NaNoWriMo!

This year, I decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month. Decided is putting it strongly. Especially since I had no plot ideas, little time, and absolutely no experience writing anything longer than thirty pages. In fact, I had a reputation in graduate school for consistently missing the page-number requirements. In my attempt to write 50,000 words in one month I have spectacularly exceeded my inability to meet page limits. Is that like a triple negative? I'm trying to tell you that I was met with failure. Here is my "novel":

It was dark and cold in the refrigerator, appropriate conditions one supposes for the inside of such an appliance.  But not quiet, the cheese sandwich reflected sullenly. It was instead quite chittery chattery; arguments arose among the always fighting eggs, the kale was droning on and on about some sort of health care policy, the milk hummed contentedly to itself. “If only he had finished eating me”, muttered the cheese sandwich. “I could have achieved my full potential, spinning through his gastrointestinal tract, powering his every move. But no, that selfish overfed bastard left me on the table to rot.”

“Technically,” the cucumber interrupted self-importantly, “Refrigerators consist of a thermally insulated compartment and a heat pump to transfer heat from the inside of the fridge to its external environment so it’s cool as me in here and toasty warm out there. Lower temperatures in a confined volume lowers the reproduction rate of bacteria thereby reducing the rate of spoilage and waste. So Mr. Sandwich, looks like you’ll be around for a while.”

“Shut it,” snapped the sandwich. He viewed himself as a victim. The cheese sandwich was a casualty of E-bay, consumerism, hoarding, food waste – whichever of the modern-day, first world plagues you feel like naming.

The whole situation caused him to doubt his self-worth. If he had been spaghetti perhaps? Orange juice, sour patch kids? Those all seemed like they could cause a pretty nasty ulcer. All of that acid and sugar. But the singer was young and peppy. Surely he could handle it without having to face the nasty spectre of an eroded duodenum.

Suddenly the light turned on as the refrigerator door opened. Silence reigned among the foodstuffs as they listened to Patricia telling the story again.

 “No, I’m telling you it’s totally true. He came into the restaurant with whatshername, y’know, that actress from that High School movie and they were all snuggling.”

 “But why would he come into a diner?”

 “I dunno. Maybe he was slumming it. Or hiding from the press.”

“And he ordered that cheese sandwich?”

“Yes!” she squealed. “And I snagged it. I’m gonna sell it on Ebay or something. Or maybe I can get some of his DNA off the sandwich and clone him. How cool would that be? A Justin Bieber clone?”

“You don’t know anything about raising babies. Especially not some weird teenaged music star baby.” She paused. “Wait. When you clone something are they born again? Or is it more like budding or spores or parthenowhatever?

Despite years between her and high school biology, and a not particularly diligent mindset, Jamie could still remember the slide full of Daphnia: translucent microscopic penguins full of eggs and with wildly waving antennae. “More graceful than those creepy sea monkeys”, she muttered under her breath.

“What? Do you want grape juice or milk? It’s all I’ve got with the kids around.”

“Grape juice, please.”

Patricia grabbed the grape juice, which shot a look brimming with hatred at the milk who swung by smugly, and somewhat vacantly, in the door as it closed. They were returned to darkness.

“Did you know that the optimal range for perishable food storage is 37 to 41 °F?” the cucumber continued. “That’s 3 to 5 °C for you Sir Maple Syrup and you Miss Kiwi and you...”

“We got it!“ the food yelled shutting him up for the moment.

Dear Mack at Travelocity,

I’m sorry I cried on the phone with you.

I thought it would just be a quick phone call. I could rebook my flight while cooking dinner. It was 6:30 and I had just gotten back from the gym. I put water on to boil and dialed. Via Skype. From Nicaragua.

I was put on hold almost immediately. I chuckled as I remembered how awful Travelocity’s hold music is.

First I spoke with Steve. I just made his name up. I’m pretty sure Steve did too. He asked me my name. Dear Steve, Americans do not say “Please me with your name?” It made me giggle. I flashed to an image of myself whispering “lenni. lennnnnni. lenni.” into his cute, brown, head-setted ear.

We got down to business. The Travelocity kind. Not the pleasing kind. I explained that I had cancelled a flight and now wanted to use the credit. I told him I wanted to find the cheapest flight within a range of dates. I gave him the cancellation number and my email address. He told me that he couldn’t hear me because there was an echo.

Fair enough Steve. I live in an airy Central American palace. I walked outside, facing ants of all different sizes and propensities towards biting. I braved mosquitoes and dengue for you Steve. I repeated myself.

Evidently my request was impossible. He asked what time I wanted to fly on the 23^rd of December. I asked again if it was possible to investigate a range of options. Y’know, like they do on YOUR WEBSITE. No. I asked Steve if perhaps it would help if I searched the American Airlines website for the cheapest option. He said yes and hung up. Oh Steve.

I called back and spoke with Dan. Again, not his real name. Dan sounded so much like Steve that I wondered if it was a cruel joke. I wondered every time he put me back on hold. The water on the stove boiled down to the pot. I turned off the gas. My computer flashed a battery warning. Finally I told Dan exactly what flight I wanted to be on, we booked it successfully (I think), he transferred me to billing…and I was put on hold. For forty minutes.

My neighbors looked out their window to see what the horrible noise was.

Had I been rude? Was this some sort of karmic punishment? I went a little nuts from the hold music. I hung up.

I dialed again. I put water back on the stove, faithful that this time all would work out. I plugged in my computer. I spoke with Vikram. (I may as well make up good names.)  I put noodles in the water and told him exactly what flights I wanted. I told him that the hold music was awful and he made every effort to keep me on the line. Vikram was my buddy. He transferred me to billing.

And Mack, you answered. You asked if I could please you with my name. You asked how you could help me. I thought you would have known. But no, you asked for my booking number and inquired after my flight dates. And that’s when I started to cry. “I already diiid all this,” I plaintively whined. But you were a specialist. We had to start over.

I gave you my booking number. You told me I was missing a number. (No Mack. YOU missed a number.) I repeated it. It was no longer in the system. I spelled my email for you. Several times. N as in Nancy. N as in Nincompoop. N as in Never use Travelocity again. You found me, “Ok a flight on Delta airlines from Los Angeles to Las Vegas in September?” Noooo. “Armstems at aol dot com?” Nooo.

I gave you specific flight times and flight numbers. You kept forgetting about the flying to/from NY part. “ok Managua to Miami.” Nooo. “Ok departing flight Managua to Miami to NY. Returning flight Miami to Managua.” Nooo.

We got it straightened out and you gave me the price. I cried again. A flight to NY is not worth $900. The American Airlines website said that it was about half that. Mack, you had the wrong date. Honest mistake. We tried again.

You told me I had $150 in credit left over. You told me that to get the voucher I would have to pay $29.50 to have it mailed and $70 for something or other. I asked, casually, if that money would be taken out of the voucher, leaving me with only $50.50. You said that that was impossible. I had to charge the $29.50 on my card. I asked, innocently, if I was essentially paying for my own money. You didn’t understand me.

My noodles turned to mush. You said you’d send me the voucher. You had the wrong address. When I gave you the correct one you asked if I lived in LaGuardia NY or JFK NY. That was funny.

Sorry I cried on the phone with you. But you can see where I was coming from, right?

Love,

Lenni

So family, I will be in NY from 23 December to 1 January. I expect bagels, Chinese food, and root beer. (They have a handle on pizza here.)

Beeeeez!

Although a picture is worth a thousand words, I already posted most of my photos on Facebook with commentary and don’t want to retype everything. One quick story remains untold, however. This weekend I escaped Managua to go to Leon, colonial city of a thousand churches in the Northwest of the country. I arrived cheerful to be alive (the highway is only two lanes so everyone passes each other at every legal although not necessarily safe opportunity which makes things interesting) and ready to explore. About five minutes from my hostel, I was taking pictures of the main basilica when I felt something fly into my foot. I noted that it was stuck between my toes and then registered some pain. I scooped the offending large, black, fuzzy bug out of my sandal and gimped over to a bench to discover that there was still something in my big toe. I wasn’t swelling but I asked a family where the nearest pharmacy was so I could get some tweezers or something.  (I’m sure the lovely family from Leon is telling their own story about a weird limping gringa who took her shoe off in the middle of the street.)

In the pharmacy, I recounted my story and a college-aged girl who was also buying something immediately bent down and took off my shoe. She asked the woman at the counter for a stool, some anaesthetic and a tweezer. At this point, I started to stammer out a “who are you and why are you touching my sweaty feet?” The pharmacist, in the meantime, was making it absolutely clear that I would be the one paying for all these supplies. Anyhoo, my savior who turned out to be a nursing student removed the stinger, bandaged me up, and left. I didn’t even have time to invite her for a juice. The pharmacist thought it was an Africanized bee and the nursing student said a hornet. I think it was an ordinary bee, y’know, cuz I didn’t die or get swarmed.

The funny part, besides the efficient counter-side service, is that I didn’t know how to say stinger so I basically told these ladies that a bee had left its backside in my toe. (It’s aguijon just in case).

Post-pharmacist I went to get lunch and I told the waitress about my ordeal and she brought me dessert first because I deserved it.

Also on this trip I discovered dragon-fruit ice cream. And most everything in Leon was closed.

The scene of the crime

My lunch spot: Los Picharditos.

Nicanol v Quechanol

My big bad boss asked me recently what sort of differences I had noticed between Nicaragua and Bolivia, especially given that they are the second and third poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere. It seems kind of unfair to compare two countries with such different historical legacies, indigenous heritage, and extent of foreign influence and doubly unfair to compare them after just six weeks.  Keeping in mind that the circumstances in which I live in Nicaragua are different -- with 300x more people, making 6x the money, and with access to about 20x the number of supermarkets -- here are my first impressions.

Overall, Nicaragua seems more developed and more amenable to tourists… more cars, more malls, more people who speak English. There are a crapload (that’s a scientific measurement) of expats for better or for worse. I used to fel that my blue eyes could burn holes into people but I kinda miss being the exotic (if not much-maligned) American. The other super obvious difference is the climate. It is hot here pretty much all of the time. It’s not as bad as I imagined it would be but my hair has not reacted that well.  Just today, a relatively humidity-free day, a colleague commented that my head seemed smaller than usual.

One of the simultaneously fun and frustrating aspects of moving to a new country is learning all the new slang (and curse words).  Bolivian Spanish is just kind of grammatically wrong. For example: once my Quechua profe was trying to describe the difference between two words by saying that one meant “de sueno” and the other “con sueno.” When I couldn’t figure out how that distinction translated to English I asked some non-Bolivian Spanish speaking friends who told me that, in any case, both were incorrect.

During most informal conversations here in Nicaragua I just sit listening wondering what the heck they’re talking about. It’s not for lack of Spanish vocabulary. A country full of poets as national heroes, Nicaragua takes the language to a whole new level; Nicanol is colorful and mumbled, and full of words that are made up. Last week I had a five minute conversation about the word cucuruchu (I think) that basically means “something that sticks up, like the tippity-top of a tree, a cowlick, or a pompom on a hat”.  Other new vocabulary: chavalo = teenager, chunche = thingie, chapa = earring, chiguena = baby, anda … = do you have …?.

Of course the food is a little different here too. Less soup, more cheese. I once bribed a Bolivian friend to go out for pizza with me but if I stay in Nica too long all the delicious salty fried cheese (especially with maduros) is going to lead me to an early death I’m sure. I miss my Camargo figs and peaches and plums though.

And last but not least: the couches are comfier in Nicaragua!

Adventures in driving

Upon being hired, I was told that I would need to learn to drive a stick shift. This did not worry me as my entire family can drive stick, I had once driven hay rides (on an ancient tractor with two gear shifts), and I took a crash stick-shift course before going to Bolivia... just in case. Of course that was seven years ago. So I called a friend with a car ideal for learning on (ie old) and set out. By set out, I mean we lurched around a parking lot for an hour. 

I then went home for a family gathering and made my brother and then my brother-in-law take me around town. My brother-in-law is from India and learned stick shift by just buying one and lurching off the lot. A brilliant metallurgic engineer, I would not point to driving skill as his top quality. (See here for a related anecdote.) But with a minimal amount of yelling and a couple of stalls, everyone survived. And we stopped for really good Mexican food. I was all set to borrow my Dad’s car and just drive it back to New Haven, learning as I went. My Mom nixed this idea citing her own nerve-wracking learning experience and, while I hesitate to admit it, she was probably right. But then...I broke my ankle. And could not drive (or walk really) at. all.

So I arrived to Managua, city of a thousand traffic circles, without having mastered the manual transmission. Two weeks in, my colleague took me for a driving test in a diesel truck. The official evaluation was that I had trouble with hills and did not understand how traffic circles work but with a week of supervised driving I should be all set. What I didn’t realize that driving a light car would be totally different. Jeeps, like I practiced on in the States, and trucks (particularly diesel) are very forgiving. On the Yaris (a lovely Toyota specimen), however, the point between sitting still on purpose (for example, at a stoplight) and sitting still by accident (stalling) is very very fine. I was very lucky to have two CouchSurfers staying with me, one of whom was also learning to drive stick and could empathize when I would arrive home and need to cry before doing anything else.

I stalled all around Managua until finally my colleague told me that I would need to get remedial lessons. Evidently because we have a car with official plates it is very bad form to be driving poorly. He said that someone could mention it to the police or even the government and it could come back to hurt the agency. Well color me penitent. Enter Douglas (pronounced Doog-las) of La Escuela de Manejo Llave de Progreso. One of the first things he asked me was if we would have trouble communicating to which I responded with a resounding, “What?”

Our first lesson was unremarkable except for the fact that we drove around the city for two hours with the windows down. A colleague had just finished telling me that driving with the windows down was a surefire route to getting mugged... in addition to sunburned. I arrived at work having sweat through my clothes, with one conspicuously red shoulder, and, luckily, my wallet intact. The second lesson was on Saturday morning so I asked to drive to El Malecon, which google translate tells me means jetty but I don’t know what jetty means in English. Anyhoo, we drove to the shores of Lake Managua where the old city center was. Think of your average small town and you can imagine the village green or plaza with its church and municipal buildings. In a city that area would probably be the “downtown.” Managua was no different. The Malecon houses the National Cathedral, the People’s House, and the National Museum. However, it is not the bustling center of activity that one might expect. In 1972, a huge earthquake destroyed 90% of the city and killed more than 19,000 people (sez Wikipedia). The city was rebuilt haphazardly and largely sprawling away from the center. The cathedral, while still standing, is a shell of a building scarred by gunfire. Efforts have been made to revitalize the area with a new waterfront and government buildings but it is largely empty of people and cars... except newbie drivers and their instructors. There were lots of those. We waved to Daniel Ortega and then continued on our merry way to tour the rest of the lakes in town, one of which was used as a spot to “disappear” political dissidents and revolutionaries.

The next morning Dooglas suggested that I drive as if I know Managua and he’d correct me if I got lost...that lasted all of five minutes. He quizzes me on which highways and rotundas we took to get to a certain place and I always get it wrong. In fact when I asked for a progress assessment he said he is not concerned about my driving skills but by the fact that I never have any idea of where we’re going. Guys, have you seen a map of Managua?

Anyhoo, I was supposed to blindly find my way to the markets. I wanted to see where I could buy fresh and cheap veggies because the grocery store is a little ridiculous and not very fun. So an hour later, I was explaining to Dooglas the concept of “Baptism by fire” as I backed up the wrong way through narrow market stalls to avoid being squashed by a bus.

I asked Dooglas if he didn’t find his job stressful and he answered that he really enjoyed it. However, I did notice that after our first lesson he brought a Bible. Maybe I should try that...cuz I sweat right through all my clothes and feel an intense need for a drink post-lessons. Three more hours of lessons to go!

Vivita y coleando

Survived first week in Nicaragua! Highlights include several spectacular thunder storms, the CRS driver trying to teach me how to get to work and back by taking a different way each time (so not helpful initially), my first gallo pinto, indio viejo, chicha, cerveza victoria and a very misquided crema de queso, being grilled about my marital status, physical therapy with little old ladies (which I don't have the vocabulary for), making sense of some screwy data (just like my summer research!), discovering that I can stream my favorite old telenovelas (like Victoria) on Netflix, and getting yet another t-shirt with a tree on it at the chocolate forum.

I am currently working on a few backlogged stories like my bus-riding adventures in New Haven (no one let me sit! and they were dealing drugs! and the bus driver stopped to yell at all of us!), and the world as seen by a sandwich half-eaten by Justin Bieber. In the meantime check out Matthew and Melissa's adventures as they drive from Guatemala to Peru. They hung out at my house for a week and made spectacular lasagna and apple cake despite a blackout and small flood in my living room.