An Uphill Journey to go Downhill

As we've established before (a myriad of times--LOOK AT ME USING VITAL VOCAB), I've not the most adventurous person on the block.  Don't get me wrong, I love traveling and all that.  I even love some (emphasis on some--no one's getting me on Splash Mountain again, please and thank you) rollercoasters.  But when I learned we might be traveling here, to Park City, which is very unambiguously a ski town, I was hesitant.

I've been skiing for most of my life.  I started when I was seven, maybe six.  It was at a small ski resort called The Summit at Snowqualmie in Washington state.  I can't remember exactly my fist few times skiing.  But I have memories of standing on the conveyor belt for the bunny slope, surrounded by the clear tube, inching upward.  Having the "pizza slice" and "french fries" positions drilled into me.  Being in the same ski class as my sister, slowly learning greens and then blues.  I remember going down my first green--it was the steepest slope in the world to me.

I might be on a tangent, but I've got a point, I promise.  The last place I was skiing before moving here was in Zermatt, two years prior.  On our second to last day there, I got stuck on a hill.  I can't remember the exact moment when I froze, but I remember later struggling to get down the mountain.  The next day, the rest of my family went skiing without me.  I didn't want to go.

If there's one defining flaw with my skiing, it's my confidence.  I've heard it time and time again.  I know it's the truth.  But that doesn't make it go away.  After getting stuck on something, I struggle to get back on the mountain.  I freeze on easy greens and avoid blues.

So last time I had been skiing, I had had an rough experience.  When I discovered we would be literally moving to a town with a prominent ski resort, I was anxious.  I didn't want to feel like I was being forced onto the slopes every day.  For me, moving to a ski town was another pressure forced on me, in addition to making friends and starting at a new school and every other worry. 

Alright, first, a little background.  For those of you who don't know, this is what the Park City ski runs look like.  I've only ever skied on the left side of the map, the Park City side, not the Canyons side.  That is to say, the parts of the map to the left of the Quicksilver Gondola.

Ok, back to my story.  So the first day skiing here was great.  I did mostly greens and one blue (Treasure Hallow).  The next day, however, it got cloudy.  That made me unreasonably nervous, and I got stuck on a green (the bottom of Homerun).  That didn't help me and my confidence issues.

Me at the top of Prospector, my first black diamond of this season.

This year has been a rollercoaster of my relationship with skiing.  At one point, I never wanted to ski again.  But a week or so ago, one of my friends made me (well, encouraged me to) go down a moderately steep but very short hill.  I refused to do it the first two times.  But the third time I did part of it.  The fourth time, I made it all the way down from the very top.

That very small instance made me think of all the skiing of done this winter--in my life, really.  I'm not the most adventurous person, sure.  But I have to learn to stop making that my excuse.  Don't refuse to do something.  Start small.  Start with a little bit of the hill.  Make your way to the top.  Because it feels great to ski down :).

Penguin Walking in Singapore

Okay, so maybe the tittle is weird.  Let's face it, the tittle makes approximately 1% of sense. But you'll see what I'm talking about in a bit. Probably. Hopefully.

One time I was in Singapore with my family.  We were there for about a week, staying the Chinatown area.  It was a pretty nice location, especially considering that there was a subway station literally right below our AirBnB.  Consequently, we took the train a lot.

One day the five us of (my mom, dad, brother and sister) we over by the Singapore Art Museum at the marina bay.  It had been a long day and we were all ready to head back to our apartment.  We had never taken the train back from this part of the city before.  I don't know why, but our parents decided to give the three kids a challenge.  We were given our train cards and told to find out way back to the AirBnB on our own.

This is the marina bay in Singapore,  The white building that looks like a flower is the art museum.  (The girl in the bottom is my sister Grace.)

We had to wait until out parents were out of sight, but then we set out.  We decided that even if our parents didn't consider it a race, it most definitely was.  All three of us were set on being the first back.  With that settled, we had to find a MRT station (the MRT is the subway in Singapore).  Cannon (my little brother) spotted a sign for a station in a shopping mall by the museum.

Going as quickly as we could, we tried to find the route back.  For reference, this is the MRT map in Singapore.  We were somewhere on the green line, and we had to get to Chinatown (blue/purple line).  Frazzled, we realized we had to take the green line to Outram Park, and then take the blue line to Chinatown.

Determined, we got on the train.  It was only once we were speeding along underground that we saw our parents on the other end of the train.  Hoping they didn't see us (not that it made much difference, but we had always wanted a chance to perfect our secret agent skills), we ran out as soon as the train stopped.

And here, at last, is where the title comes into play.  We couldn't run, since we were in a crowded MRT station.  Besides, no running was one of the rules we had all agreed to beforehand.  Still, we wanted to get past out parents as quickly as possible so they didn't have time to notice us.  Our compromise was to speed walk awkwardly past them on the escalator.  We dubbed this "the penguin walk."  It remains unclear exactly why that term came to us, but it's still an inside family joke among the kids.  If you set the speed of this video to 2x, then maybe you can get a bit of an insight into how absurd we looked.

Anyway, we got to the next train before our parents did.  Unfortunately, the train took so long to arrive that they caught up to us. :|  After the short, two minute train ride we sped out, once more running past our parents.  We ran up an absurd amount of escalators (I lost count, but it sure seemed excessive).  At last, we made to the fresh air and to our AirBnB, with no parents in sight.

Victory! :))))))))))))))

Welcome to the Top of the World (Well, Close Enough, Anyway)

I'm privileged enough to have had some truly incredible experiences in my short life. I'm so thankful that I'm lucky enough to have been through so much. I come from a big traveling family, and so have been to more places than I thought ever possible when I was younger.

The thing is, all this traveling isn't something I can take pride in. Well, I am proud of it, so maybe pride isn't the right word. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I had nothing to do with flying to Southeast Asia, or going to Europe. I didn't do anything to make all those experiences possible.

And for me, that's what makes my experience in Nepal so important to me. I actually had to work hard--not just sit back and look at all the sights.

In Nepal, we planned to trek to Everest Base Camp. The journey was eight days up, three days down, at higher altitudes than I had ever been before. And, to be clear, I am not an athletically inclined person. All five members of the family were coming, including my then-eleven (now twelve) year old brother. I won't deny I was incredibly anxious. For the past few weeks I had been dreading the trek, terrified I would have to stop halfway up.

We took a helicopter from Kathmandu to Lukla, a tiny village in the Himalayans and the starting point for trekkers. The airport there is dubbed "the most dangerous airport in the world," due to the slope of the single runway and the cliffs surrounding the area.

Each day we hiked through the valleys and mountains, jostled by pack animals carrying goods as we made slow and steady progress. Each night we stayed in rudimentary tea houses, in rooms without insulation, huddling in our sleeping bad cocoons. 

It was the second day where we first saw Mount Everest. It was a distant mountain, nestled in a gap in the trees. I recall staring at it, still unable to really believe I was looking at the tallest mountain in the world.

I can still remember the moment I realized we had passed the tree line. The landscape was so startlingly bare, only thin scraggly bushes in place of the tall pine trees from that morning. The day after that it started snowing for the first time. We saw monuments for fallen climbers on Mount Everest. Old Buddhist prayer flags flapped in the wind, wonderfully colorful against the mist obscuring the sky.

It snowed every day after that. The landscape changed from wild-west reminiscent wasteland to large boulders dominating the landscape, crowned in soft white snow. It was much more like what I had expected it to be like in the Himalayans.

It was the eighth day that we finally arrived at Everest Base Camp. It must have been early afternoon, or perhaps very late morning. Like always, Buddhist prayer flags were strewn from boulder to boulder, pops of color in the white-grey landscape.

We snapped a few pictures, and stayed there for a little while. And I? I also ate a Mars Bar. Just because. I mean, when was I going to come here again?

The five of us at Everest Base Camp!  The two other men, one in front, and one on the right, were our guides.

The trek to Everest base Camp is something I'm proud of, and something I feel like I have the right to be proud of. We hiked in high altitude, often uphill. One day alone we walked fifteen miles. I'm happy I did it, even if, honestly, I was terrified. 

Time Capsule Letter (WARNING--THE INTERESTING PART IS NOT FOR A WHILE...oops)

A letter?  To my future self?  Oh no.  Okay, let's see what I come up with.

Dear 30-Year Old Self,

Hi.  Nice to meet you (does that even make sense?).  So I'm currently in a classroom typing up a blog post for English class.  Mostly wondering what on Earth I'll even be doing in thirty years.  A lot of things I guess, but I'm mostly wondering about what I'll be doing job wise.  When I was kid (But you probably already know this right?  Doesn't matter, I'll say it anyway.) I wanted to be a lawyer, an author, or a scientist.  Not sure what I what to do at this point, honestly.  But I digress.

Currently I'm in ninth grade.  I just moved to Park City this summer after finishing the six (five?) month long trip.  It's only December, and we came back in August, but I'm already getting the travel bug again.  At the moment I really want to go to Bhutan (and manyyyyyyy other places).  I saw it on an episode of a travel show (Expedition Unknown) a month or so ago, and now I reallllllllllllllllllllly want to go.  It's got the cultural factors of Laos and the nature of Nepal (some of my favorite countries in Asia).  Oh, look, I'm digressing again (I notice a theme).

Okay, what else do I have to tell you...um...well it's Christmas in a couple days.  I asked for mostly stuff to redo my room with, like cute wall hangings and a new comforter for my bed.  And...um....I also asked for candy....

Well, here's something.  I still in Junior High (!!!!!).  Apparently here ninth grade is part of junior high, or at least it's on that campus.  STILL bitter.

I feel really stupid now.  I've spent a while trying to come up with something interesting to write about, THEN I REALIZED THAT I HAVE SPENT HALF THE YEAR TRAVELING THE WORLD SO YEAH I THINK I PROBABLY HAVE AN INTERESTING STORY THERE SOMEWHERE.

Hmm.............what stressful story should I write about?  Oh, I know.  So about halfway through the trip, we were flying back to America for one week in order to attend my uncle's wedding.  Our plan was to fly from Grenada (a town in Spain) to Paris one afternoon, and the following day to fly from Paris to Salt Lake City.  Great.  Well we walked into the Grenada airport and immediately saw that our Paris flight had been canceled (great).

Our parents were running around trying to find a way to get to America in time, while  my brother, sister and I sat down on the airport floor (which was suspiciously wet) next to the plugs (you learn to appreciate any power charge when you are traveling 24/7--also we are spoiled twenty first century children).

In the end the five of us squeezed into a small (and I mean small) rental car and drove to Madrid.  We had to wake up the next morning and catch a flight to New York.   From New York we had a plane to Salt Lake City.  Our travel was somewhat complicated by all the security issues we encountered though.  I was flagged for extra security (apparently I'm super suspicious--unclear why) which meant I had to take the longer line, and also wait for twenty minutes while they looked through all of my possessions (when I say all, I really do mean all--remember our trip was about six months long).

More information about this little mishap can be found here.  At the time, all any of us wanted was to get to America, but honestly, part of me is glad it happened.  It's a fun story :)

So anyway, it's been an eventful year for me, probably one of my favorite years of my life.  So yeah.  Bye thirty year old me.

~Kate (age 14)

The Magic of Rants (And Writing...Again)

I don't hate school as much as I could. That's not to say that I'm skipping to school every morning, but most of the time I have mostly positive feelings toward it. Of course, that changes when I have a huge project coming or something. I tend to get stressed out easily.

And there is one thing that I really hate about school. For most of my life, I've had standards based grading. If you don't know, that's a grading system some schools use instead of the traditional ABC grades. A one is the lowest grade, and a four the highest. But four is "above and beyond," while a three is grade level. For all of my schooling years, except fifth grade, I've had standards based grading.

Now when I say I hate standards based grading, I mean that one hundred percent.

Everyone acts like it's some magic remedy or something, but it's insane. I have grown up with it, so I'm not just saying this because I'm ignorant or I don't like the change. I simply find the system ridiculous and counterproductive. For one thing, it's so subjective. A four to one teacher is a three to another. Most of the students get mixed messages as to what a three even means. Is it supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing? And in the system my school uses, they translate our number grades into a percentage letter grade. So a three (which is supposed to be grade level) is a 75%, or a B. Are you telling us that grade level is 75%?? That we can only get full credit if we do more than you told us to do? It's ridiculous.

Once I got a 3.5 on a test, which is technically above grade level. One would think I'd get at least 100% for that. But no, I got an 88%, which actually brought my grade down. What?

I honestly don't understand why people think this method is so important. How is it helping? It makes me more stressed about school, rather than the other way around.

Okay, so maybe I've ranted more than strictly necessary. If you know me well at all, you know I'm a big person for rants. I rant over text, in person, and now, apparently, on a blog.

I think that's part of the reason I like writing so much. It's like a ranting canvas. Even if I'm not the one saying the words, a character I've made is. I've noticed over the years that things that annoy me tend to become themes in my stories.

The thing I'm realizing as I write this blog, is that I have very few hobbies (well, at least it's an eye opener, right?). I read and write, but what about when I'm really stressed out? I play with my dog, Rugby. Or try to get my family to play a board game or something. I talk to my friends. I listen to music, maybe go for a run.

I think maybe the thing I really take refuge in is writing after all. It's not like my stories are going anywhere, and very few people have ever read them. But it's kind of a great feeling, having a world in your head. I get to make up events, characters, whatever. I know I talk about writing a lot, but I guess that's because it's pretty much my only hobby. Whenever someone gives me an opportunity to talk about them I launch in, talking non-stop. I suppose I take pride in them after all. There's satisfaction in pulling everything together, weaving storylines and finishing a story or series. When I'm not in a very good mood, I'll admit that I pull one of my stories up on my phone and start to read.

Is that silly? Maybe. Probably. I don't know. But I like it. Even though sometimes a poorly written line makes me groan, there's always pride in knowing that I typed every word. I crafted every person and line of dialogue.

The Agonizings of a Young Writer

I'm not a school sports person. I'm certainly not a drawing person. That's not to say that I haven't tried these things. Friends have tried to teach me how to draw, and I've spent a lot of my life playing soccer or softball. But they're not my passions.

Writing probably isn't a very fun pastime for a lot of people. And believe me, I've had my stretches where I hate writing and I just want to watch TV and do nothing. Yet at the same time, I always come back to it. Honestly, maybe the thing that drew me into writing was getting to share my stories with other people. If you know me well, odds are I've ranted about them to you once or twice. Or five times. Or, if you're my brother, around fifty times.

Recently I've spent a lot of time writing. Just a few days ago something happened that made me feel almost proud of my stories. One of my friends sent me a text asking for help with writing a story. Now, I've read some of her stories before. She writes a little too. But this was the first time she had sent me a message, not asking me to read her story, but help on how to write a certain kind of scene. Maybe that was the first time that I really realized that she thought my advice on writing was helpful. It was a kind of validation, after pouring who knew how many hours into this passion of mine.

The day after that I started writing a new story. Well, when I say new, it's story I've written down before, but its been in the works for months. My first real fantasy story. A lot of the characters in it are from failed stories I've written before. I've been combining all my past failed attempt into this trilogy. Characters from a idea for a musical (I cringe just to think of that now), from a story about conformity, and even from the very first series I ever wrote. Combined into one story. Weaving different strands together to make a dark fantasy story. Trying to use those characters from feeble plots and reconstructing them.

I don't kid myself that my writing itself is particularly good. There are stretches that I'm proud of, but the writing style in general is not my pride. But I do love making characters, crafting plots. Adding foreshadowing, placing careful easter eggs. Writing is also a way to trace my life. As I've grown older, my stories have gotten darker and more theme than plot. When I was much younger, maybe seven or eight, I had an idea for a a story, about a warrior princess. Typical, and now it seems ever so dull. I revisited that idea recently, and transformed it into a series of short stories about betrayal and secrets. Now its some of my favorite writing I've ever done, and much more interesting than a princess who never loses a battle.

One of the hardest things for me about writing is the patience. I hate writing the boring scenes, where nothing happens except introspection. I often cut out a lot of the depth of the story in order to get to the fun scenes. The ones with the arguments and the fights.

I also go in phases, times where I'm obsessed with one story or another. Mostly I write long trilogies. Well, I say write. I haven't yet ever finished one, but my first trilogy is only a few pages away from completion. Even though it will be a huge achievement, it makes me a little sad to think of having finished it.

For me, writing is my hobby. It's rather slow and for most people probably not exciting. But it's something that I've always loved to do.

Social Media

Look, I'm not a social media person.  For most of my life I've actively avoided it.  Maybe a little too much.  Still, I've never wanted to be that person, so sucked into their online lives that they didn't live a life outside it.

My very first experiences with an online social media account was when I turned twelve.  I had promised my sister I would get a Snapchat account, and so I reluctantly obliged.  When I got it, I hid the app in the very back of my "Other" folder app.  My sister immediately friended me, which I accepted and friended her back.  A little later, her best friend also sent friend request, which I accepted.  Then I let it lay dormant.  I sent streaks to them everyday, but I never tried to get any more friends.  Part of it was because I didn't want anyone to know that I had finally succumbed to the peer pressure.  I purposefully kept the app hidden in my folder so no one would no it was there.  The other things was, Snapchat didn't make me happy.  I didn't care what I posted.  Most of the time I sent the same plant outside my school everyday.  Snapchat was just there, part of my everyday routine in an effort to please my older sister.

After time my sister said it was okay if I deleted it.  I was relieved.  Far from making me happy, Snapchat was just a drain and one more thing to do each day that brought me no pleasure.

It was much later that I felt like I might want to try social media again.  During the second half of eight grade, when I was almost fourteen, my family left on a six month trip around the world.  (For more information, see our family blog here.)  We were in Bangkok, Thailand one night, and I was desperately missing my friends.  Not just my close friends, the people who I barely knew.  I wanted people to know what I was doing.  So I made an Instagram account in a small restaurant in Thailand.

I accumulated followers after my sister posted about me on her story.  It made me smile as the numbers piled up, but I also felt anxiety wondering who to let follow me.  I posted about meeting the Elephants in Laos.  I wasn't particularly pretty in that picture--sharing fancy pictures of me had never been my goal--but I liked it anyway,

My next post was less down to Earth and a little more glamorous.  My sister loved photography, and I was often her subject.  We had a photoshoot in our beautiful Bangkok hotel, and I looked more fake and pretty than my normal anxious self.

I didn't post very often, not even finally arriving at Everest Base Camp after our long trek, something I had intended to post about, but never really came down to it.  Worrying about posting made me anxious, and I discovered that Instagram brought me more stress than joy.  I felt happy when I got a lot of likes, but when I didn't I was much less cheerful.

When we got back to America, I deleted the app from my phone, but not the account.  Every once and a while I get emails reminding me of my dormant account.  Each are accompanied by an uncomfortable feeling.

I'm still not a social media person.  It's brought me more than enough worry in my already stress strewn life.  Still though, sometimes I'm sad because I can't share my life with the people I left behind in California.  I suppose that's part of the brilliance of social media.  My opinion about having an Instagram account could still change, which is part of the reason I've kept my account.  But for now, I'm content without the app on my phone.