Book Review: The Daughter's Walk

I am finally back into blogging about books, and my first read of the summer is a historical fiction coming from the wonderful writer Jane Kirkpatrick. Anyone that talks to me for a bit will understand how much of a history buff I am and that is the reason I chose this novel. For the most part, the events of the novel are historically accurate with a few minor characters thrown in here and there to give the plot some more depth.

The book spans a larger period of time, beginning with 19 year old Clara, a young woman on a walk across the United States, from Spokane, Wash., to New York in the last 1890s. The first half of the novel details the 3,500 mile journey of Clara and her mother, Helga. The family needs money, and they walk across the country on a wager, hoping to save their farm. I do have to admit that the walking was a bit tiresome in some parts...I did skim at some points. Other times there was a lot happening, and it was difficult to put down for the night.

The second half of the novel describes Clara's venture into the business world. She exiles herself from her family and lives an independent life, something unheard of during the time.

It is supposed to be a spiritual novel, but I found that there really was little mention of God. If I hadn't known that before hand, I probably wouldn't have noticed much of the references. This is one of the lose ends that really bothered me. There is no spiritual conclusion in Clara's life. God exists, but no major mention of Him later in the novel kind of spoils that plot point.

Overall, a good read. If you have some time, pick it up, especially if you are a history buff. 3 1/2-4 stars from me!



I received this book for free from WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group for this review and received no monetary compensation. I just do this for my own enjoyment. If you feel you might be interested, visit their website, Blogging for Books.

Making a Cuppa

Hi all! So, I thought I would share another travel writing essay that I worked on. It's not as good as the other one because I didn't spend a lot of time on this one, but it is a bit of a contrast between the US working enviroment and the one in the UK. I do have to admit that not everything in this story is exactly true. Yes, the women were fighting over who they would sleep with, but they didn't really talk to me. I was eavesdropping, although they knew that I was listening at the time.

Also, I couldn't remember some of their names, so they are made up, except Pauline. She really was my supervisor, but I really don't remember struggling to make a cup of tea. I also only ever made one cup for anyone in the office. The steps that I used in making tea were real. My theatre teacher really did give us steps because someone made his tea so terribly he thought that he would give us a lesson in that rather than theatre. But, despite all that is not completely true, you still get the gist. Happy reading!

Making a Cuppa

“When I look through my own recipe for the perfect cup of tea, I find no fewer than eleven outstanding points. ….These are not the only controversial points to arise in connexion with tea drinking, but they are sufficient to show how subtilized the whole business has become. It is worth paying attention to such details as warming the pot and using water that is really boiling, so as to make quite sure of wringing out of one's ration the twenty good, strong cups of that two ounces, properly handled, ought to represent.”- George Orwell, A Nice Cup of Tea

I was working on a spreadsheet of names and phones numbers. My eyes started to go crossed and blurred at the sight of so many letters and numbers. None of it seemed to make sense anymore. I pushed my chair away from my desk and rubbed my eyes. I had been staring at the computer screen for over three hours without taking a break, and my dry eyes were paying for it. Everyone else in the office didn’t seem to be taking their jobs quite as seriously, so I took the opportunity to get a cup of tea from the office kitchen.

“Chelsea, would you mind getting me a cuppa while you’re up?” Pauline, my internship supervisor, gave me a friendly smile when she requested her cup of tea.

“Of course, would anyone else like anything while I’m up?” In my two weeks working at the office of 4Children, a non-profit organization run to benefit children of the United Kingdom, I had learned always to ask if anyone would like anything if you are getting up to get something from the kitchen. I had been asked the question, “Would you like something while I’m up?” so many times in just four days, I was beginning to wonder if it was a form of procrastination.

As I made the short trip to the kitchen, I noticed two women chatting at their desk. Actually, most of the room could hear them. It was a Monday afternoon, and most of the office was anxious to avoid any sort of work, so the staff heavily encouraged any form of conversation. “So,” a young blonde woman started, “If you had to pick just one celebrity to sleep with, who would it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There are just too many juicy ones aren’t there?” The dark-haired girl grinned and slapped the blonde’s arm.

“Oh, being cheeky, are we?” Both women turned to the sound of a new voice sitting thirty feet away. The older motherly figure sat at her desk howling with laughter. The entire office was now intrigued by the conversation. The graying mother answered the question with ease, “Well, it would have to be Johnny Depp, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Marlene. He’s practically 30 years younger than you,” The blonde rolled her eyes playfully; I could tell she wanted to goad Marlene on.

“Oh, fuck it. Who cares? I will never shag him just like you will never shag him. But, he is delicious looking. Probably bloody fantastic in bed.”

I gave them an exaggerated shocked look. Marlene turned to me and gave me a wink, “Sorry, Chelsea. Not used to hearing such language?”

I had become quite accustomed to curse words and suggestive conversations now and again in the office, but to hear it from a woman older than my grandmother made me do a double take. I could see myself walking by office desks in an American work place, hearing conversations like, “The humidity is brutal today,” or “How about that game last night?” or maybe, “Did you see that new Johnny Depp movie. He is so good-looking!” I wouldn’t mind these conversations—all almost too boring to attract my attention. Americans were so careful about everything they said because one wrong step could result in offending someone else.

Americans have the stereotype that the British are prim and proper—daintily eating their crumpets and sipping their tea (pinky finger extended, of course), saying things like “Cheerio, chap!” while dressed in their Sunday best. On the other hand, the British imagine Americans as cowboys saying “Howdy, y’all!” or as the lazy, unintelligent worker that sits and does nothing all day. The American work ethic was nothing like the approach the British took; the British say we work too hard. Americans say hard work is the American dream. Either way, the stereotypes weren't completely accurate.

My eyebrows rose at her language, but I chose not to remark on her cheeky comment. “Oh, carry on. Don’t mind little old me. I won’t be scarred for life or anything,” I gave her a cheesy pouty, and she laughed at my sarcastic look. I continued on my way to the kitchen, and behind me I heard a few more women start in on the conversation as well. I shook my head. It baffled me that they could start conversations in the office that had absolutely nothing to do with work.

I started to make the hot water in electrical steamer, and then I realized I had never made a cup of tea for my boss before. I had no idea how she liked it. I knew the English were big on milk in teas, so I found a packet of some dark tea in the cupboard and placed it in the bottom of a mug. I tried to remember back to the week before when my theatre teacher lectured the class on how to make the perfect cup of tea. He had made sure to make his points clear: #1—the water had to be vigorously boiling before being poured into the cup.

I don’t know if these tricks were passed down or if any of the tips really mattered, but in that moment I really hoped that it would help me conquer that little cup of tea; I wanted that sense of pride that I had made my boss a great cuppa. But I also just wanted to know that I could fit in—their meal times revolved around tea, their late afternoon chats always involved a cuppa, and I wanted to be standing next to them talking about which celebrity wore too much makeup or had on a hideous dress. I didn’t want to be the American intern for the semester. I wanted to be just the intern.

The water was heating up quickly, and I could see the steam rising from the spout. I could hear it boiling, but decided that it wasn’t vigorous enough. I waited until it sounded like popcorn popping and then took it off the electric base.

Tip #2: Always pour the water from high above the cup with the teabag sitting at the bottom. Making sure the teabag was flat in the mug, I took the steaming water and held the cup to the counter while I poured the water from a foot in the air. There was no one else in the kitchen, but I still worried that I looked completely ridiculous, so I poured the water quickly and set the pot down.

Tip #3: There is a perfect amount of time to let the tea bag simmer in the water. I let the tea bag sit for exactly four minutes because according to my teacher, “Four minutes is the perfect amount of time to let tea sit.” I watched the hands on my watch tick by slowly while I also flipped through The Sun, one of the many newspapers on the table. I glanced back at my watch and realized it had been more than four minutes, so I rushed to the cup and yanked out the tea bag, sighing in relief that it hadn’t sat for five minutes because then it might be too strong.

Tip #4: Don’t put too much milk in, but not too little. Next, I poured in the fat free milk from one of the twenty or so bottles sitting in the fridge. Milk and tea disgusted me at first—it didn’t seem quite right. What happened to sugar? What was so special about milk? What was too much milk? I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just waited until the mixture looked more like light brown coffee rather than the green tea I was used to. The creaminess of the mixture reminded me of the hard caramel candies, the white wrapping through the brown in a heavy streak.

Tip #5: Don’t put in sugar unless asked. I wasn’t sure what the Brits had against sugar. Maybe as an American I was desensitized to sugar. Maybe it was too sweet with milk and sugar. Maybe the Brits liked to taste their tea rather than artificially flavor it. Whatever it was, I did not put any in, but quickly wondered if maybe she really did want sugar.

I was unsure of my tea-making skills, but I didn’t have a choice but to serve the tea. Carefully picking up the two cups of tea that I had expertly made, I made my way back to my desk. I set the first cup next to Pauline; she gratefully accepted the cup with a thanks. I went around to my desk and nervously awaited her reaction. She brought the cup to her lips, took a small sip, and placed it back on her desk. She went back to work, editing one of the newest press releases or news articles, I assumed.

I stared stupidly, hoping for any kind of feedback. She caught my gaze. She smiled, but it quickly turned into a playfully concerned look and said, “Don’t you need to be working on updating those press releases?”

Guatever!

I'm going to try to keep this a brief as possible. It's a few days worth of writing, so I apologize for the abruptness in my stories/descriptions. Some of this is from an essay that I wrote about my trip, other parts aren't. If it seems like the writing styles are different and switching quickly, that is probably why. If you would like more information, feel free to comment, and I can fill in any blanks.

So the last time I left off on the blog for Guatemala, I was entering San Jorge La Laguna. We drove through the mountains and around volcanoes, and we stopped on an overlook. What a fantastic view of Lake Atitlan and San Jorge! I was already convinced that Guatemala was a beautiful country with people stuck in tragic circumstances. On the overlook, the native people were selling trinkets like I had seen in Antigua, hoping to tempt tourists into buying things they don't really need. Resisting the urge to buy everything from the cute little girls, we stepped back into our van and headed straight to San Jorge just below.

 Driving into San Jorge was a shock. I stared out the window at the little town on a steep hill and realized that I had signed up for a week of hard work and heartache. We passed houses, shacks, women in traditional outfits, children with worn down soccer balls, without shoes, with smiles, waving and yelling, stray lazy dogs laid in the middle of the streets to find the sun. The colorful outsides of the houses seemed to be hiding the dirt floors and rusted tin walls on the inside. We passed tiendas and children and women selling fruit on the street.

I was in a third world country—there was poverty and starvation and health problems. The old women looked ready to fall over with the weight of their heavy loads, and the men went by in the street waved to other men in greeting. The streets were dirt and rough cobblestone, impossible for climbing the steep hills and hard on the feet. The white and yellow church in the center on the town gleamed in the sunlight, a beacon to the world that San Jorge was still alive after hundreds of years.



Little guy, Alex! He was such a ham!

Young boys out of school for the day ran back and forth in the main dirt square, chasing a small ball that resembled a soccer ball and tried to score between posts—there were no nets for the goals. They laughed and ran to work off their built up energy, and when our group jumped out of the vans, they stared for a second, but continued playing with quick glances every so often thrown our way.

A man named Daniel welcomed us. He owns a travel company that arranges "authentic" homestays in San Jorge. He is a native to the small town, but works in the neighboring Panajachel, a larger tourist town. Our host mothers were there to greet us, and my roommate, Stephanie, and I were able to meet Anna. She is an older grandmother and lived in one of the wealthier families in town. She immediately started speaking Spanish. Stephanie is a Spanish major and was able to translate for me. Although I can easily translate Spanish, I can't speak it well. And I learned how much I had lost in the past two years. I could not communicate, but I followed most of their conversations. We walked through their game to get to the house we were staying in, and they giggled as they spoke in the native Mayan language, Katichiqel. The children pointed and in whispered voices said, “Gringos.” I'm not sure if it an insult to them; it may just be a statement of fact to them, and I wasn't offended, just curious.

Entering the house, I immediately regretted my suitcase. I felt like I was bragging. A family of a dozen or more lived in the small area, and here I packed a suitcase for a week of work. Stephanie had a bed to ourselves, not a mattress but thick woven straw and pads on top of them. It wasn't the most comfortable, but it was clean and generous. After a hard day of work, I didn't care all that much anyway. We went up to the school to visit our worksite almost immediately.

With over 600 children attending the school in the morning for their primary school, the school was out of room to place all of the students. The students and community had been gathering trash—plastic bottles and wrappers that wouldn’t degrade—and stuffing bottles with small bits of waste to make them sturdy. Once the bottles were stuffed, they were to be used as “eco-bricks” and put inside wire underneath plaster for the walls of the schoolroom. Our group decided to help with their sustainability efforts.

After trudging our way up a hill, around corners, through uneven streets, avoiding stray dogs, passing by small, shy children in doorways, we came to the school. A small building with no more than ten rooms, and a “playground” that consisted of a rusted and warped slide and rough monkey bars that sat outside dingy and dirty bathrooms. The kids played with a small ball, kicking it back and forth, hitting windows, running down stairs, not caring that their plastic ball wasn’t really a soccer ball. We climbed around to the back of the school where the new room would be. Roots from trees stuck out of the ground, rocks blocked our path—there was no good way of getting around. A steep hill was our worksite. Two tall trees had to be cut for the room and pine needles and woodchips from the bark littered the ground.

Danielito, Daniel's little boy.

My mouth dropped. Our eyes displayed our disbelief. Digging in this area was going to be more difficult than we had planned. I had just wanted a spring break that would help others while also getting me out of the country. This was actual work. The mayor and contractor were at the bottom of the hill, beaming at our presence. They had been expecting us for a long time, and now that they had the free labor, they could start their much needed schoolroom. Daniel, our English translator and never without a smile, told us that the people were so happy we were there. The mayor, in his traditional Mayan dress, nodded his head even though he didn’t speak English. Daniel stood to the side and grinned widely and laughed. I wasn’t sure why, but the men were speaking in Katichiqel, making me believe that one of them had said something about us—probably something to do with the scared looks on our faces. “Alright,” Daniel clapped and rubbed his hands together with an enthusiastic look, “Let’s get started.”

For the next four days, we worked like crazy. We never reached our goal of completing the room, and suffered a setback when our trenches caved in on the second day for the foundation. We passed stones, made cement by hand (hard work!), dug a lot of trenches, and sat around waiting. We mostly tried to stay out of their way until they needed us to pass cement or rocks or bricks. I did enjoy pick-axing though. That was a ton of fun!

Some of the group digging the trenches.

 After three days of hard work, the dirt and grime were starting to seep into my pores; I was more than ready for a break. At lunchtime, we began our decent into the town to Daniel’s house where lunch was waiting for us. My stomach grumbled when I smelled the mouthwatering chicken cooking from inside the small kitchen. We were tired. Little conversation, but a lot of eating. We had our fill, but Daniel’s wife insisted they had plenty more if we wanted it. Brushing off her attempts graciously, the group headed outside. I sat on the church steps and watched the young children play on their makeshift soccer field. They laughed loudly when some of our group joined their game, calling some of them loco or feo—crazy and ugly.

While they played, the rest of the group waited for Sharon, a woman from Mayan Families, an organization established to help families in San Jorge and other small towns like it. Sharon rounded the corner and greeted us with an Australian accent, “Hi all. I hope I wasn’t keeping you waiting long. Why don’t we run up to the school quick to talk about our program, yeah?”

She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. She looked exhausted. We followed her as she weaved in and out of streets towards the preschool. We walked in and twenty enthusiastic “holas” reached our ears. Young children sat at tiny desks in a brightly colored room eating a snack of mango and watermelon. Sharon started speaking in Spanish to the children, and then turned to us, “This is a preschool for hand-picked children that were not getting enough nourishment at home. They all come and receive a vitamin supplement and two meals. They also get a head start on learning Spanish, so they may not understand you at times.”

Some children that visited near our worksite.

We waved, and the children laughed and blushed at the small gesture. Sharon said something to them that made them giggle louder. Their smiles were infectious, and I grinned just as widely as I watched two boys chase each other around the colored room. A girl a bit older than the rest of the children walked up to Sharon and hugged her. Sharon explained that her name is Claudia, “She is a young girl that lost both of her parents at a very young age. She lives with her grandmother who is too old to work, so Claudia couldn’t afford to go to school,” Sharon sighed and stroked the girl’s hair.

“We were able to sponsor Claudia to go to school. We sponsor 300 children in San Jorge alone, thanks to generous sponsors and donators,” Sharon smiled and gave Claudia another hug and sent her on her way. I watched as Claudia walked away—her shoes were worn and her clothes hung loose, but her smile brought our attention away from her poverty. She was happy to go to school, excited at the chance to learn. She picked up a backpack at the door, turned and waved at the door, disappearing down the street.

“Well,” Sharon started, “Shall we continue to our elderly lunch program?”

We followed Sharon out the door, and the children waved as we went, thanking us for coming and laughing as they did so. We wound our way back through the streets, only to find ourselves exactly where we started. Continuing our trip, we walked just by Daniel’s house and entered a green framed door, the paint chipped by the weather and age. A dozen older women sat eating lunch. “This is our elderly lunch program. Five days a week we provide lunch to elderly woman that cannot get lunch on their own,” Sharon patted a woman on the shoulder and gave her a small squeeze. Many stood precariously as we entered. A woman with a wrinkled face and hunched back took my hand gently and kissed it, saying “Gracias” quietly. Her hands were rough with wrinkles, but smooth from years of use—worn down by hard work and stress. Tears welled in my eyes as she pulled me into a gentle hug. They smiled and waved as we exited the door.

We were exhausted and happy to be moving in to a hotel with hot showers and comfortable beds in neighboring town down the mountain, Panajachel. Our homestays were over after two days, and the last two days of work were spent in the hotel. The group piled into the back of old Ford pickup trucks, fixed with 2x4 handles at head-level. I gripped the handle tightly knowing we were going to stand the entire drive (video at the bottom). The bumpy, dirt road made me nervous; I had always been taught to wear a seatbelt and now I was riding like the locals—necessity over safety. The gorgeous views of Lake Atitlan and the volcanoes surrounding the lake distracted my thoughts. The sun was setting—a light orange mixed with the clouds that lightly embraced the volcanoes. The water danced with the vanishing sunlight, shimmering with life. The truck took a hair-pin turn too quickly, jolting me back to the dangerous situation. We slowed as we entered Panajachel. People filled the streets along with restaurants, bars, and traditional markets. Horns blared when tourists walked too far into the street, and the open-sided local taxis—tuk tuks—buzzed in between people, narrowly dodging fatal accidents.

The town of just 15,000 people was alive, moving, busy with excitement. The energy was contagious, and I was anxious to explore the new city. After making our way down the tourist street, the trucks stopped abruptly. Wanting to stretch and explore, I jumped out of the back and continued down the street in the direction of the lake. The shopkeepers shouted, asking me to step into their store, “Adalante!” I smiled, shook my head, gave a curt “No gracias,” and kept walking. When I reached the water’s edge, I gasped at the change in scenery. The sky was a deep purple, fading into a light blue that mixed with the softly moving lake, making it difficult to distinguish the line between sky and water.

Leaning on the stone that separated tourists from the edge, I watched the volcanoes greedily cover up the sun as it dropped steadily into the earth. A young girl with a sad face tapped my arm and held up a bundle of homemade string bracelets. I shook my head. I didn’t want any. She was persistent and asked me to look at the bunch. I looked down at her. I couldn’t resist her innocent face—a ploy her parents used to catch sympathetic tourists. Young girls selling trinkets and candies on the streets were not uncommon. Many were not able to come home until they made enough money to bring to their families. “Cuanto cuesta?” I asked, wanting to know the cost.

She replied sadly, “Cinco Quetzales.”

Five Quetzales was too much to pay for a single bracelet in Guatemala; most of the goods that we bought were so cheap we were often excited at the prospect of spending less money for more product—typical Americans. But those five Quetzales translated to less than one American dollar; it wasn’t worth bargaining—she needed the money more than I did.

The young girl’s face was haunting. She held two bundles of bracelets in her hands; she handed me one. She watched me carefully as I picked out my bracelet, going for colors that would remind me of the sunset—blue, purple, orange, yellow. Her large eyes stared into mine—blank and almost hopeless. My heart wrenched at the sight, and I started to tear up at her expression. Her head rested on her extended arm on the wall, the light blue sky and volcanoes framed her face. The beautiful landscape gave way to the little girl with the round face and brown eyes—she was Guatemala; dark, beautiful, tragic, poor, lonely, starving. If she had been in the United States, she could be going to school, playing with other children. She wouldn’t have been barefoot. She wouldn’t have had to work to make sure her family survived. Her face turned to look up at me quickly and then back down at the unclaimed bracelets in my hand. I smiled and thanked her as I handed her the money owed. I wished I could have done more—I could have. I could have bought more bracelets, given her more money. But I didn’t.

The little girl with the bracelets.

I watched as she lethargically gave her grandmother the money she earned; she received no praise, just more bracelets and trinkets to sell to tourists. I tied the bracelet around my wrist and held it up to the skyline. I knew the colors matched perfectly, but I couldn’t see the colors. I only saw the young girl’s sad eyes.



Me on the boat ride, trying not to get wet!

 That night and the rest of the nights, we shopped and ate in Panajachel. It was a lot of fun, and I enjoyed the ride there and back the two days. On our last day in Panajachel, we had a tour across the lake. It was a good hour boat ride across the lake. We visited two towns on the lake and learned how they make the goods as well as dye the clothe used for clothes. It was a warm day filled with a lot of walking and bumpy boat rides. I finished up my tourist shopping that day, bought some coffee (I hear it was delicious), little trinkets, and got a little sunburned. I started feeling a little queasy on the boat trip back, but it was okay in the end. We left Panajachel in the afternoon and went back to Guatemala City for our flight the next morning.

The three hour drive was uneventful; it rained most of the way back, and I slept almost the entire time to avoid motion sickness. We drove into the city to a very nice hotel close to the airport at about 8 p.m. We decided we needed to eat, so we walked to a nice restaurant close by. We passed the US Embassy, and that is my first encounter with an Embassy. It looked more like a prison; the high walls, cameras, guards, and signs that said "No pictures" were intimidating. The restaurant was a steak place, and we had a lot of extra money, so I didn't mind spending a little more than usual. I ordered and chowed down on the delicious meal.

 
I went to bed quickly after packing; I wasn't feeling well about two hours after getting back from dinner. I checked my email for the first time since getting there, and passed out in bed. I woke up at about 2:30 in the morning, feeling like I was going to throw up. I really didn't want to but, it couldn't be avoided. I ended up throwing up multiple times as well as having diarrhea. I was miserable, and I was getting on a plane in less than ten hours. Stephanie was extremely helpful, getting my pills and water as well as helping me camp out in the bathroom. I learned in the morning that two other people were violently sick as well, and they had the exact same thing to eat. After being up until 5 a.m., I was tired, and my stomach was still not settled, but calm enough to know I wasn't going to throw up again.
 
As soon as we arrived at the airport, we were told our connecting flight was delayed by a few hours, meaning we wouldn't get into Chicago until after midnight. I was pat down multiple times in Guatemala and El Salvador (our connecting flight location). So, we camped out in San Salvador for a few hours. It wasn't enjoyable, but by that time, I wasn't really caring. I still had the urge to throw up and was suffering from diarrhea. I ate just the bread from Subway and played cards. The flight to Chicago was bumpy, and a lot of our group was throwing up in the baggies on the plane. I tried hard to block it all out, and made it off the plane without throwing up! We booked a hotel in Chicago once we heard of our delay, making us miss another day of classes.
 
I was so happy to be back in Pella. I enjoyed my trip, but the last 36 hours of it made me miserable. I was sick for more than a week once I got back. Looking back, I really enjoyed my experience. Next time though I will be more careful about my food!

 

I cut that short because this was getting long! Here is the video I promised (it's a bit shaky...I was in the back of a pick-up):