all the cute things in my life right now

 my dog, doky

 my cousin and my niece below and finally my puppy again...thank you mrs. doud for the puppy supplies!

Life is interesting, to say the least.

I'm going to try and really make sure that I get everything down from yesterday and hope that the bugs in my house don't get in the way.  If too many of them land on me, I usually take it as a sign that it's time to tuck myself in for the night.

Yesterday I went all around town handing out invitations to the general assembly that the development association of my town is hosting this Saturday.  When I say “all around” I mean, like, places that I did not know previously existed in my town.  That's difficult for me to admit, considering that there's a population of 250 people and I've been here for two months already.  Makes me wonder what I've been doing with my time, which is exactly what I told people when I handed them the invites.  There were people who were clearly like, “Who are you?” though Ticos are too respectful of the rules of social etiquette to actually ask out loud.  So the process went 1) hand out an invitation 2) read the basics out loud in case the person does not read and 3) apologize for not having come by sooner to introduce myself.  And promise to come back soon.

I had to cross the same river three different times to get to some of the more backwoods houses.  The water was well up past my knees, which is not what I was imagining when the person accompanying me on this task said, “You don't mind getting your feet wet, do you?”  I had wondered once or twice why people complained that my town was so far behind its neighboring towns in terms of development, but I no longer doubt that this is the case.  I had thought of my town, “Okay:  Soccer field, church, town hall, school.  We're doing okay!”  But that's just the center of town, I realized.  I walked through a field/bog where clay is taken for the local artisans' ceramics trade.  I walked in between some corn fields down a cow path.  I got attacked by a dog.  I lost my shoe in a road that should probably be leveled before it rains again (like, in an hour or so) or people will be living in forced isolation.  Then I found my shoe and kept walking, eventually arriving at the house of a family that will be hard to forget.

I know the boy from the family, he plays soccer on our town's team and he seems like a good kid.  If I have thought before that the main square of my community is the middle of nowhere (even if it is at the center of my heart), I would have no idea how to describe the remote-ness of this house.  It's very inside the woods.  I don't know how to express it any differently, haha.  I handed the dad an invitation and he kind of started to go off about the development association's failings to my friend.  The mom motioned for me to sit next to her daughter on a bench, but soon thereafter invited me into their home.  Or rather, I suppose it was more of like an open-air addition that connected to the house, but the structure is not so important – just what was in it.

The local ceramics trade is really big a few towns over, and I mean “big” in the way that it's well-known in the country and even internationally depending what nerd-circle you run in (be it historical, artistic, anthropological, etc.).  Previous to seeing the contents of this outdoor workshop, I had no idea that people in my community made the same ceramics.  But sure enough there were mountains of decorative comales and tinajas – tortilla cooking plates and urns painted in the typical indigenous Chorotega designs.  Before I had time to verbalize my admiration for the pieces, the señora told me to pick one out so her daughter could seal the paint and I could take it with me.  Obviously I was like, “No, no, I couldn't...” but it turns out I so can.  I'm super psyched about the vessel I have, it really is a beautiful keepsake.

Anyway, the gifting of the ceramics sparked a conversation about how they are made, the paints used, the process of mixing the clay with sand, everything that had to do with making a finished piece.  She gave me a little vase to polish, and I learned that in ancient times there was a stone that the indigenous peoples used to rub the surface of the pottery in order to make it smooth to paint.  Nowadays, due to the scarcity of this stone, shampoo bottles are cut to pieces and used much like sandpaper to smooth the pottery and give it luster.  And when her husband was done talking to my friend, the señora called him over to give me a demonstration of how he uses his pottery wheel to make the ceramics.  Nothing grand, it looks like a spool of thread, only about the size of a water bottle.  And he turns it with his hand while he shapes the clay with his other hand.  Jeez, but it was incredible.

There's a lot of stuff said about the artisans' ceramics in my area.  That one town hogs all the tourists, that another is stingy with the resources within their town limits, that the ceramics trade is dropping off, that my town has been excluded in the ceramics boom.  All that chatter and what it comes down to is someone sitting on a plastic stool, using a tool made of a corn cob to bring order and beauty to some particularly stiff mud.

I got to try it myself and it's no surprise I couldn't do it.  Just a fact I'm getting used to lately – especially in Costa Rica – there are some things I can't just pick up and do as well as I'd like.  The best part of trying it was going inside the house to wash my hands.  To top everything I'd already seen, there was an ANCIENT mother-in-law perched on the arm of a wooden chair like some tiny paranoid bird, feet off the ground and in the seat of the chair itself.  She kind of looked at me and I think she processed my presence.  I think, but it was dark inside so maybe not.  Just another thing to add to my list of, “If only my brain could take pictures” moments, a creepy and quiet grandma in a hidden house in a part of the world that probably less than 100 people have visited.

How many people had your parking space at the grocery store today?  Probably 100 and a different 100 tomorrow.  So my mind is like, completely blown.

I teach now. Go figure.

WHAT a rush.  I am preparing for my first English class, which will be tonight.  I've got all kinds of phrases floating around in my head that sound teacher-y and I can't wait to just point at someone and have them be responsible for giving me an answer.  Dr. Rego, what drove me mad in Con Law had a method, and I am so excited to try it out myself.

“Dedo” means finger in Spanish and in Pre-Service Training we learned about the “Dedocracy” in classrooms and meetings.  If you're not getting answers, just point.  I'm also reminded of Mr. Rinda's snarky take on teaching government in high school.  “This is a dictatorship.  I'm the dick, and you're the taters.”  ¡Que poderrrrr!, what power!  I love it.

--------------------------------------------------------------

So, class was pretty successful.  At least, I feel like it was.  The class knows that when they come in, there's the date to copy into their books.  Then we played Whisper Down the Lane in Spanish to demonstrate that even in our native language we can have difficulties communicating.  I talked to them about how we're all just starting out learning English and because we all communicate differently, there are some things we could do to level the playing field.  Then BAM I brought out my list of classroom expectations that I'd written out on newsprint paper.  Arrive on time; complete your assignments; participate in class with respect; no cell phones; and remove yourself quietly if need be.

Excuse me, but I am totally legit.

Then we moved onto what I called the fundamentals of classroom communication.  These are commands such as “sit down”, “copy”, and “get out your homework”.  We also worked with requests such as “Can you repeat that, please?” and “What does ______ mean?”  I read out loud in Spanish situations, one at a time, for which they could use these phrases.  Then students chose what they thought would be the most appropriate command, question or request from the board and spoke it aloud in English.

We finished early, actually, which makes me think I didn't do enough repetition exercises.  Like, they understood what I was getting at and that made me really happy.  But producing it themselves is what I was lacking.  That's the plan for this next class – mad repetition, but not memorization per se.  Memorization of long grammar or vocab lists kind of freaks me out, probably because of the way that I learned Spanish.  I had a great base from high school Spanish classes that were focused on using Spanish in real life situations.  And then I got to a real-life situation during study abroad in Bolivia and dang...when you're hungry, you learn pretty fast how to ask about food.

So The goal of the class is to be able to speak because, if I'm being frank, that's all I'm good for when it comes to English.  Me and grammar ain't close friends.  The next three months are just totally focused on understanding spoken English and being able to appropriately reciprocate in a conversation held at a basic level.  That's not a bad goal, right?

I have succumbed

I just had the best breakdown of a telenovela ever.  I asked my host sister, mid-program, if the lady asking for the Virgin's help in finding her supposedly died-as-a-baby daughter knew that it was actually the girl in the pew a few rows back.  This was the discussion amongst my two host sisters, my host mom and myself that followed...

“No, she doesn't know yet.”

“Yes, she does!  The priest told her when she was in the hospital.”

“Mom, don't be dumb, she was unconscious and she thought it was all a dream.”

“No, it wasn't the first time she was in the hospital, it was after when the...”

“Mom!  You're wrong, it was definitely the first time when she was knocked out.

“Look, Lily, the priest is the girl's father with this woman, and he knows the truth, but because he's been hiding the fact all this time he doesn't want to say now.”

“Wait, but isn't the man that the girl is in love with the son of the woman who is her real mother?”  “No,” my host sister corrects me, “He's the step-son.  The woman married his father when he was just a baby.  But it's still wrong for them to be together.”

“It's not wrong, they're not blood relations, but she'll probably end up marrying that other guy anyway.”

“Ay mami!  You're wrong!”

Whoa.  That was intense.  And I'm actually starting to care.  I used to have a moral objection to watching soap operas.  If you've sat down and watched an hour of early-afternoon TV, you can agree it's pretty easy to forgo the gripping, original plots and the oh-so-real interpretations of the characters.  For integrity's sake, I tried to skip out on the telenovela phenom when I got to Costa Rica.  But after watching a few episodes (it's very important for me to integrate into tico culture, you know) I realized that the reason soaps suck is because they're a cover of the real deal.  I generally have nothing against covers – Weezer's Lady Gaga/MGMT mash up is pretty sick.  I like pretty much every movie based on late 19^th century English literature that's come out recently, and they all have antecedent BBC miniseries.  And Nicole does a great Jay-Z, you should ask her about it sometime.  But for some reason, it's impossible to recreate the magical mixture of drama, suspense, family intrigue and boobs that make up a Latin telenovela.

It makes me wonder who writes for these...if there even is a script when they film?  Or is it more of a big-picture operation?  Like, “We just have to get him involved with a gang somehow by the end of the week.”  Anyway, I'd like to sit in one time in a room with writers discussing how to go about developing a plot that always seems to be free of the constraints of time and space that normally govern the lives of real people...

 “Well, they met and he was kind of embarrassed to ask her out on a date.  And this week she can't stand it anymore so she just kisses him.”

“That's brilliant, José!  Cue the brave, romantic music and then he'll suddenly have the gumption to ask her to marry him!”

“Don't get ahead of yourself, man, remember that what she wants above all is a family.  So first she gets him to steal a baby...we'll have to put the wedding at two weeks from now.”

Or something like that.  It's kind of a nice release, actually, to watch these novelas.  I enjoy watching other people have dream-like, super-confusing lives (instead of myself).  You have to figure that this happened to somebody, somewhere, at some point, right?.  Cue my father: “Child, there is a difference between television and real life!”  I'm sorry, Dad, I didn't catch that.  I was watching the girl who's poor reject her indigent boyfriend because she has to marry the rich and evil Argentinian to pay for her papa's life-saving heart surgery.

But you were saying...?

Bus Olympics

Today, I got back to my site from Fourth of July celebrations in San José.  The San José bus takes me to Santa Cruz, and the Santa Cruz bus takes me almost the rest of the way.  The three o'clock bus stops about a kilometer or two up the highway from my town and there's nothing to do but hit the pavement – I mean, the dirt.  The first time I took the three o'clock, I thought that this last stop was a regular stop.  I just happened to  be the last passenger.  I am SO rural that I'm further away from the city than all of these Costa Ricans! I thought.  It's not the first time I've had a silent and solitary competition with the people around me, trying to win points for something completely trivial.  Look at all the people getting off the bus, I thought.  They were unconscious that they had just participated in that day's particular Olympics.

 “And in the category for Extreme Bad Ass-ery the gold medal is awarded to...”

So there I sat for thirty seconds, extremely self-satisfied until I realized how much time had lapsed.  They say that Peace Corps is really high highs and really low lows, often very close together.  I went from being the most far-flung, hardcore, country-living person on the bus to instead being a clueless gringa with a weird, inappropriately triumphant look on  her face.  The bus driver, having left the vehicle to go into the pulpería and get a soda, saw me and decided to tap on the outside of my window, chopping at his neck with his hand to indicate that we were at the end of the line.  That's when I realized that the motor has been turned off for quite some time.

So today, like that day (it feels like a light year may have passed since then), I gathered up my bags, thanked the driver, and started walking.  Today I had a bunch of bags from my trip, so the walk felt a little longer than usual.  But overall, not too bad.  People in my town are generally appalled that I walk the twenty minutes instead of trying to get a ride, but it's probably the only true alone time that I have, so I like to take advantage of it.

 Alone time is something I really undervalued in the United States.  For sure there were times where I was annoyed that I had to go do something once I had sat down to watch a movie.  But generally, I had as much free time as I wanted in the US.  I worked from nine to five and everything else was just for me.  I'm not working 24/7, but one could say that I'm on call.  If it's between 7 am and 7 pm, I generally feel guilty if I'm not around people, making friends and getting involved in stuff.  What's weird?  I was never a nap person in the US.  Despised 'em, they ruined my plans.  But here, when I should most hate taking a nap because there's a thousand things to do...wouldn't you know if I collapse onto my bed around 2 o'clock like, every other day for about two hours.  And I found you can't feel guilty about stuff you could be doing if you're passed out asleep.  Oh, sweet release hah.

I had a conversation with another volunteer today and she made a valid point.  It was one of those things that I know intellectually, but actually feeling that it's true or experiencing it is a different way of knowing it...she said, “I don't go home at the end of the day.  I am always at my workplace, and so I do not feel bad about secluding myself once in awhile.”  I think that's exactly what I need to practice once in a while.  I get some alone time because I have my own house, not the usual set-up for a brand-new volunteer.  But I guess the key is the not-feeling-lie-a-hermit part about it.  It's just natural to want a break from kids screaming your name and getting frustrated that you don't understand what they're saying.  Just like it's natural that there are sometimes that I do crave company and I end up staying up late with my host family playing with the baby and watching T.V.

It's kind of weird, I guess, when I say that last sentence.  It just sounds so normal, watching TV with the fam.  I guess there are more normal things in my life – i.e. trading music with friends, doing laundry, making coffee in the morning – than there are strange things.  The manner in which each of the “normal” things are done might have changed, for sure.  But the underlying concepts of what fills each day are the same things as back home.  Kind of a revelation for me, haha.  Also kind of a contrast with the “I don't go home at the end of the day” feeling, just because so much of what I do is normal, it doesn't feel like work even if I'm “on call” all the time.  I guess that's just a good example of how I feel most of the time, living proof that two things that are mutually exclusive (“this is weird” and “this is not weird”) can be occurring at the same time.

What a weird, rambling blog post!  I mean, I was already a rambler, but I think the isolation is exacerbating the tendency.  Like, it's really exciting to express myself in my native language and I think I get carried away sometimes, like this blog post that has no real point, hah.  Oh!  Except now you know that if I'm sitting next to you somewhere and I'm really quiet, it's because I'm competing with you in something.  Maybe now you can hold your own competition by trying to guess what it is I'm competing with you about before I stand up victorious and walk away.