Bambi's at baggage claim

The plane ticket is purchased; the luggage is waiting impatiently to be packed; butterflies are hatching in my stomach. Yep, reality is setting in.

But then something so surreal pops up, I can't help but laugh. While reviewing Northwest Airlines' luggage policy, we came across this little beauty:

"Northwest accepts antlers retained as hunting trophies as checked luggage only and only for travel within/between US/PR/VI/CA. A fee of $100 USD/CAD each-way per animal rack/antler will apply. Animal racks/antlers are not included as part of the free baggage allowance.

Northwest does not accept liability for loss, damage, or delay of antlers. Excess valuation insurance may not be purchased for transport of antlers."

What a foreign concept! My biggest quandary is how to stuff a hair dryer most economically into my carry-on, but somewhere out there, some avid hunter is attempting to transport a 13-point buck home to his wood-paneled den. And Northwest is not liable if Bambi downsizes to an 8-point in the process.

I pray I'll get to see a pair of mounted antlers perched atop some Samsonite, rolling through the terminal on Sunday. I think my life would finally be complete.

True Life: I have a Southern Drawl

With one single contracted word, I have cause to second-guess my camouflagibility in the urban jungle of NYC.

"Aren't."

Why should a word on a second-grade reading level inspire such insecurity? WNYC reporter Beth Fertig's sound byte interview about recycling is responsible. Fast forward to 4:24 and just listen.



Did you hear it? She distinctly annunciated two stiff-laced syllables. "AR-ent." The sound of it shocked me out of my southern drawl. Sometimes southerners are known to insert unnecessary syllables in random monosyllabic words such as "boy," pronouncing it almost as "buoy." But in other not-so-isolated cases, those residing way beneath the Mason-Dixon line have the tendency to... slur.

ie. Normal English: "Do you want to eat?"
Southern English: "J'wanna ayte?"

So when I say, "aren't," what actually comes out of my mouth sounds sort of guttural, like maybe a German with Tourette's. Not so attractive, especially relative to the smooth-talking broadcast journalist I heard today.

I'm pretty sure native New Yorkers will react to my dialect in one of two ways:
1. They will either condescendingly ask where I'm from and make a judgment on my intelligence accordingly...

-OR-

2. They will think I am a cute "southern belle" and ask me to repeat random phrases in my mother tongue, also a bit condescending.

My conclusion: I won't be able to hide my cultural roots, no matter how many private diction lessons I could squeeze into the week prior to my departure. From what I've heard, I'm sure I will have to endure many instances of necessary repetition to communicate through the language barrier. Maybe I should pretend I'm a mute and just transcribe everything I want to say on note cards.

The first question I would scribble: "How y'all doin'?"

One step closer...

It's 4:30 a.m., and the garbage truck begins beeping its warning, picking up the dumpster behind Dudley. I'm still awake rewriting a research paper due  at noon.

Thankfully it's not often that I witness the garbage collector's debut performance at ungodly hours. But this morning, the noise becomes an overture for other sounds I wouldn't normally hear on my regular sleep schedule.

For almost another two hours, the only peep is the intermittent firings of the big air conditioner units outside.

Then, as if by a conductor's signal, the sonata begins again at 6:14 a.m. in the form of a boisterous alarm clock. Another lets loose on its snooze setting at 6:41, forming a chorus in canon.

Just as I can finally close the lid of my laptop and those of my equally exhausted eyes, my neighbor's TV clicks on.

Sigh.

The muffled murmurings of a morning announcer weasel their way in through uninsulated walls. Just this once would I prefer sleep to the voice of Early Show's Harry Smith.

This orchestration, however uninvited, has become my collegiate theme song, an anthem to all-nighters. The quarter is almost over, but summer may still sing the same tune. I'll still be living in a dorm, except not on Tech's campus.

Come June 1, I'll pack up and hop a plane to Columbia University's internship housing in New York City. Hopefully I'll be able to keep my journalist geek in check while serving on staff at Seventeen Magazine, a position I was grateful to receive thanks to Tech's very own Julie Miller. I don't think I'll be mentioning to them that their publication was almost the topic of my journalism research paper this quarter. Can we say Ugly Betty?

Unless I get sent home early for too much enthusiasm, I'm planning to camp out for nine weeks in Midtown Manhattan with an unnamed roommate I have yet to meet.

Hopefully she'll be okay waking up to Harry Smith and falling asleep to the voice of Anderson Cooper.

But for now I'm still pecking away at this paper. Procrastinating, I observe the sky jump a few notches on the color spectrum. Maybe lack of sleep has brought out my philosophical side, but I decide I should witness it more often. There's something refreshing about watching the sun arrive, something calming knowing everyone sees the same one. And although soon I'll be greeting it one hour  before a sleepy Ruston, I hope it will have the same effect one time zone away.