Some days, I don't feel like I've learned anything. It's difficult to measure my progress. Every day after three classes of conversation and a grammar review, it's hard to tell if I've actually picked up on anything new. Last Thursday was a rough day for my psyche, but I'm learning to having faith in the process. This Institute wouldn't be here if they weren't doing something right, so I trust that poco a poco, little by little, my brain is capturing new bits of Spanish here and there.
I did have several little victories this weekend that made me feel better after a rough week. Successfully navigating through La Concha with Jonathan (more on that expereince later), ordering a coffee, translating newspaper headlines without my dictionary, asking several book sellers if they carry tiny dictionaries, and asking a vendor if I could try on a sweater by literally saying, "Can I wear that for a minute?" He took a moment to catch on, but eventually understood what I was saying, and now I'll never forget the verb I need to use that means "to try on."
And out I go...
An interesting part of living with Beatriz is that I am forced to go out on the weekends. I don't mean that she's pushing me out the door, although I have the feeling that she would if I was staying in. Whenever I talk about my weekend plans, she always says, "Good! You're young! Go dancing! Go out with your friends! Go have a good time!" I would prefer to stay in, have a glass of wine, and invite some friends over for a rousing game of Yahtzee or charades. That's just not an option here, so out I go. Two nights ago we ventured into the bowling alley. I tried to look up bowling vocabulary to make it an educational event, but the only word I could be sure was the correct translation was "pavo" for "turkey," and I didn't even get to use it. Last night we crossed off number 44 on Lonely Planet's top 70 places to see in Cochabamba, at Lujo's Discoteca and Karaoke Bar. Brother Wes loves himself some karoke. And I guess it's growing on me too, especially when Meatloaf and $2 Tequila Sunrises are involved.
Love in the key of G,
K
Sunday, June 26, 2011
A Dominican, A Jesuit, and Me.
Written on Thursday, June 23, 12am
What better way to lose your Karoke virginity than to Michael Jackson's, "The Way You Make Me Feel." In all honesty, I'm not feeling very well and I don't think I've fully recovered from worshipping the porcelan goddess all night on Sunday. I'm glad I went out with Wes and Jonathan, though. Judging from our first interaction at the La Paz airport almost two weeks ago, I didn't think we would ever hang out in Cochabamba, but it turns out they're my favorite people here. We always laugh hard, sometimes space out, and often interrupt each other. And that's how we roll-a Dominican, a Jesuit, and me.
Love and a live band out my window singing my favorite salsa song,
K
What better way to lose your Karoke virginity than to Michael Jackson's, "The Way You Make Me Feel." In all honesty, I'm not feeling very well and I don't think I've fully recovered from worshipping the porcelan goddess all night on Sunday. I'm glad I went out with Wes and Jonathan, though. Judging from our first interaction at the La Paz airport almost two weeks ago, I didn't think we would ever hang out in Cochabamba, but it turns out they're my favorite people here. We always laugh hard, sometimes space out, and often interrupt each other. And that's how we roll-a Dominican, a Jesuit, and me.
Love and a live band out my window singing my favorite salsa song,
K
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Happy New Year!
Written Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Every year in Aymaran culture, the winter solstice marks a celebration of the Sun, and the days becoming longer and longer. This morning at sunrise, I stood on the top of a mountain surrounded by Bolivianos of Incan descent, with our palms outstretched, greeting the first rays of light as they poured over a distant mountain and chanting, "quallalla, Vive Bolivia!" The experience was moving and incredibly beautiful. And then two llamas were slaughtered right in front of me. That experience moved me in different ways than the sunrise.
The night before, a brave group of 13 students from the Institute hopped on board a bus for an hour ride to Sipe Sipe , a "suburb" of Cochabamba. Like most bus rides in Latin America, it was bumpy and at one point we even pulled over because we thought we maybe hit an animal, or worse, but it was just a piece of the bus that fell off. No big deal. When we arrived in Sipe Sipe, we witnessed a local group performing an ancient Incan dance, and at midnight, we left the town square and started our three-hour trek into the mountains. Before we departed, our guide, Mario, a Boliviano of Quechuan descent, said a traditional Quechuan prayer and doled out handfuls of cocoa leaves for us to chew along the way. These are the same cocoa leaves that are manufactured as tea, as a herbal remedy for various ailments, and processed to make coacine.
This was my first really arduous hike, and it was definitely one to remember. The three hours seemed to go pretty quickly, although at times I felt like we climbed for 10 minutes, and rested for twenty. It was dark, and steep, and I was sweaty and out of breath and loving every minute of it. Amazingly, there was a stone path of pseudo-steps most of the way up the mountain, put in place hundreds of years ago by Native Americans. Don't let that fool you- although it helped, it didn't make the climb any less steep.
We arrived at the top of the mountain at 3am, tired but unscathed. The group settled in for a few hours of singing with local Cochabambinos and some drinking. I tried to nestle next to our fire and catch a few minutes of sleep, but with a few hundred people on the mountaintop, dozens of fires, and lots of celebratory drinking, falling asleep in the dirt was a little difficult.
Around 6am, we gathered up our things and headed to a specific location to welcome the sun, and witness the sacrifical llamas. The area with the llamas was gated off. I get the impression Mario, our guide, is a sweet-talker. He was chatting it up with different locals all the way along our hike and throughout the night. He got all 13 of us into the fenced-off area. He could have told the police we were all missionaries, for all I know. In any case, I was front and center with the camera crews, and four feet from the llamas. The llamas were being fed cocoa leaves, and a woman was taking handfuls and brushing leaves through their hair. They were tranquil, but they looked worried. After sunrise, a group of four or five people (it was hard to tell with all the commotion) seemed to tackle the llamas to the ground, slit their throats, and then proceed to fully decapitate them. I was expecting this. What I was not expecting, however, were bowls and bowls of blood, captured from arteries spewing from neck, to be thrown up into the and to land on the crowd of cameramen, police, and me.
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Every year in Aymaran culture, the winter solstice marks a celebration of the Sun, and the days becoming longer and longer. This morning at sunrise, I stood on the top of a mountain surrounded by Bolivianos of Incan descent, with our palms outstretched, greeting the first rays of light as they poured over a distant mountain and chanting, "quallalla, Vive Bolivia!" The experience was moving and incredibly beautiful. And then two llamas were slaughtered right in front of me. That experience moved me in different ways than the sunrise.
The night before, a brave group of 13 students from the Institute hopped on board a bus for an hour ride to Sipe Sipe , a "suburb" of Cochabamba. Like most bus rides in Latin America, it was bumpy and at one point we even pulled over because we thought we maybe hit an animal, or worse, but it was just a piece of the bus that fell off. No big deal. When we arrived in Sipe Sipe, we witnessed a local group performing an ancient Incan dance, and at midnight, we left the town square and started our three-hour trek into the mountains. Before we departed, our guide, Mario, a Boliviano of Quechuan descent, said a traditional Quechuan prayer and doled out handfuls of cocoa leaves for us to chew along the way. These are the same cocoa leaves that are manufactured as tea, as a herbal remedy for various ailments, and processed to make coacine.
This was my first really arduous hike, and it was definitely one to remember. The three hours seemed to go pretty quickly, although at times I felt like we climbed for 10 minutes, and rested for twenty. It was dark, and steep, and I was sweaty and out of breath and loving every minute of it. Amazingly, there was a stone path of pseudo-steps most of the way up the mountain, put in place hundreds of years ago by Native Americans. Don't let that fool you- although it helped, it didn't make the climb any less steep.
We arrived at the top of the mountain at 3am, tired but unscathed. The group settled in for a few hours of singing with local Cochabambinos and some drinking. I tried to nestle next to our fire and catch a few minutes of sleep, but with a few hundred people on the mountaintop, dozens of fires, and lots of celebratory drinking, falling asleep in the dirt was a little difficult.
Around 6am, we gathered up our things and headed to a specific location to welcome the sun, and witness the sacrifical llamas. The area with the llamas was gated off. I get the impression Mario, our guide, is a sweet-talker. He was chatting it up with different locals all the way along our hike and throughout the night. He got all 13 of us into the fenced-off area. He could have told the police we were all missionaries, for all I know. In any case, I was front and center with the camera crews, and four feet from the llamas. The llamas were being fed cocoa leaves, and a woman was taking handfuls and brushing leaves through their hair. They were tranquil, but they looked worried. After sunrise, a group of four or five people (it was hard to tell with all the commotion) seemed to tackle the llamas to the ground, slit their throats, and then proceed to fully decapitate them. I was expecting this. What I was not expecting, however, were bowls and bowls of blood, captured from arteries spewing from neck, to be thrown up into the and to land on the crowd of cameramen, police, and me.
Digestive rumblings
Written on Monday, June 20 at 2:30pm
So it's been about 14 hours, and I think my digestive tract rebellion is slowly calming down. It's been a violent battle, keeping me up through the night and keeping me from attending classes this morning, and I think it might be over. Or not.
I should have seen it coming. I had several restaurant meals this weekend and my body was absolutley exhausted from walking all over the city in the sun. Literally, I've never felt the sensations that I did last night before I went to bed. I had an incredibly uncomfortable sensitivity to touch that I can't really explain. And then at midnight, the rumblings began.
I know I should expect to contract some form of amoeba; last year, giardia and e coli seemed to top the list for some students. But I've also been told I need to wait a whole three days to be sure it's actually something substantial before heading to the lab with a sample (as one student, Scott, a seminarian from Albany said, "you'll be squeezing your cheeks the whole way to the lab"). But three days?! Fourteen hours has been more than enough to make me feel pretty miserable about life. I know I've always been a total wimp when it comes to getting sick, but you have to admit it's pretty awful when you're restricted to staying within a 100-foot radius of a toilet, and you're not sure what end it's going to come out of when you get there.
To top it off, tomorrow is a national holiday, the Andean New Year. Tonight at 8pm, Mario, a professor from the Institute is bringing a group of students on an overnight hike into the mountains to partcipate in the indigenous tradition of sacrificing a llama and welcoming the sun with outstreched arms at sunrise. I've been looking forward to this for days. In fact, I'm the one who suggested this excursion to Hermana Cathy, who coordinated it with Mario. I think I need to suck it up and take advantage of this opportunity. I might not be able to forgive myself if I didn't go.
This is the first time I'm really missing home. Clean water, a long hot shower, friends I can call to come over to sit with me in my misery, a television, and some tomato soup from Panera...mmm! I need to stop thinking about it, because that's not my reality right now. Instead, I'm going to try to head out to the pharmacy to buy some altitude pills for this overnight hike and brace myself for this adventure.
Love, patience, and faith,
K
So it's been about 14 hours, and I think my digestive tract rebellion is slowly calming down. It's been a violent battle, keeping me up through the night and keeping me from attending classes this morning, and I think it might be over. Or not.
I should have seen it coming. I had several restaurant meals this weekend and my body was absolutley exhausted from walking all over the city in the sun. Literally, I've never felt the sensations that I did last night before I went to bed. I had an incredibly uncomfortable sensitivity to touch that I can't really explain. And then at midnight, the rumblings began.
I know I should expect to contract some form of amoeba; last year, giardia and e coli seemed to top the list for some students. But I've also been told I need to wait a whole three days to be sure it's actually something substantial before heading to the lab with a sample (as one student, Scott, a seminarian from Albany said, "you'll be squeezing your cheeks the whole way to the lab"). But three days?! Fourteen hours has been more than enough to make me feel pretty miserable about life. I know I've always been a total wimp when it comes to getting sick, but you have to admit it's pretty awful when you're restricted to staying within a 100-foot radius of a toilet, and you're not sure what end it's going to come out of when you get there.
To top it off, tomorrow is a national holiday, the Andean New Year. Tonight at 8pm, Mario, a professor from the Institute is bringing a group of students on an overnight hike into the mountains to partcipate in the indigenous tradition of sacrificing a llama and welcoming the sun with outstreched arms at sunrise. I've been looking forward to this for days. In fact, I'm the one who suggested this excursion to Hermana Cathy, who coordinated it with Mario. I think I need to suck it up and take advantage of this opportunity. I might not be able to forgive myself if I didn't go.
This is the first time I'm really missing home. Clean water, a long hot shower, friends I can call to come over to sit with me in my misery, a television, and some tomato soup from Panera...mmm! I need to stop thinking about it, because that's not my reality right now. Instead, I'm going to try to head out to the pharmacy to buy some altitude pills for this overnight hike and brace myself for this adventure.
Love, patience, and faith,
K
Friday, June 17, 2011
Being comfortable with being uncomfortable.
I was given a lot of advice before I left the states: write everything in your blog, be safe, carry your things close to you and walk like you know where you're going, don't drink the water, buy some mace, go to lake Titicaca. But my sister, Suzanne, gave me the best advice, perhaps something that she learned while living abroad this past semester: You're going to be uncomfortable- don't let that stop you.
Those words resonate with me every day. I am uncomfortable every day, but I know that I need to take risks in order to grow. I need to just go for it, be willing to make mistakes, order that frozen yogurt using words instead of only gestures, ask the guys in the gas truck if I can take their photo, join the porteros in volleyball even though it's going to be embarrassing. It's uncomfortable, yeah, but sometimes the biggest rewards come from taking the biggest risks. The frozen yogurt was delicious, the guy in the gas truck actually posed for me...and I'm still too embarrassed of my volleyball skills to join the locals, but next week, I think I'll take the risk :)
Love and Bolivian abrazos,
K
Those words resonate with me every day. I am uncomfortable every day, but I know that I need to take risks in order to grow. I need to just go for it, be willing to make mistakes, order that frozen yogurt using words instead of only gestures, ask the guys in the gas truck if I can take their photo, join the porteros in volleyball even though it's going to be embarrassing. It's uncomfortable, yeah, but sometimes the biggest rewards come from taking the biggest risks. The frozen yogurt was delicious, the guy in the gas truck actually posed for me...and I'm still too embarrassed of my volleyball skills to join the locals, but next week, I think I'll take the risk :)
Love and Bolivian abrazos,
K
Toilet paper, taxis, and talking with strangers
Here are some things I'm still getting used to:
A dangerous commute- If I don't look both ways (three times) before crossing the street (even one-way streets), I will surely die.
Studying Spanish all day, every day- It's not like I have a day (or a week, as in grad school) to finish my homework. Taking a break from studying or procrastinating until tomorrow is not really an option.
The taxis- Were there eight other people in that small car with me? Is that taxi driver just a regular guy that put a neon sticker in his window that says "Taxi" ? And did it really only cost me 15 cents??
Putting my toilet paper in the garbage can- Apparently, the plumbing can take my crap, but it can't handle my paper. You don't want to know how many times I've had to fish my TP out of the crapper already, and it's only been six days.
Humanist Heaven- Dr. Haley would applaud the pedagogy here. When I got to one of my grammar classes today, my profesora asked me what I wanted to work on. I thought to myself, "No lo creo!" which means, "I don't believe it," one of my new favorite phrases. It's all about ME!! No rote memorization, no essays about pictures of families in the textbook. I get to talk about mis amigas, EB and gun control in the US, the Jersey Shore, human rights, the UN- it's incredible! All to enhance my education! What an idea, letting the student dictate what they want to learn and talk about. And tomorrow, I have to pick a famous person that I want to talk about for class. Great, and I'm going to bust out my best moonwalk! (Sha'donna would be so proud- I had to look up the words for white glove, "guante blanco"). It's an untraditional approach to learning a language, but I love it. I might not know the parts of the body, but I can carry on a conversation about undocumented citizens in the US, and that's pretty damn awesome.
Speaking Spanish with strangers- It's easy to converse with my profesores, my friends, and Beatriz and Gonzalo. But when Gonzalo invited his son and his wife to lunch, I practically froze. I didn't talk much at lunch today, but when I did, the entire room froze and looked at me very curiously, like I was an alien that finally decided to speak. I know that no one is judging, but it's hard when you know you're making mistakes.
I have gotten used to being stared at in the city. I am a "super-gringita" after all, according to Beatriz. I just smile and keep walking. I've also gotten used to eating so much. The body is an amazing machine, how it adjusts so quickly. Today at lunch, Beatriz's brother kept insisting that I needed to eat more, and Beatriz, in my defense, told him that I have a very good appetitie. She should know, since she serves me every meal and practically counts how many times I chew before I swallow. I just smile and keep chewing.
Love and boiled tap water that I swear is better quality than water in DeKalb,
K
A dangerous commute- If I don't look both ways (three times) before crossing the street (even one-way streets), I will surely die.
Studying Spanish all day, every day- It's not like I have a day (or a week, as in grad school) to finish my homework. Taking a break from studying or procrastinating until tomorrow is not really an option.
The taxis- Were there eight other people in that small car with me? Is that taxi driver just a regular guy that put a neon sticker in his window that says "Taxi" ? And did it really only cost me 15 cents??
Putting my toilet paper in the garbage can- Apparently, the plumbing can take my crap, but it can't handle my paper. You don't want to know how many times I've had to fish my TP out of the crapper already, and it's only been six days.
Humanist Heaven- Dr. Haley would applaud the pedagogy here. When I got to one of my grammar classes today, my profesora asked me what I wanted to work on. I thought to myself, "No lo creo!" which means, "I don't believe it," one of my new favorite phrases. It's all about ME!! No rote memorization, no essays about pictures of families in the textbook. I get to talk about mis amigas, EB and gun control in the US, the Jersey Shore, human rights, the UN- it's incredible! All to enhance my education! What an idea, letting the student dictate what they want to learn and talk about. And tomorrow, I have to pick a famous person that I want to talk about for class. Great, and I'm going to bust out my best moonwalk! (Sha'donna would be so proud- I had to look up the words for white glove, "guante blanco"). It's an untraditional approach to learning a language, but I love it. I might not know the parts of the body, but I can carry on a conversation about undocumented citizens in the US, and that's pretty damn awesome.
Speaking Spanish with strangers- It's easy to converse with my profesores, my friends, and Beatriz and Gonzalo. But when Gonzalo invited his son and his wife to lunch, I practically froze. I didn't talk much at lunch today, but when I did, the entire room froze and looked at me very curiously, like I was an alien that finally decided to speak. I know that no one is judging, but it's hard when you know you're making mistakes.
I have gotten used to being stared at in the city. I am a "super-gringita" after all, according to Beatriz. I just smile and keep walking. I've also gotten used to eating so much. The body is an amazing machine, how it adjusts so quickly. Today at lunch, Beatriz's brother kept insisting that I needed to eat more, and Beatriz, in my defense, told him that I have a very good appetitie. She should know, since she serves me every meal and practically counts how many times I chew before I swallow. I just smile and keep chewing.
Love and boiled tap water that I swear is better quality than water in DeKalb,
K
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Quit asking me if I'm cold.
Yesterday, I walked to school in a T-shirt in jeans. The temperature was 10*, about 50* F. When I left the house, Beatriz was practically begging me to put on a jacket, because it was so cold outside. Hace frio, she kept saying. Everyone was commuting to work wearing hats and gloves and giant sweaters. I laughed to myself, thinking that if 50 degrees is freezing cold to them, what is the summer like around here?! In the afternoons, it gets up to about 80 degrees every day, and it's too hot to sit in the sun. Chilly, I know.
As for Beatriz, she continues to ask me if I'm cold, even when it's 65 outside, and even when I'm wearing a sweater. I wish our winters were more like this :)
As for Beatriz, she continues to ask me if I'm cold, even when it's 65 outside, and even when I'm wearing a sweater. I wish our winters were more like this :)
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Eat your heart out, Rosetta Stone.
Written Monday, July 13, 7pm
Today was a day of many firsts. It was the first time I met Hermana Cathy, the woman with whom I've been communicating for five months about coming here; the woman who accepted my application to study at the Institute; the woman who told me what vaccinations I needed to have. It was the first time I met my 19 "classmates." All of our lessons are one-on-one, but it's fun to think of the group as a class. Today was my first class, and it was just a simple conversation. "Tell me about yourself," Sara said, and we went from there. It was the first time I wandered around the Maryknoll's goregous compound alone, taking in the flowers, the chapel, the peacefulness of it all. It was also the first time someone here asked me where I live, and the first time I didn't say "circa Chicago," but I said, "Vivo en la Av. Libertador." I live here, in Cochabamba. I live here. Aqui. That's pretty awesome. It was the first time I made Beatriz and Gonzalo laugh, and that was pretty awesome, too. It was a good laugh, solid. And the kind of thing that you joke about again later, and laugh again. (I know this because they lauged about it again later when Beatriz was washing the dishes from dinner). I swear I have personality behind this limited vocabulary, and it's coming out little by little.
All of my instructors are Bolivianos; I have four different teachers, one for an hour each from 8-noon, with a break for tea and bread. In two weeks, I'll have four different instructors, and then again four new ones for the last two weeks. There must be over 20 different language teachers here, and many have been teaching for years and years. I feel like my Spanish speaking skills are in very good hands.
Most of my classmates are college students. This is the youngest six-week module for Maryknoll, since universities are on summer break. During the rest of the year, many older students attend the Institute. I feel a little old, considering I work with students the age of these students, and have pretty good boundaries. It will be interesting to see how friendships form among everyone.
Today we had a couple of hours of orientation- don't go near the bus terminal; you need to wear shoes in the house, it's la cultura; it's ok to ask how to use the shower if you haven't had hot water; is anyone interested in serving on a social committee to plan weekend activties; should we be worried about the wild dogs; where can i practice yoga; how do I hail a taxi; there is more to Bolivia than drugs; etc, etc. It was informative, and the only thing at the Institute that will ever happen in English!
Almost no one working at the Institute speaks fluent English (except Hermana Cathy, the director, and Kitty, the language program coordinator). If I need to exchange money, pay for my books, need help with my computer- everything is done in Spanish. It's awesome. I love it. I can't escape it! As Padre Finch, the Director of the Institute, said today, we don't learn language in a vacuum. We learn it in the context of the culture, the history, by conversing with people. Forget Rosetta Stone, this is definitely how to learn a language.
Love and entire families with babies on motorcycles,
K
Today was a day of many firsts. It was the first time I met Hermana Cathy, the woman with whom I've been communicating for five months about coming here; the woman who accepted my application to study at the Institute; the woman who told me what vaccinations I needed to have. It was the first time I met my 19 "classmates." All of our lessons are one-on-one, but it's fun to think of the group as a class. Today was my first class, and it was just a simple conversation. "Tell me about yourself," Sara said, and we went from there. It was the first time I wandered around the Maryknoll's goregous compound alone, taking in the flowers, the chapel, the peacefulness of it all. It was also the first time someone here asked me where I live, and the first time I didn't say "circa Chicago," but I said, "Vivo en la Av. Libertador." I live here, in Cochabamba. I live here. Aqui. That's pretty awesome. It was the first time I made Beatriz and Gonzalo laugh, and that was pretty awesome, too. It was a good laugh, solid. And the kind of thing that you joke about again later, and laugh again. (I know this because they lauged about it again later when Beatriz was washing the dishes from dinner). I swear I have personality behind this limited vocabulary, and it's coming out little by little.
All of my instructors are Bolivianos; I have four different teachers, one for an hour each from 8-noon, with a break for tea and bread. In two weeks, I'll have four different instructors, and then again four new ones for the last two weeks. There must be over 20 different language teachers here, and many have been teaching for years and years. I feel like my Spanish speaking skills are in very good hands.
Most of my classmates are college students. This is the youngest six-week module for Maryknoll, since universities are on summer break. During the rest of the year, many older students attend the Institute. I feel a little old, considering I work with students the age of these students, and have pretty good boundaries. It will be interesting to see how friendships form among everyone.
Today we had a couple of hours of orientation- don't go near the bus terminal; you need to wear shoes in the house, it's la cultura; it's ok to ask how to use the shower if you haven't had hot water; is anyone interested in serving on a social committee to plan weekend activties; should we be worried about the wild dogs; where can i practice yoga; how do I hail a taxi; there is more to Bolivia than drugs; etc, etc. It was informative, and the only thing at the Institute that will ever happen in English!
Almost no one working at the Institute speaks fluent English (except Hermana Cathy, the director, and Kitty, the language program coordinator). If I need to exchange money, pay for my books, need help with my computer- everything is done in Spanish. It's awesome. I love it. I can't escape it! As Padre Finch, the Director of the Institute, said today, we don't learn language in a vacuum. We learn it in the context of the culture, the history, by conversing with people. Forget Rosetta Stone, this is definitely how to learn a language.
Love and entire families with babies on motorcycles,
K
Monday, June 13, 2011
nam nam nam.
Written Sunday, June 12, 2011
Let's talk about food.
During a typical day (although as an HD, I'm not sure there is such thing as a typical day), I am hungry. I don't purposefully avoid the dining hall for breakfast, I just prefer to sleep in as late as I can, roll out of bed and shuffle to my office half-awake with a cup a tea (and usually a cardigan, shout out to Adam Reigle). I usually don't schedule office hours during lunch, but something ineviably comes up, unless it's a day when Shandee pesters me (in a good way) to eat with her, probably more to my benefit than hers. I'm pretty good at eating dinner after 3pm classes, but even that sometimes doesn't happen. But I always enjoy Tuesday night dinners with Dan and Sha'Donna, a staple in my week.
When I do eat well, like when I'm at home in NJ, I'm like a bird-scavenger. I'll eat a few blueberries and half a banana for breakfast (I can never eat a whole one, I don't know why). An hour later, maybe I'll consume a bowl of cereal without milk. I like to splurge on lunch and eat a sub or a few slices of Peter's Pizza. My father usually cooks delicious, filling dinners and we eat as a family. And a couple hours later, I'm back to scavenging the fridge for a late evening snack. I consider this healthy eating.
Yesterday, all of that changed. At 1pm, Beatriz served the main meal of the day. It started with homemade soup and bread, followed by a plate full of chicken, potatoes, a light vegetble salad and fried yucca and zucchini. On a regular day, the vegetable salad and a potato would have sufficed for my meal; I thought, "There's no way I'm going to be able to eat all of this." And I was right. I only left one potato and a little bit of chicken, and I felt terrible about it. I toyed with the idea of telling her that I can't possibly eat that much at once, but I didn't, for two reasons. When I think about it, it's probably a little more than the amount a of food I should be eating in one day. And if I didn't eat it all, my stomach would probaby be wondering where it's evening snack was. Secondly, next week, once my body has adjusted to the altitude, I'm going to start training for my November Birthday Race (I've decided that how I'm going to refer to the NYC Marathon. It sounds more festive and something to really look forward to), and I'm going to need lots of fuel.
So I came up with a two-fold strategy to eat successfully. First, avoid the bread with the soup. Easy enough. Secondly, eat the heavier or less-delicious food on my plate first. Today, I ate the potato and steak first, and saved the rice, carrot and raisin salad thing, and fried egg. I can stomach some rice and eggs when I'm full, but there's no way I can finish off potatos and steak if I feel like I've already eaten a full meal.
Aside from the food, dinner conversation was a little different today, as Gonzalo asked me where Jimmy Carter was born, and how many eggs and chickens are consumed in the United States every day.
High & Low:
The Low of my day was not being able to understand everything at dinner. I have to concentrate so hard and dissect every word that Beatriz and Gonzalo are saying, put it back together in my head, and hope that what I come up with makes sense and is correct. Just listeing is very arduous. I'm excited for the day when things come more easily.
The best moment of my day was during mass. I went alone, and during the Our Father, found a tiny Bolivian hand in each of my hands, from a nino on either side of me. It was precious, and I'm crying just thinking about it.
Love and little boys juggling in the streets,
Kathleen
Let's talk about food.
During a typical day (although as an HD, I'm not sure there is such thing as a typical day), I am hungry. I don't purposefully avoid the dining hall for breakfast, I just prefer to sleep in as late as I can, roll out of bed and shuffle to my office half-awake with a cup a tea (and usually a cardigan, shout out to Adam Reigle). I usually don't schedule office hours during lunch, but something ineviably comes up, unless it's a day when Shandee pesters me (in a good way) to eat with her, probably more to my benefit than hers. I'm pretty good at eating dinner after 3pm classes, but even that sometimes doesn't happen. But I always enjoy Tuesday night dinners with Dan and Sha'Donna, a staple in my week.
When I do eat well, like when I'm at home in NJ, I'm like a bird-scavenger. I'll eat a few blueberries and half a banana for breakfast (I can never eat a whole one, I don't know why). An hour later, maybe I'll consume a bowl of cereal without milk. I like to splurge on lunch and eat a sub or a few slices of Peter's Pizza. My father usually cooks delicious, filling dinners and we eat as a family. And a couple hours later, I'm back to scavenging the fridge for a late evening snack. I consider this healthy eating.
Yesterday, all of that changed. At 1pm, Beatriz served the main meal of the day. It started with homemade soup and bread, followed by a plate full of chicken, potatoes, a light vegetble salad and fried yucca and zucchini. On a regular day, the vegetable salad and a potato would have sufficed for my meal; I thought, "There's no way I'm going to be able to eat all of this." And I was right. I only left one potato and a little bit of chicken, and I felt terrible about it. I toyed with the idea of telling her that I can't possibly eat that much at once, but I didn't, for two reasons. When I think about it, it's probably a little more than the amount a of food I should be eating in one day. And if I didn't eat it all, my stomach would probaby be wondering where it's evening snack was. Secondly, next week, once my body has adjusted to the altitude, I'm going to start training for my November Birthday Race (I've decided that how I'm going to refer to the NYC Marathon. It sounds more festive and something to really look forward to), and I'm going to need lots of fuel.
So I came up with a two-fold strategy to eat successfully. First, avoid the bread with the soup. Easy enough. Secondly, eat the heavier or less-delicious food on my plate first. Today, I ate the potato and steak first, and saved the rice, carrot and raisin salad thing, and fried egg. I can stomach some rice and eggs when I'm full, but there's no way I can finish off potatos and steak if I feel like I've already eaten a full meal.
Aside from the food, dinner conversation was a little different today, as Gonzalo asked me where Jimmy Carter was born, and how many eggs and chickens are consumed in the United States every day.
High & Low:
The Low of my day was not being able to understand everything at dinner. I have to concentrate so hard and dissect every word that Beatriz and Gonzalo are saying, put it back together in my head, and hope that what I come up with makes sense and is correct. Just listeing is very arduous. I'm excited for the day when things come more easily.
The best moment of my day was during mass. I went alone, and during the Our Father, found a tiny Bolivian hand in each of my hands, from a nino on either side of me. It was precious, and I'm crying just thinking about it.
Love and little boys juggling in the streets,
Kathleen
There's something in the air....or maybe that's because there's no oxygen...
Written Saturday, June 11, 2011 3pm
I made it!
It's been a long couple of days, but I would do it all again and again if I had to.
After another delay in Chicago and a nice sprint through the Miami airport, I boarded my flight to La Paz. I sat next to a wonderful LaPaz native, Joel, who told me that Cochabamba was the best place in Bolivia, and assured me that it would be "very easy" to book a flight from LaPaz, and it was. Going through immigration was a piece of cake. The only thing the officer said in English to me was "money." He didn't even want to see the color photo and the vaccination records I was so worried about having in hand. Go figure.
During my layover in LaPaz, I enjoyed cocoa tea with a Dominican Seminarian (who was able to figure out how to set my watch) and a budding Jesuit (who will be studying for the next six weeks at Maryknoll with me), who were both on their way to Cochabamba. We all felt the effects of the altitude. My stomach was a little queasy, and my lungs felt like I just had a good cardio workout, except I wasn't short of breath. I wandered around the terminal asking kind-looking strangers if I could borrow their cell phones to call Beatriz, and eventually got through to her with my arrival time. My new friends and I found an oxygen bar in the airport to hang out for a while, before narrowly missing our flight to Cochabamba.
I cannot express the magnificence of this city. Flying in over the Andes, Cochabamba appears out of nowhere. The name means "high fertile plain," which is exactly what it is. It's as if God took a tiny rolling pin to the middle of the Andes, and decided to build a city in the clouds. It is very urban, aside from a few civilians on horses galloping through the streets, and Beatriz assures me that her neighborhood is very, very safe. It also feels very secluded, because when you look in any direction, all you see is mountains. I cannot imagine driving through them, but I'm considering taking a bus back to LaPaz to see the country by land.
My flight landed a few minutes early, and I have to admit those few moments of standing around as the only gringa in the airport and looking for Beatriz were a little nerve-racking. She picked me up with her younger brother and brought me "home," a gorgeous, big apartment with a spectacular view, and only a 15 minute walk to the Institute. I even have my own bathroom. And a couch in my bedroom. It's more than I could have asked for, and I have not stopped saying prayers of thanks since I landed.
Beatriz served dinner at 1pm, and her brother joined us. He didn't hesitate to ask my religion, political preferences, if I liked the Bolivian president, and what I thought about Obama, all in Spanish. There was also a 15-minute debate about whether Sabado or Domingo was the Lord's Day (Beatriz observes Sunday, her brother observes Saturday), complete with a reading from the Deuteronomy and a conversation about whether or not it is to be interpreted with the Gregorian Calendar. I'm just impressed I was able to understand the gist of what was going on. I really wanted to say that I didn't think God cared all that much, as long as you're living a good life, but I'm in Latin America and a guest in this house, and I know better than that. And I also don't know enough Spanish to communicate that yet, either.
There were also lighter topics of converation at dinner. I was impressed that I was able to communicate that I had siblings, and a niece, that I lived with univeristy students, and to learn that Beatriz studied German in college and has visited the US several times, and that her brother (Gonzalo) is a lawyer. I didn't understand about half the words, and I didn't pretend to. Beatriz and Gonzalo are very patient with me in re-wording things, and I'm very grateful for that.
It's time for a siesta of sorts. Beatriz cautioned me that I need to be well rested for Monday because after an oral evaluation, I will have four straight hours of instruction, and Spanish will be spilling out of my ears. Bueno, I said, that's the reason I'm here!
Love and mountains beyond mountains,
Kathleen
I made it!
It's been a long couple of days, but I would do it all again and again if I had to.
After another delay in Chicago and a nice sprint through the Miami airport, I boarded my flight to La Paz. I sat next to a wonderful LaPaz native, Joel, who told me that Cochabamba was the best place in Bolivia, and assured me that it would be "very easy" to book a flight from LaPaz, and it was. Going through immigration was a piece of cake. The only thing the officer said in English to me was "money." He didn't even want to see the color photo and the vaccination records I was so worried about having in hand. Go figure.
During my layover in LaPaz, I enjoyed cocoa tea with a Dominican Seminarian (who was able to figure out how to set my watch) and a budding Jesuit (who will be studying for the next six weeks at Maryknoll with me), who were both on their way to Cochabamba. We all felt the effects of the altitude. My stomach was a little queasy, and my lungs felt like I just had a good cardio workout, except I wasn't short of breath. I wandered around the terminal asking kind-looking strangers if I could borrow their cell phones to call Beatriz, and eventually got through to her with my arrival time. My new friends and I found an oxygen bar in the airport to hang out for a while, before narrowly missing our flight to Cochabamba.
I cannot express the magnificence of this city. Flying in over the Andes, Cochabamba appears out of nowhere. The name means "high fertile plain," which is exactly what it is. It's as if God took a tiny rolling pin to the middle of the Andes, and decided to build a city in the clouds. It is very urban, aside from a few civilians on horses galloping through the streets, and Beatriz assures me that her neighborhood is very, very safe. It also feels very secluded, because when you look in any direction, all you see is mountains. I cannot imagine driving through them, but I'm considering taking a bus back to LaPaz to see the country by land.
My flight landed a few minutes early, and I have to admit those few moments of standing around as the only gringa in the airport and looking for Beatriz were a little nerve-racking. She picked me up with her younger brother and brought me "home," a gorgeous, big apartment with a spectacular view, and only a 15 minute walk to the Institute. I even have my own bathroom. And a couch in my bedroom. It's more than I could have asked for, and I have not stopped saying prayers of thanks since I landed.
Beatriz served dinner at 1pm, and her brother joined us. He didn't hesitate to ask my religion, political preferences, if I liked the Bolivian president, and what I thought about Obama, all in Spanish. There was also a 15-minute debate about whether Sabado or Domingo was the Lord's Day (Beatriz observes Sunday, her brother observes Saturday), complete with a reading from the Deuteronomy and a conversation about whether or not it is to be interpreted with the Gregorian Calendar. I'm just impressed I was able to understand the gist of what was going on. I really wanted to say that I didn't think God cared all that much, as long as you're living a good life, but I'm in Latin America and a guest in this house, and I know better than that. And I also don't know enough Spanish to communicate that yet, either.
There were also lighter topics of converation at dinner. I was impressed that I was able to communicate that I had siblings, and a niece, that I lived with univeristy students, and to learn that Beatriz studied German in college and has visited the US several times, and that her brother (Gonzalo) is a lawyer. I didn't understand about half the words, and I didn't pretend to. Beatriz and Gonzalo are very patient with me in re-wording things, and I'm very grateful for that.
It's time for a siesta of sorts. Beatriz cautioned me that I need to be well rested for Monday because after an oral evaluation, I will have four straight hours of instruction, and Spanish will be spilling out of my ears. Bueno, I said, that's the reason I'm here!
Love and mountains beyond mountains,
Kathleen
AFOA
Written Friday, June 10, 2011 4pm
I said I wanted an adventure. An an adventure is what I have.
Yesterday morning (Thursday the 9th) about an hour before Jacque was scheduled to pick me up and drive me to O'Hare, I decided it was a good time to check the Visa requirements for a US tourist in Bolivia. Proof of economic solvency- check. $135 cash- check. Passport, letter of invitation- check. Visa application- wait, there's an application?! I have to fill it out before hand? And what is this about a 4x4 color photograph? And finally, my favorite, an International Travel Certificate for Proof of Vaccination for Yellow Fever. Where can I find one of those?
I'm not really sure what I was thinking. Actually, I'm sure I wasn't thinking, not looking into all of this earlier. So I spent the next two hours panicking about not being able to get into the country. But I'm at the airport now, and I have a lot of people to thank for getting here. Thank you to the seven year-old ballerina at WalMart that probably had an appoinment for her glamor shots to be taken, who let me cut in front of her for my photo, probably because I looked frantic and my eyes were swollen from blinking back tears. Thank you to my sister, who found the visa application on-line so it was ready to print off when I logged on to Karissa's computer. Thank you to Karissa, who, in her infinite patience, just let me have a freak out moment and then told me everything was going to be fine. Thank you to my mom, who left work early to head home to find my proof of vaccination. And to my Dad, who faxed me the document (even though he is hesitant that it will be accepted at the boarder). Thank you to Dana, who wasn't too upset that I didn't call her when we were finally leaving for the aiport, but had impeccable timing and came with us anyway. Thank you to Jacque, fearless Chicago driver that got me where I had to be (after a quick stop in O'Hare's taxi purgatory). Thank you to Paige, who assured me that my vaccination documentation will probably suffice, and calmed my nerves a little (I hope she's right). And to the countless friends that g-chatted, texted, called, facebooked, and e-mailed, reminding me that I am not alone and that this is all part of the "adventure" I've been anticipating for half a year.
So I'm sitting at gate H11B ready to for the first leg of my journey to Miami, take two (yesterday's was delayed several hours, so I would have missed my flight to La Paz). And the adventure is just beginning. When I arrive in La Paz, I'll be on my own to get to Cochabamba. I had a flight booked on BOA, a Bolivian airline, but missed it. So I'm hoping I can navigate my own way from La Paz to Cochabamba without a hitch.
The fact that I have limited communication with my contacts at Maryknoll and that I have to figure this out on my own was enough to motivate me to call my homestay mother, Beatriz. So I did. And it was beautiful. She picked up the phone and almost immediately said my name with exclamation. She was able to tell me that she did not speak much English, and I was able to use my rudimentary Spanish vocabulary to say "Soy en los Estados Unidos. Soy en Cochabamba manana," which I hope she understood as, "Don't try to pick me up at the airport today, I'll be there tomorrow." I think she did, because she asked me what time, and all I could tell her was that I would try to call tomorrow. I got off the phone, and was so full of emotion. Excited that I had communicated with her successfully, happy to know that she would not be waiting for me at the airport, and relieved that I was able to connect with someone who was waiting for me. Sister Cathy of Maryknoll first wrote to me of Beatriz and said, "She will welcome you warmly." From my brief conversation with Beatriz this morning, I can already tell that she will.
I said I wanted an adventure. An an adventure is what I have.
Yesterday morning (Thursday the 9th) about an hour before Jacque was scheduled to pick me up and drive me to O'Hare, I decided it was a good time to check the Visa requirements for a US tourist in Bolivia. Proof of economic solvency- check. $135 cash- check. Passport, letter of invitation- check. Visa application- wait, there's an application?! I have to fill it out before hand? And what is this about a 4x4 color photograph? And finally, my favorite, an International Travel Certificate for Proof of Vaccination for Yellow Fever. Where can I find one of those?
I'm not really sure what I was thinking. Actually, I'm sure I wasn't thinking, not looking into all of this earlier. So I spent the next two hours panicking about not being able to get into the country. But I'm at the airport now, and I have a lot of people to thank for getting here. Thank you to the seven year-old ballerina at WalMart that probably had an appoinment for her glamor shots to be taken, who let me cut in front of her for my photo, probably because I looked frantic and my eyes were swollen from blinking back tears. Thank you to my sister, who found the visa application on-line so it was ready to print off when I logged on to Karissa's computer. Thank you to Karissa, who, in her infinite patience, just let me have a freak out moment and then told me everything was going to be fine. Thank you to my mom, who left work early to head home to find my proof of vaccination. And to my Dad, who faxed me the document (even though he is hesitant that it will be accepted at the boarder). Thank you to Dana, who wasn't too upset that I didn't call her when we were finally leaving for the aiport, but had impeccable timing and came with us anyway. Thank you to Jacque, fearless Chicago driver that got me where I had to be (after a quick stop in O'Hare's taxi purgatory). Thank you to Paige, who assured me that my vaccination documentation will probably suffice, and calmed my nerves a little (I hope she's right). And to the countless friends that g-chatted, texted, called, facebooked, and e-mailed, reminding me that I am not alone and that this is all part of the "adventure" I've been anticipating for half a year.
So I'm sitting at gate H11B ready to for the first leg of my journey to Miami, take two (yesterday's was delayed several hours, so I would have missed my flight to La Paz). And the adventure is just beginning. When I arrive in La Paz, I'll be on my own to get to Cochabamba. I had a flight booked on BOA, a Bolivian airline, but missed it. So I'm hoping I can navigate my own way from La Paz to Cochabamba without a hitch.
The fact that I have limited communication with my contacts at Maryknoll and that I have to figure this out on my own was enough to motivate me to call my homestay mother, Beatriz. So I did. And it was beautiful. She picked up the phone and almost immediately said my name with exclamation. She was able to tell me that she did not speak much English, and I was able to use my rudimentary Spanish vocabulary to say "Soy en los Estados Unidos. Soy en Cochabamba manana," which I hope she understood as, "Don't try to pick me up at the airport today, I'll be there tomorrow." I think she did, because she asked me what time, and all I could tell her was that I would try to call tomorrow. I got off the phone, and was so full of emotion. Excited that I had communicated with her successfully, happy to know that she would not be waiting for me at the airport, and relieved that I was able to connect with someone who was waiting for me. Sister Cathy of Maryknoll first wrote to me of Beatriz and said, "She will welcome you warmly." From my brief conversation with Beatriz this morning, I can already tell that she will.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Three days to go!
So here is what I know:
On Friday afternoon, after almost 24 hours of traveling, a woman named Beatriz (or someone from her family) is going to meet me at the airport in Cochabamba and drive me to my home for the next six weeks. On Monday, I'll begin an intense, in-depth, love affair with the Spanish language. (I'm praying it doesn't turn out to be a love-hate relationship, although I'm sure we'll have our moments).
And that's about all I can tell you. Having so many unknowns makes me incredibly nervous; I've had a couple of nightmares about traveling alone. I'm also exhilarated by the idea of losing myself in a world that's completely foreign to me, and taking in everything that Bolivia has to offer.
I've been cautioned not to get myself too wrapped up in global travelers, if I should meet them. I'm going to Bolivia for a reason- to be in Bolivia. To meet Bolivians, to learn about Bolivian culture, and, as one Chilean gentleman that I met in Prague said, to learn to speak "Bolvian" (which he was quick to point out, is much different than Chilean). He told me that Bolivians "sing" their Spanish. Well, I love singing, so I think I'm going to love this place.
On Friday afternoon, after almost 24 hours of traveling, a woman named Beatriz (or someone from her family) is going to meet me at the airport in Cochabamba and drive me to my home for the next six weeks. On Monday, I'll begin an intense, in-depth, love affair with the Spanish language. (I'm praying it doesn't turn out to be a love-hate relationship, although I'm sure we'll have our moments).
And that's about all I can tell you. Having so many unknowns makes me incredibly nervous; I've had a couple of nightmares about traveling alone. I'm also exhilarated by the idea of losing myself in a world that's completely foreign to me, and taking in everything that Bolivia has to offer.
I've been cautioned not to get myself too wrapped up in global travelers, if I should meet them. I'm going to Bolivia for a reason- to be in Bolivia. To meet Bolivians, to learn about Bolivian culture, and, as one Chilean gentleman that I met in Prague said, to learn to speak "Bolvian" (which he was quick to point out, is much different than Chilean). He told me that Bolivians "sing" their Spanish. Well, I love singing, so I think I'm going to love this place.
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