a fuss and get us kicked out of work.' I wasn't going to just leave it, though. I went and asked them nicely to please make their way to their rooms if they weren't going to order any more beers. They did go. But they didn't go to sleep. No! They went to the showers, threw their used towels all around the hallway, went into one room, and continued making noise. They acted like they owned the place, and our manager had already gone home for the night. I went straight to that room, carrying their wet towels, banged my fist on the door, and called them to open up. They were so shocked. I threw their towels right at them, and threw my big cleaning broom in too, then told those boys: "you better fold your towels and put everything away before the manager comes in at 6am tomorrow. Then, pack all your bags and leave. And there's the broom- sweep your room before you go." 

Yeah, my jaw was on the floor too, hearing that story. That's not even the end, though. She told me, "they packed their little suitcases faster than I've ever seen anyone pack anything away, threw all the bed-covers into neat piles, tossed their towels in the laundry area and rushed out. It took less than an hour. I've never seen grown men rush away like that before. But they left. And the floor was spotless too."

Whenever I hear the name Vashti, I think of independence. I think of being a strong woman in a dis-empowering world. I think of reclaiming ME, the way my country reclaimed itself in 1962. First in the Pacific to be independent, my Samoa. 

Esther is a beautiful name. My grandfather's mother was named 'Eseta'. Esther is courage, gentleness, and sacrifice. But Esther is also a figure that is weaponized by patriarchal narratives. She is used, and misused, against the demonized 'other' figure of Vashti. And yet, both are important. Vashti's refusal to be put on display like an object ushered in the era of Esther, without whom the people of Israel would not have been saved. In a world where docility and passiveness are idolized as 'feminine', sometimes, you have to dare to live outside the mould. In a world of Esthers, sometimes you have to be a Vashti. 

My grandmother, Vasati, in her late 30s, I believe.  

*fa'asinomaga: traditional heritage (a combination of your genetic ancestry, villages/districts of origin, and titles/ social privileges associated therewith)

What's the Story?

Writing: A Never-Ending Story

A poem often becomes a story, and stories sometimes never end.

My writing process is as hectic as everything else in my life. Someone once told me this is called 'organized chaos'. I love irony, so I took it as a compliment. 

I've been writing since I was twelve years old. I was a very imaginative kid. I had this fascination with blurbs on the backs of hardback book covers as well as magazine articles. National Geographic was my absolute favourite. Our school library had stacks and stacks of these magazines, dating all the way back to, like, 1970. I'd read and read, and then make up my own stories and write them in my exercise books. Much to the dismay of my teachers (especially the Maths teachers! Sorry Mrs Pelenato and Mr Epeli!). I just couldn't help myself. 

What I didn't realize as a child was that I was, slowly and surely, honing a love for telling stories about people and places. I learned to love descriptions. To appreciate nuances in the geography and topography of places I still haven't been to. I know a river still runs out of Eden. I saw the Tigris on my way out of Dubai. But which river was James Vance Marshall talking about, and where can I find it, in this big, confusing world? To hear and respect different voices, some of which belong to people who are no longer alive. Nelson Mandela. There are days when I think I walked with him the whole way to Johannesburg and back, to see his mother. To eat home-cooked food, just one more time.  I learned to feel different types of fear, and different types of pain. I'll always think The Boy Who Was Afraid was a missed opportunity to open so many conversations about Polynesian masculinity. About it being okay to cry. To ask for help...I learned, also, to love anomalies. Misfits. Shirts that have one sleeve longer than the other. German prisoners of war that fall in love with upper-class Jewish heiresses. Some of my most favourite books- simply for their amazing attention to detail- are:

1. Cry, The Beloved Country (By Alan Paton)

Favourite Quote: "There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa."

2. Project Hail Mary (by Andy Weir)

Favourite Quote: “Oh thank God. I can’t imagine explaining “sleep” to someone who had never heard of it. Hey, I’m going to fall unconscious and hallucinate for a while. By the way, I spend a third of my time doing this. And if I can’t do it for a while, I go insane and eventually die. No need for concern.”

3. As The Earth Turns Silver (by Alison Wong)

Favourite Quote: "Their god is a white ghost. You see the pictures. He has pale skin and a big nose and a glow of moonlight round his long brown hair. He has many names, just as we Tongyan have many names. We have a milk name, an adult name, perhaps a scholar or chosen name. The Jesus-ghosts call their god Holy Ghost. Even they know he is a ghost. People are like their gods, just as they are like their animals. They even call him Father. We do not need to name them, these gweilo. Even they know they are ghosts."

My love for details has given me a very eccentric reading list (which I love!). It has also given me a love for telling stories about various symptoms of the human condition; for telling them in different voices and drawing them in different colours. Because there is no singular way to be human, there can be no singular story that best conveys our humanness. Every story is just one of a trillion ways to express our humanity. Even the most high-fantasy or science-fiction plot is about our humanity. If it comes from us, it must be about us. 

The most hectic thing about my writing process is that I never actually know what anything is going to be. A single word becomes a poem. A poem becomes a story. A story becomes one of my many unfinished manuscripts. An essay can either be done in six minutes (no joke- I write faster than a bullet train when I'm under pressure), or six months. No in between. The biggest blessing is that I still have people who want me to write, and who actually want to read what I write. I'm a print and performance poet as well as a songwriter (I think? lol). I've published a few stories too. I'll always write more poetry than any other genre. A writing mentor I had as a teenager told me Pacific women write mostly poetry. She didn't know why, but I do. As Pasifika, our earliest modes of transmitting information were song, dance, chant and speech. Oral tradition preserved our stories and histories for eons before the papalagi brought their 'written word' to us. When we 'crossed over', as my Sa'anapu people would say, we brought with us our love for, and skill at the original record keeping methods. It's in our blood, basically. 

At my grandmother's funeral in September, I learned that she was a poet, songwriter and playwright, in both English and Gagana Samoa. With the few opportunities available to indigenous women in early post-colonial Samoa, she was limited to church and village spaces. She never told me about any of this. She always said how proud she was of me, writing and performing and traveling. She let me shine. She never, and I mean never, said, "you got your gifts from me." She allowed my gifts to be just that- mine. My own voice. My own story. Only last week, a cousin of mine shared with us some pages of our grandmother's handwritten autobiography manuscript. One thing I learned from my grandmother's writing: love. True, unconditional, sacrificial love. The kind that isn't 'cool' anymore. But that our world still desperately needs. Because this kind of love endures. Just like storytelling. Just like humanity. 

The title of my grandmother's manuscript, in her striking, confident handwriting. Translated and abridged, it reads:

I AM VASATI:

The Story of My Life

As I Have Written It, Aged Seventy-Six

Someday, I hope to edit and publish this on her behalf. She was a woman ahead of her time, in so many ways. 

READING RECOMMENDATIONS :)

💭 Every few blog entries, I'll recommend two books from my reading list. I'm a very eccentric reader, so I'll post everything from historical fiction to homicidal manifestos.  

1.

“Everything want to be loved. Us sing and dance and holler, just trying to be loved.”

The Color Purple is an indispensable literary classic. Poignant, raw, perceptive and free-thinking, this book will take you on a journey. From the Black America of the 1900s, to the newly colonized Africa of pre-WWI, this is a story about being Black, but more importantly, about being human. It is, too, the radical notion that people have been BOTH for CENTURIES, and beautifully so. If you want a book about EVERYTHING- love, hate, despair, hope, loss, triumph, distaste, desire- THIS is it. 

The film does not do justice, in my view, to this masterpiece. Somewhere, smack-dab in the middle of a post-colonial, post-emancipation America (and world!), Alice Walker's characters till and bicker and laugh. They live. And they remind us that we are still- even in the twenty-first-century- pre-equality and pre-freedom in so many ways. 

2. 

This slim volume about soon-to-be heavy purses treads the line between novella and short story. Randomize is as faced-paced as its characters are fast-thinking and fast-moving. I'm a computer programmer's daughter, so my deep appreciation for all the crooked nuances of this story is definitely rooted in some background knowledge. You don't need to be a tech junkie to enjoy this one, though. It's crime and family and business and culture. It's the economy and love and Oh My Gosh- breaking down more of those gender stereotypes. "A system is", after all, "only as secure as the humans who operate it.” Andy Weir's extremely accurate observation, not mine :-D

You know how there are people who can wear anything and make it look great? Well, Andy Weir is the literary version of that. He can write anything about anything and make it sound AMAZING!

Who Do You Think You Are? Part II

They Call Her 'Alayo'

"Alayo", he said. "One for whom bread is not enough."

-A Raisin in the Sun, Lorraine Hansberry

When I remember my first trip to Europe, I remember, more than anything, the various emotions that I felt on the way and whilst there. It's like that, I think, with most things in my life. I remember events, places and people based on how they make me feel.

After overcoming that initial laundry hurdle from Part I of this story, I was faced with what I can only describe in the words of Po, reluctant Dragon Warrior: my old enemy. Not stairs (well, yes stairs, but not so much!). No. My old enemy is social awkwardness! I know, I know. I have three/four jobs, ALL of which require daily interaction with people both virtually and IRL. Word to the wise: Socializing more and working more with people DOES improve social anxiety, but it often does not 'cure' it. I'm using the word 'cure' here because it best describes the kind of social awkwardness and anxiety that I have.

I still recall the first day of the conference. Curators, Vice Curators and other executive members from Global Shapers Hubs all around the world were lining up to register for the summit. As I descended the staircase to join them, I could hear them chattering away about checking into their rooms, meeting their roommates (omg!) and picking up their welcome packs. I was a little sad to be leaving the room I had had to myself for my first two nights in Geneva. Of course, there was also a little pang of excitement as I went to see where they were going to move me. That registration line was one of the most transformative experiences of my life. I've never before been in such a happy, welcoming environment! Everyone, and I mean, EVERYONE, was saying 'hello' like old, long-lost high school friends. Sometimes, interactions in these kinds of spaces can feel forced or pressured. However, there was absolutely none of that in any of the queues we stood in. Despite our jet-lag, several missing bags, and even a mistaken room number or two, everyone was so thrilled to meet people with similar ambitions and challenges.

When the Summit first kicked off, they allocated participants into smaller groups called Purpose Circles. We'd meet every morning, between sessions, and every evening, before going back to our hotel. As the name probably suggests, the Purpose Circles were to help connect Shapers on a human, personal level. They were to provide a 'base' that we could come back to for moral support as well as, hey, just people to eat lunch with :) This is such a gift for a socially awkward, anxious person like myself who is still learning to be comfortable in crowds. Our purpose circle comprised of eight Curators/ Vice Curtaors: Alliance (from a hub China), Madhav (from a hub in India), myself (from the one and onlyyyy hub in Samoa), Emmanuel (from a hub in Nigeria), Madai (from a hub in Mexico), Bengu (from a hub in Canada), Anastasija (from a hub in Serbia), and Joel Dean (from a hub in Jamaica). Our leader was Thales, a former Shaper, from Brazil. Each Purpose Circle had a number- ours was '45'. 

When I was growing up, the youth at church used to sing this beautiful song: The Circle of Friends. Attending the Global Shapers Summit 2023 and meeting people from all walks of life, all manner of nationalities and cultural as well as religious backgrounds, has made this a reality for me. I remember eating lunch with Madhav, Emmanuel and, surprise, one of my wantoks from P.N.G: Kurere. As we searched for a shady spot to eat and look out over Lake Geneva, Madhav asked us, "have you guys read The Alchemist?" We then all said at the same time, I kid you not- "The universe conspired to help me find you!"


What a beautiful testament to our shared humanity. To the commonness of our love for learning, for art, for friendship, for sharing. That four complete strangers from four supposedly dissimilar and geographically distant parts of the world should say the exact same quote from the exact same book at the exact same time is proof that humanity is capable of so much magic and beauty. And that the universe still conspires, every day, to help us love and heal and grow.

Emmanuel and I, after a great afternoon of discussing books, books, books, and how awesomely cool the European summer is compared to the saunas that we call home. #Nigeria #Samoa

One amazing thing I learned about my new friend Emmanuel, from Nigeria, is that he too is crazy about literature! Lit lovers are a dangerous combo if you don't wanna hear about books, books, and more books...for three hours straight! And by books, I mean, we know every theme, quote, plot point...publisher's name! What a brilliant thing it is to be drinking apple juice and analyzing Chinua Achebe in the middle of Europe! From Achebe, we naturally progressed to talking about the Foundation N.U.S staple, A Raisin in the Sun. It's the best friend and worst enemy of so, so many young people who take HEN005 (Introduction to Literature) in Samoa. It has also been one of my forever loves. A play that speaks life and power into dry bones. When Emmanuel told us he was a Yoruba, just like Joseph Asagai, I knew I had to ask him for the actual meaning of that famed (and majestic!) nickname Joe gave Beneatha. "Alayo". According to the play, it is supposed to mean, "one for whom bread is not enough." It's intended as a compliment to Beneatha's stubbornness and independence. She was, after all, a Black woman in 1950s America who dreamed of becoming a doctor and marrying for love. She was told to give up, to shut up, to settle down, to calm down. In a world where women are faced with so many ups-and-downs, imposed, often, by others, Joseph sees and admires Beneatha's refusal to be shut down or locked up. "What does Alayo MEAN?" I asked my new friend. "You hear things in more depth when they are spoken in your native language. I know Lorraine Hansberry was an American. But you are a Yoruba. So, you must tell me, please, what do you hear, when they say, ALAYO?"

Emmanuel smiled. He's a lawyer and a tech developer and marketer. Witty, wise, thoughtful, and very mindful- as most young people from former colonies are- of the reverence that our indigenous languages deserve. "Alayo," he finally answered, "is not a name that can be summarized in one or even a hundred sentences. It is too full of meaning, too deep and too wide, for any single definition. You can't, you know, contain it!" He was going to apologize to me for giving what he thought must be a limited definition. I stopped him. "That," I said, "is the best thing I've ever heard." And then I told him and Madhav I wished I could change my name to Alayo😂

Over that weekend, I met so many amazing young people who are changing the world for the better. Some had flown out of active war zones just to be there. Just to tell their stories, and to hear the stories of others. I estimate that seventy percent of the people I said hello to had no idea where (or what!) Samoa even is. I'm a proud Samoan. That was a humbling and eye-opening few days for me. Perhaps this is kinda what the Overview Experience is like for astronauts? I remember a retired astronaut once said, "you look out...everything you've ever known is there. It fits right behind your thumb. It's amazing, You can even cry!"

The world is a massive melting pot of stories, hopes, dreams, fears...Of all the attempts there ever have been to define what it means to be a human being, I will always like best the one I have taken from my friend Emmanuel's respect and understanding of his language. Humanity is so broad, so powerful, so ambitious, so full of strife. The moment you accept your greatness, but also your smallness, you take the first and most crucial step in celebrating the diverse magnificence of the race that we all belong to: the human race.

Who Do You Think You Are? Part I

In Europe, they Call Me 'Madame'

Of all the things I've ever been called - both nice and unflattering (ah, life!)- the most memorable one is the European courtesy, "Madame". Madames have always been, for me, grand corseted figures in super-white powder foundation. There's something matronly about it. "Madame." Alas...there I was. A twenty-five-year-old Polynesian first-timer to the Northern Hemisphere. Talk about a culture clash!

If you're wondering where I got such fanciful stereotypes/ perceptions of a word that's actually a really common courtesy in Europe, please know that I place the full blame on Ever After and the dozens of bulky historical fiction tomes that litter my reading list. I know, right? I'll give myself grace on this one, though. The stories you're about to read are from what was only my first time out of the Oceania (Pacific) region. And what a time it was! #blessed

My first view of the famed Swiss Alps. I was overcome with a million different emotions, all at once. I made sure to play the Sound of Music's 'Climb Every Mountain' as we landed, in honor of my father, who loved and taught about Europe, but did not live to see it. 

Going to Europe is a rite of passage, isn't it? Well, it was, for a lot of people I knew as a teenager. It's the making of a social grade. The ticking of a box. You get bragging rights and photos for 'the Gram', and if you're from a tiny little speck like Samoa, you'll be featured on the Coconut Wireless front page. If you don't know what that is, count yourself lucky (😴). I know this idealization isn't limited to those of us in the small (and vast!) Pacific. Europe is, after all, the seat of much of what we still consider to be 'world history.' I've put that in speech marks because it's a whole other conversation about colonial and imperial narratives as well as white-washing. That's for another post, most definitely. Back to the point, for now: Europe is a dream destination, a life goal, even, for many people all around the world. If I'm being completely honest, I never actually really desired to travel to Europe. It's not that I was actively opposed to it or anything. It just wasn't on my immediate bucket list. If you'd have asked me a year ago where I'd go if I could travel anywhere in the world, I'd have immediately answered: South Africa. Now THAT was the seat of my childhood dreams. My father was an Alan Paton fanatic (zealot, lol?). Another story for another post, this one is.

I remember the first time I saw the very tips of the Swiss Alps. I'd seen pictures of them on chocolate boxes and plastered across various walls in Auckland and Wellington. I'd watched The Sound of Music more than a hundred times, at the least, and I knew all the words to that beautiful song: 

Climb ev'ry mountain 

Ford every stream!...

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, had prepared me for how beautiful  the descent into Geneva, Switzerland would be. The clouds melted into snow-capped mountain ranges, deep dark rock contrasting the whitest (and first ever!) snow I had seen in my life. We didn't get snow in Wellington, only random hailstorms that conveniently always seemed to start while I was walking to school! Oh, gosh...Anyway, the Swiss Alps! I had Climb Every Mountain on repeat as we slowly came down, through the thick clouds. It was a pretty steep climb, I remember. I have a lifelong fear of heights, and a fear of falling in general. I recall the nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach- there was a point where I actually thought we might just fall the rest of the way down. Fear of the unknown, you know? But fall, we did not. We touched down comfortably on a sunny tarmac overlooking the ever-gorgeous mountains. I stepped off the plane in the heaviest skirt I own, a long shirt, socks pulled up long too, and gloves. Boy, was I an idiot! I had known it would be summer in Europe at the time, but I'd imagined European summers might be like most of the New Zealand summers I'd had- think autumn, but with brighter sun rays. Oh, the despair of breaking into a sweat as I walked through the airport. It was bloody hot! Like, almost Samoa-hot! 

Bags and passport cleared, I tore off my gloves, rolled my sleeves up as high as they would go, and rolled my socks down as low as possible. Thankfully, the uber-esque ride I'd booked was already there and ready to go. The driver had a chuckle at my unpreparedness for the Swiss summertime, and reassured me that there were only warm, sunny days ahead. 

It was at the check-in desk at my hotel- the Hilton- that I first heard the word 'Madame' in active use. We say 'Ma'am' in most English-speaking countries, which is polite enough, I think. But 'Madame.' My God! It has a different ring to it, doesn't it? All the front desk staff spoke either French or Arabic as a first language, so their way of saying words like 'Madame' has these really beautiful, almost musical intonations. I felt so grand. It was amazing! It is amazing, actually. How something as simple as the way you address someone can impact their self-esteem. Think, Johnny Lingo and the Eight Cow Wife (lol, again!).

I was so relieved to finally get to my room. What a great room it was! I opened my window to see the most amazing thing ever: a sign that indicated the turn-off, on the highway, which would lead you out of Switzerland and into France. "This way to France." Fancy that! I called my family immediately and told them I was looking out the window at France. To add to the irony, my students were studying the European land-locked borders at the time, especially the ones that historically allowed rival troops to traverse into each other's countries easily. How could I have been teaching this stuff for so long, and only be seeing it for myself today? The will and ability of the human heart to imagine, to colour, even that which we have not witnessed, for the sake of others, is something I will forever be in awe of. 

My first proper photo in my hotel room, after seeing the "this way to France" sign.

Having showered twice during the 30-plus hour trip from the Pacific to Europe, I was running out of clothes. I called the Help Desk immediately to ask where the laundry room might be, or if there was a nearby laundromat I might send my clothes to. "Madame, the hotel does all guests' laundry. Please hand yours to the nearest usher and we will add this service to your bill." I thought he may have misunderstood me- I was asking where I could go, ME, to do my laundry MYSELF. Like what I was used to. So, I explained it to him again. " I see, Madame. Yes, you may hand your laundry to one of our ushers. We will do your laundry for you as part of our hospitality services. We'll iron and press your garments, and then return them to you either folded or on a hanger; please indicate which you would prefer." Oh, no! I realized that I wasn't getting anywhere. I had to make a choice. A good one, and a fast one. 

A bit of background to my dilemma: any Pasifika person reading this will know that most of our cultures have taboos, some strict and some merely ingrained, regarding even things as mundane as laundry. The two 'restrictions' that I grew up with were:

1. Do your laundry yourself, especially if you have undergarments in there. 

2. Don't get people older than you to do chores for you!

But I needed clothes! The conference I was there to attend would be opening the following day, with a formal dinner at the World Economic Forum Headquarters. Those were the longest two or three minutes in my life! The brief silence as the Help Desk waited for me to make up my mind was almost deafening. My mother, being Melanesian, is particularly strict on these 'taboos.' My father was always a little more modernized in his thinking. He'd say, "do what the Romans do. You're in Rome, after all." It was then that it hit me. Rome has its own wisdom. This wisdom is borne out of the experiences and values of its own people. All wisdom has some wisdom in it. "If I refuse now, I'll run out of clothes by Day 2 of the summit, and I won't learn a thing about this strange and beautiful place, or these polite and beautiful people who are so so sooooo kind!." Less than five minutes after I agreed to let the hotel handle my laundry, a lovely woman in a red blazer and the nicest shoes I'd ever seen came by to pick up my laundry. She was around the same age as my mother, and I had to actively suppress the deep guilt I felt at having her do my laundry for me. She spoke only French, so it was a bit of a struggle to explain to her about my favorite checkered blue shirt. I always keep it on a hanger, even though it does not need one. Eventually, we came to a good enough consensus, and she said some of the only French words I know: "merci, Madame." A woman twice my age was not only going to do my laundry for me, but also calling me 'Madame'! I really was a world away from where I grew up!

(Story to be continued in next entry!)