Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling....life can always start up anew.

Sometimes it really weirds me out that I speak another language. And (brushing off the haters) that I speak it so well. I'm in the middle of typing a project outline for a community branding campaign that my water committee wants to undertake and I was looking at my notes from the meeting and trying to funnel it into the organized format of the project design and I was like, ''Shit! I know what I'm doing!''

Obviously just in terms of language, the actual project scares the bejeezus out of me because it's monstrous in size. I'm probably going to be the Debbie Downer and go to the next meeting with some pared down goals and a reduced number of objectives. But regardless of the project itself, the element that I can't help but focus on now is the language. I think as much as I want to think of myself as Tica (or, in past lives, as Bolivian and Ecuadorian), I'm still definitely from the United States. My character, my personality, my expressions and my ''way of be'' - while not unaffected by these stints living abroad - are still distinctly from the United States and shaped by the English language. So maybe it's not so weird that the days when I think completely in Spanish, when I laugh at the jokes that people make in another language and when I catch myself being so damn competent at speaking (these are actually quite rare, when I pull off an interaction in Spanish effortlessly, but are increasing in number)...I just feel like sometimes I get out of my own brain and end up asking myself, ''Whoa. Who are you?''

Ok so that sounds like multiple personalities floating around in there - not so, says I. I feel more staid and more even-keeled than I ever have when I've lived in foreign countries. I don't feel like I'm compromising myself for the sake of fitting in or getting along the way I might've done (might've done/definitely did) when I was 16 in Bolivia or with a bunch of friends from college in Ecuador. But it is disturbing every once in awhile to think that I didn't grow up with Spanish as a kid. How then, can it come so naturally now? Because I don't feel really that different, it's an illogical gut reaction to feel like a completely different person, someone who exists outside of all the experiences that I had growing up and living in Collegeville.

C'est la vie, right? We all grow up. We all become different people than we were when we were kids. Duh, and please excuse this banal revelation.  But it's maybe why I relate so much to music from Arcade Fire and MGMT. There's something real there in the music about feeling defined by the place where you grew up and defined by the decision to leave it. It used to be a feeling like, ''I can't wait to get out of here.'' And now it's like, ''It was only ever boring, not bad.'' Finding more in common with my parents and neighbors than I would have thought possible. So I don't know, maybe what I'm getting at is that when I operate in Spanish, I'm more prone to question myself (again...who the heck are you?) and it leads to more reflection not just about where I am now, but where I'm coming from, too.

Gringa pretty and Tica pretty....

Beauty. What a...transitive concept. This was pulled abruptly to the front of my mind by two events that have happened recently. The first is pretty straightforward and begins awhile back. Sometime before In Service Training, in those first three months, I went to Santa Cruz in my pajamas. I had woken up late, it was really hot and honestly, my pjs are gym shorts and a tee shirt. So I put on my flip flops and got on the bus just in time to make it to our nearest city center. If I remember correctly, all I needed was dog food. That is to say, I wasn't going to hit up a grocery store or a restaurant looking like a scrub gringuita. I still may have gotten ice cream, though...not sure.

Well, I didn't realize that this was a big deal until some other volunteers came to visit my site. These are my two best girlfriends here and as usual when talking to my friends, I forget how we broached the subject, but I told them about this day that I went in to town with gym shorts. Their reaction seriously made me reconsider whether I would ever leave my house in gym shorts again, even just to eat breakfast at my host mom's house. Now, in my defense, one of the girls lived in Brasil and the other is Latina. But regardless of what a girl's background is...yeah. It was a mistake for me to go out in public like that. Let me tell you why.

For some reason, even though I am living in the dust or mud capital of the world depending on what day it is, women in rural Costa Rica get done up to go anywhere. This is in stark contrast to the housework mode...I've swept and mopped alongside my host sister, both of us in tee shirts that are falling apart or shorts with holes in them and wearing flip flops that are only holding together after many applications of super glue. Sweating, looking like I'm homeless - this is kind of the norm for me and it doesn't feel out of place on the family compound. But something changes for these ladies when they have to go afuera, out. Or not even out, the best example being my host mom. One morning she was wielding a pick ax because we were moving around some dirt in our front yard in an attempt to make the ground flatter. In the afternoon of the same day, we had a procession for the Virgin in our town and my word. My host mom who I'd never seen out of a skirt, apron and holey spaghetti strap was suddenly in high-waisted jeans with an orange ruffly blouse tucked in and make up and wedges for chrissake. I think I was wearing jean capris and a tee shirt, maybe I'd put a headband on? All I remember feeling is way way way underdressed compared to all the women around me. It's the same when a woman leaves to go to Santa Cruz for errands or - the most fancy she'll get - to go out dancing on a weekend.

I would have given up by now. Clearly, I proved that with the shorts-in-the-city brain fart. It amazes me that even though every person in town will frequently see women at their dirtiest, sweatiest worst that the ladies still try. I just don't have the time or energy for stuff like that!

Or do I? Story the second. I was in Santa Cruz for some errands (thank goodness dressed like a real person this time because like I said, I'm never committing the cardinal sin of leaving town looking less than like a princess - that is to say, skinny jeans, a sleeveless blouse that matched my dress sandals and jewelry that all matched) and I saw a salon. And I thought...gee, it has been awhile since I've even looked at my hands. Maybe I'll see how much a manicure is. It wasn't too bad, so I sat down and started to get my nails done. Small tangent: It was SO wonderful, this manicure was definitely atypical for Costa Rica because they did the whole exfoliating bit and the hand massage. Heaven. Anyway, so we get to the part about what color I want my nails and I say, ''French tip, please.'' Tips are done and the muchacha says, ''What design?''

In the olden days (this past January) I was appalled by designs on nails. When I went for a birthday pedicure with my mom and my sister and my sister told the women in the salon that it was my birthday they offered me a free design. And I, wincing, tried to choose the most tasteful thing that I could. Notably incongruous with standards of nail fashion in Costa Rica and, I must say, I have succumbed. Because when the lady asked me, ''What design?'' I got REALLY excited. I asked what colors she had, if she could do flowers, did she have silver for the center of the flowers? Or maybe a series of hearts, all different and bright colors and each outlined in white? I had that on my toes a few months back and it was so much fun to look at every day! Are my nails too small to add in some shimmery green leaves, too?

Watch out, basically. Because I'm going to need a lot of understanding as I transition back into, say, a world that looks down on things that are tacky. In some ways I'm happy that beige and gray are my cultural inheritance - they really do look good. Streamlined, earthy tones...big green light. That is a go, they look nice on me. But I do wonder if I want to completely give up this strange definition of feminine that I am just beginning to explore. Not ready to match my eyeshadow to my shoes, but hmm...I do get a kick out of seeing my floral french tip nails.

Darien, this is for you...but you're hotter than an opossum

The last few nights I've been almost asleep when I hear a frantic clucking from behind my host mom's house. My eyes unwillingly open and yup...my window, which faces the ''big house'', is suddenly and completely illuminated as my host mom wakes up and is on her feet in seconds. ''Hoo-leh! Hoo-leh!'' She yells, dashing out the door and toward the chicken pen.

We have a problem with foxes.

I don't know how this was the settled upon scare tactic for foxes – why it's different than the noise that my host mom uses to round up chickens, get the pig to move along or caution the baby that something's hot. But I heard a lot of hoo-leh tonight especially. We're all awake because of my niece's baptism although the party ended awhile ago. We hear the telltale panicking of the hens and I hear the telltale call of a woman who wants to get rid of a fox. Tonight though, my host mom is fed up. She's had it. Sick of this shit. This normally very caring, nature conscious and animal loving individual (um, well into her 50s, btw) calls me out of my house and says, ''Matamos a ese bandido.'' Let's kill this bandit.

So, I asked her like...how? How do you catch a fox, isn't that notoriously difficult? I asked, ''Lo da golpes, como con palo?'' Do you hit it, like...with a stick? No such luck for the fox. My host mom replies that they'll kill it with machetazos, by striking it with a machete. Ok. So I stood for about ten seconds contemplating whether or not I wanted to see this, be a part of it. Run around at 10 o'clock at night with a machete where my greatest problem is probably not the fox, but the snakes and the ants. Ten seconds before I said out loud in English, ''When the hell am I ever going to be invited to this type of party again?''

Cut to me, after running around for fifteen minutes in the dark, machete in hand and listening to my host mom say, ''Be careful.'' I'm standing in the back of my aunt's yard, whistling and calling to all the dogs in our family to come help out. My cousin is up in the lemon tree with his flashlight and he has sights on the fox and finally manages to knock it down. Only one dog came (Doky as it turns out is a big loser and was chilling out watching TV – no joke – the whole time) but as soon as this fox hit the ground, the battle was won. I didn't even have to pretend like I was going to machetazo this animal. A few other family dogs showed up soon and then the show was really over.

Not before my host mom had her fun though. She picked up the fox (which really looks more like a large, agile opossum) and started carrying it for home. Earlier in the night, the food that she had set aside on a plate to eat was stolen by a neighbor's dog and she commented that now she'd get dinner.

Pause.

''¿Cómo? What? You...eat. It?'' She nodded seriously and said, ''Of course, what else would you do with a fox?'' And then she cracked up laughing as she carried it across the street and threw it over the fence into the monte, or tall weedy grass. The most disturbing thing is, before she threw it over the fence, I had mentally prepared myself to give it a good sport tasting. Maybe she seasons it really well. It can't be worse than gator or piranha or guinea pig. At least don't start freaking out right now.

I guess this could go into a journal of some sort about just how many completely normal/totally indescribably insane details there are in my life. And how those two ideas are not mutually exclusive.

i wish i even knew the definition for prodigal outside of this context

I decided that my homecoming in November for Thanksgiving will be like that of the prodigal son (gender discrepancy aside). Think about it - I've used up all my money. I've moved around a little bit the past year. There's a pig in my back yard and I frequently fall asleep and awaken to the stench of this animal. My clothes are in pretty bad shape. I'm going to come home and y'all are going to meet me with a coat. And then we're going to have a big feast. Everyone will rejoice that I'm still alive, even if they secretly wonder what the hell made me want to leave in the first place.

In the meantime, being in site is way more fun than I remembered prior to AVC. Today I had a great conversation with a community member and we started planning a culture, health and environment fair for the kids from our school and three other nearby schools. This is part of a larger project called, ''Las Pozas es Pura Vida'', Las Pozas being the name of my town. The project was not my idea, but I'm definitely throwing my name into the mix and trying to get this thing off the ground. It's a project that our water committee wants to do and it focuses on environmental education, reforestation and solid waste disposal. Part of the education is this day-long fair, and I am SO EXCITED that other people in my community are the ones who thought this up. Motivated people + Peace Corps Volunteers' time and energy = something beautiful.

The coolest part is that ''Las Pozas es Pura Vida'' is almost like a branding campaign that we're trying to do in the community. Like, every time that a government institution comes to our town to have health talks or give a workshop on how to treat recyclables, we can put up posters that say this phrase and people will hopefully begin to identify with it. Pura Vida, b-t-dubs is just to say, ''Hip and with it'' or ''Alright'' and maybe even ''Really cool, man.'' With a lot of hard work and a benevolent higher power, this might work.

It's officially cold here in my beloved, booming metropolis of Las Pozas. 76°F and I'm thinking, ''Maybe I should put on sweatpants.'' Like, legit goosebumps. And with all the rain all the time, it just is a damp kind of chilly, too. No joke – earlier this week it rained for three days straight. With frequent downpours. It stopped today for a few hours. But I'm expecting it to start again at any moment. Which makes the refrigerator an essential element of my daily routine. What? Yeah. You know the fastest way to dry something during rainy season is to drape it over the coils on the back of your fridge? Now you do. Although that actually only applies if you don't have a dryer that tumbles and heats your raiment to a fluffy, luxurious perfection.

Mmmm...remember the days that I relied on the dryer to shrink my clothes. Remember the days when I put on jeans and did a dance of pain because the buttons were still hot. Remember the days that clean laundry smelled clean and underwear took two years to fall apart instead of two months. The only thing that Costa Rica has on the U.S. in terms of laundry is that they've come out with new money, plastic bills that can survive a round or two of washing when mistakenly left in pockets.

I've had this thought several times and I'm too lazy to go back and see if I already blogged about it – but what I'm doing, all the clothes washing and mopping and manual labor and stuff, it's not novel to the Alcock family. You know? Like, several generations ago if I had said to my then mother, ''Mom, mom! I got the clothes in before the rain came and they're dry! They're still dry, I noticed the rain coming and I got them in before they got wet again!'' my mother would have looked at me and might have thought, ''This one won't be such a liability to the family after all.'' Certainly I would not get praise that my host mom offers when she sees my victorious swagger through the front yard with twenty rescued garments hanging off me in various ways as the rain starts to pour down. She is way too nice to me and far too understanding.

Also another reason why my host mom is baller – I had lightly fried ham for dinner. Not like ham cold cuts, not bacon or salchichón. Like, on the bone proper ham. Like it would be at Christmas. Still had rice and beans, no asparagus or cheesy scalloped potatoes. And the pig is still out in the back yard, so that's kind of a bummer. But ham. Ham. Ham. It was so wonderful.

Time to revise my friends on FB

This blog is going to sound...angsty. Probably. Erm, I just saw a Facebook post about someone picking out color swatches with ''the boy'' and then something about finishing up baking the pumpkin roll.

Fuck that shit.

Should I absolutely suspend my Facebook account if stuff like this makes me so upset? I think not, but it sure as hell is time to go through and delete a few people who are not really friends. It tends to be those fringe people who say stuff that really sets me off. I asked myself, ''Is is jealousy? Is it because my life is not like that and I want it to be?'' Definitely not. I don't have to be homeless and living off a government allowance for the rest of my life to be happy. In fact, to me that would be the opposite of happy after I have finished my volunteer service. But the domestic married baking crap that a certain population of friends on Facebook seem to cherish...yo, it is time to dump them. If for no other reason than that it is annoying as hell to try and be advancing the idea that women can be single and independent and strong in Costa Rica only to read these posts and feel inferior somehow at the hands of my own home culture.

Are you going to tell me that it's that woman's right to freely and independently decide that she wants to be married, that she delights in the ability to make a home for herself and her future husband? That tranquility and time and money to make pumpkin rolls is actually an indicator of her success in demonstrating her own particular strengths? You could say that. But I'd probably respond by finding a pumpkin roll and then smashing it in your face. Illogical, I know.

I'm being super harsh. If it were only one post in my news feed, it'd be one thing. But it's indicative of a lot of the ladies from Messiah College, both graduated and currently studying. Get married. Find a job. Live happy (at least never admit that you're not happy). Have a baby. Raise them to be good Christians and do it all over again.

Am I taking Facebook way too seriously as an indicator of how people really feel? Yeah. So fuck that shit, too. Maybe I should suspend my account.

San Jose is effing cold all the time.

All Volunteer Conference.  What a trip.

All Volunteer Conferences (AVC) are no longer the norm amongst countries with Peace Corps programs. However, I find I agree with our country director's opening remarks – AVC in Costa Rica is an amazing opportunity to connect with other volunteers and know about their projects, expand our network of support and also make some new friends. Being in community is like playing Who Wants to be a Millionaire – I'm constantly in the hot seat, trying to answer questions and solve problems. AVC was like being given an unlimited number of phone-a-friend lifelines.

Even if I hadn't gotten a ton of technical information from the sessions, even if the administrative sessions hadn't been helpful...the social aspect was well worth it. Not just the de-stressing moments of hitting a bar with several people ''just like me'', but also hearing about their frustrations, successes and rashes (what a huge relief to find out I'm not alone in having a constant rash on my bottom) outside of the official schedule. The Crowne Plaza's lobby, Paseo Colón, Mac's Bar and the Steinvorth turned into alternative meetings of sorts. I mean, I guess it's like any sort of business conference or business trip – even outside of the meetings you're with a bunch of like minded people who are dealing with the same stuff and so naturally it's a good environment to talk about it, even after hours. Whatever, I just never realized how cathartic that could actually be.

Stories from AVC! This is where it gets interesting. Story the first: I had two girlfriends come visit my site before we went to AVC. This was AWESOME. I think it's so important to me that when I talk about my site there are people who can put what I'm saying into a certain context and that it be the right context. So that's two more people who can do that – and thanks for coming up to Guanacaste, muchachas! We went dancing in a neighboring town to the conjunto ''Son del Barrio''. This band plays merengue, salsa, bachata and cumbia, of course. They're a big deal in my region and the dance turned out to be crowded and a lot of fun.

Story the second: There was a talent show the second night of AVC. I had forgotten to bring my harmonica, but never fear...my harmonica accountability partner (we're supposed to make each other practice, but really we just justify each others' laziness every time we see each other) brought hers and let me borrow it for the show. So I signed up to play and about half an hour later was like, ''WHAT WAS I THINKING?!? TAKE IT BAAAAAAACK...'' But also, other volunteers had been asking me when I was going to do stand up. So I ended up introducing myself in a way that made people laugh and then played two songs on the harmonica. Jack of all trades, master of none, haha. I played Simple Gifts and then two verses of In the Curve. I was decent enough that I got picked as a finalist (I didn't know it was a contest until the end). All around a self-esteem boosting experience.

Story the third: The self-esteem deflating experience. The last night of AVC found all the volunteers at a bar that had been rented for our use (erm, actually...not sure it was rented, people kept saying that but there were also a looooot of Costa Ricans there, too so...anyway, it was the designated destination that night). There we were, having a good time and a lot of people in costume because it was a decade themed dance to celebrate Peace Corps' 50^th birthday this year. It was getting late and I'd had a substantial amount to drink, though not enough to be messed up. People had been going up on the small stage to do Karaoke all night including such classics as Say It Ain't So and It's What I Got...songs that all the volunteers went crazy for at a decades dance. Woohoo the 1990s. But it was during the Twist and Shout that I got the most wild. And the Twist and Shout was my downfall that night. While twisting and shouting I turned towards a friend and smashed my head into the lip of his beer bottle. Pretty soon I was pushing my way through the crowd to the bathroom, holding onto my left eyebrow and bleeding quite freely. Volunteers and Ticos were very helpful in getting me ice from the bar and a bandaid.

'Tis but a flesh wound. But it'll scar. And in the meantime, I get a lot of looks from people in my community. Everyone wants to know what happened and there's no translation for, ''You should see the other guy.'' I tell the kids I fell and I tell the adults the truth. Hopefully starting tomorrow I'll stop putting the butterfly bandages on it and that'll take away a lot of the, ''Oh my God what happened?!''

No pictures, sorry! The only good thing to come of having my camera stolen – there are no pictures of me like this.

So now I'm back in site...I miss the novio because he started work in San José this past week. It's weird to be in my community without him here to talk to, but by the same token now I have a bunch of free time. On tap for this week is beginning to plan a community health and culture fair. Also, project design and management workshop for my development association and the sports committee. And now I'm beginning to wrap up my English class for adult beginners. Continuing to practice with the folkloric dance group. That'll keep me busy until vacation at the end of November. When I return, I want to enjoy the Christmas season throughout December. Then in January I want to start English with the kids in the school and that's probably when the health and culture fair will be.

Looking beyond January makes me kind of panicky, so I won't do it, haha.

Quest Blogger!

Haha!  I meant to write ''Guest Blogger'' as the title, but you know what?  Quest Blogger might be more accurate.  Stephanie and I just spent the weekend in San José together, occupied by distinct medical concerns.  I've gotten to know Stephanie pretty well, given that she is a volunteer in the Children Youth and Families program (the two programs that arrived at the same time were separated for most of training).  However, she and her husband Chris (who I did get to know throughout training because he's Rural Community Development like me and also like me, is an amazing human being) live in a community not too far from my own and it's given me an opportunity to get to know Steph for which I am forever grateful.

We were in San José when I was reminded of a thought that I had previously that sometimes I'd like to feature guest bloggers so that you can see what other volunteers are up to, feeling, thinking, loving, hating and just generally experiencing.  I think it'll be fun for you all too because it's a way for you to get to know some of the people I'm closest to.  They're my coworkers, but more than that, they're my extended family.
So without further adieu (because this was a lot of adieu)...here's Steph's brainworkings in her own words:

I love cities.  Minneapolis, Chicago, Omaha… and now San Jose, Costa Rica.  I think it’s beautiful.

The streets are a symphony of car horns and street vendors, sometimes accompanied by a descant of rain on asphalt.  The smell is an electric mix of fried food and diesel, unappealing to the appetite but a sensory experience all its own.  The real beauty, though, is the movement.

 Endless lines of cars following each other, flowing down Paseo Colón, the blues and greens and silvers blurring together, here and there a car leaving the flow as another joins, and all of it literally synchronized by the turning of the samáforo. 

Endless lines of people streaming down Avenida Central, the whole avenue seeming to undulate as bodies maneuver around each other to find favorite shops and stalls. 

The plaza filled with pigeons, hopping in syncopation until something frightens them to flight and the syncopation is in one instant overtaken by an almost frightening unity; as of one mind, the whole flock lifts up and circles the plaza in layers (some only two feet off the ground, others nearly twenty) until some imperceptible leader decides it’s safe to land and the syncopation begins again.

And then there you are, in the middle of all of it.  You can’t not become part of this organism.  Even if you stop and stand perfectly still, that only causes the movement to flow around you (which, I suppose, is how I’ve come to see all of this). 

And as beautiful as it is, as much as I loved growing up and living in cities, it still feels amazing to come home to a plate of black beans, white rice, and scrambled eggs in the campo.          

If you're going to San Franci....oh wait...what? San Jose? There's no song for that.

So, due to some medical appointments, I am spending the weekend in San José. I am fortunate enough that one of my friends was able to schedule her test to see if she does in fact have intestinal worms at the same time, so I am not here alone. This is a huge relief. I realized how much of a good thing this was today as we were trying to find our way back to the hotel from the hospital and I made consistent, grand errors regarding directions and landmarks. If I were here by myself, y'all would probably never see me again. Also, I hate getting a cab when I ''know'' where I'm going. Thrift and pride are okay in some situations. They are probably not so great when trying to get around San José.

It wouldn't be so bad if San José had clearly marked street names and distinctive store fronts. Well, mostly for me the distinctive store fronts. But every place sells the same clothing, on every block there's two Costa Rica-style cafés and every six blocks or so towards downtown there's a big plaza/park area.

Don't misunderstand me – I am not complaining about staying in the capital. Last night there were some sort of hipster musicians recording in our hotel, so I went to sleep with the sounds of some blues-y mellow electric stuff. This morning I woke up and lazed around under the covers for awhile in a queen-size bed. Then I got up and took a scalding hot shower and blow dried my hair. Breakfast was outside and it was not 90 degrees. All in all, quite satisfactory.

Something interesting to note...in Santa Cruz, the city closest to me in Guanacaste, I would never expect to find bookstores or gift stores that catered to foreign interests. There's not really anything sold there that's typical of Costa Rica. I guess I'm saying that there's no real industry for tourism in the city itself, which is so strange because Santa Cruz is the hub for the beaches on my coast. Yesterday I went into a bookstore with travel guides, recycled paper notecards with Costa Rica themes on them, parrot earrings made out of reused materials, soap made from local goat milk, fair trade coffee, etc. And I was thinking, ''Wow, I could get gifts for people here.'' It's definitely not like that in Santa Cruz, although Santa Cruz has it's fair share of tourists moving through. It's definitely more oriented to sustaining the local population with not much high end merchandise (by that I mean Roxy and Quicksilver) or international food chains (á la Burger King or Taco Bell). Just an observation.

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But now I'm into day two in San José. And I'm thinking – well. What is there left to do? It's weird that the last few weeks I've been excited about going home to visit. The last few days before coming here, I was pretty excited about having an appointment with the medical team so that I could come to the big city for a few days. Now in San José, I'm excited to go back to site. To eat normal food and have cafecito in the afternoon. Maybe not to be sooo hot, but at least not to be cold, haha. Oh my gosh, I'm going to die by freezing to death in November.

P.S. random thought, but even though I'm getting back into Collegeville around 9pm on Monday the 21^st...I'm eating a buffalo chicken cheesesteak. I'm going to call Bravo's ahead of time when we're ten minutes out and be like, ''Yo, last order of the night...I need this.''