Inspiration

I send you out now, to share yourself with the world
May its promise and complexity set your mind ablaze
May you hold fast to what your life has taught you
May you question everything
And when you have changed the world,
And the world has changed you,
May you return again, to this place,
And share what you have learned with us.

—Rev. Kelly Weisman Asprooth-Jackson, "I Send You Out"

the last of Costa Rica

I do apologize for the delay. A few weeks ago I went to do laundry but I didn't have enough money for two loads. So I went home to get more quarters. And then I completely forgot about the second load, leaving my laundry bag in the basement until two weeks later when I was wondering where my favorite jeans had escaped to. I hope this anecdote has served to give you a taste of my ridiculous spaciness and inherent procrastination...and that you'll forgive me!

The lovely A has informed me, indignantly I might add, that I neglected to mention her miraculous, time-consuming and tasty pancake making. One morning at the eco-village we made pancakes out of whole grain flour, camote flour, sugar, powdered milk, oatmeal, and the kitchen sink. I kid you not, each flapjack took about 20 minutes. Worth every minute in deliciousness.

In our last episode, A, L and I (me) had been shut out of their hotel in Montezuma and exiled in the no horse town of Cabo Blanco. After an evening of complaining they woke to the knowledge that they had their own private beach and pool and full use of the hotel kitchen so they spent the first day exploring, swimming, reading and sleeping. Then they went back to using the first person.

One of the hard to navigate aspects of a group vacation is the financial situation. I am of the school of thought that we'll split the bill when easy on the waitstaff and otherwise settle up throughout the days. I do not pay too too much attention to the nitty gritty cents and change. L on the other hand is very into the nitty gritty. At first she kept a running tally of our expenditures. Then we created a pool and each of us put $20 in each day. Then we argued over every purchase at the grocery store, prorating costs based on who we thought would eat the majority of the cabbage (L) or bananas (A) or eggs (me).  I threw a monkey wrench into the process multiple times. After discovering that the taxis' meters continue to run after it's stopped I started paying immediately without considering who owed whom money. And being too impatient to do math while waiting on line in the grocery store I often paid the whole bill myself. I am a very bad socialist.

So while in Cabo Blanco we went to the nature reserve where on the two hour walk to the beach we nerded out with the tree guide book.

Then we spent an hour on the beach eating tomato, avocado and cheese sandwiches (our go-to meal) and lounging in various states of undress: L went whole-hog full sun in her teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, polka-dot bikini, A stayed fully dressed (with long sleeves!) in the shade and I bridged the gap.

After two days of beach lounging in Cabo Blanco and cooking bizarre meals like cabbage with pineapple and french toast with honey we headed into Montezuma proper to party for a day before heading back to San Jose and home. Spur of the moment we packed up and hitched into town to find a room in a kinda creepy hostel with teeny tiny ant-filled rooms. Dumping our bags we took off to the local waterfall. I paddled around in a swimming hole while L hiked waaaaay up the rocks and A went to get a haircut. I think this pretty well demonstrates our relative sense of adventure. We finally had a super delicious meal in a restaurant and then went out drinking and dancing. L shut the place DOWN and I held my own I suppose. 

The next day, L went surfing and A and I shopped for my traditional vacation pair of earrings. L made me take a picture of our weird leftover breakfast complete with fresh coconut. I was distressed to learn that if I am stranded on a desert island I will not be able to survive on coconut because I am in fact allergic to it.

And then? We hopped on a bus, the ferry, the same bus over again and a taxi then another taxi and a plane aaaall the way home. We spent the last of our communal money pot on a small package of chocolate covered hazelnuts (there was an odd number which caused no small amount of stress.) Then we had one last tomato-avocado-cheese sandwich and ate all of our leftover fruit so we wouldn't get hauled away by customs.

I am pleased to say that we are still talking to each other.

Seasonal boyfriends

I thought I'd take a short detour from writing about my trip to Haiti (and the last few days in Costa Rica. Sorry.) to enumerate my theory of seasonal steadies. I can't take all the credit for the idea of a cycle of patterned partners. While I was living in Bolivia, and freezing my little backside off, my colleague told me that I needed a winter boyfriend. A winter boyfriend, he explained, was someone who's main role was to keep my bed warm.  (Just to be clear, he wasn't volunteering himself for the job.)

Although a practical idea, I didn't think more on it until this year when I lived in the draftiest coldest apartment known to man. I mentioned to my friends that instead of buying yet another pile of blankets I was on the prowl for a snow steady. He should be somewhat stocky (to lend warmth), look good in a sweater and like to read, watch movies (and do other stuff) in bed and ideally be able to skate. If he can make pasta and soups all the better. Goodness, I just googled winter boyfriend ...and it's actually a thing. See here and here. This came up recently on a camping trip when a classmate of ours was walking around in a t-shirt and overalls while the rest of us were wearing thirty layers of flannel. My bestie yelled out, "Oh my god Lenni, he can be your winter boyfriend!" Anyway think Andrew Lincoln or Jason Segel.

But despite the residual sweaters, we are now moving into Spring. I need a sweetie who will match my sundress. I'm thinking metrosexual, stylish arm candy. Jude Law anyone? Adrian Brody? I suppose these two could transition into summer but perhaps a more bronzed muscled look would be more appropriate. Anything to distract from my glowing whiteness. Think high school. Chris Evans. James Marsden. (By the way if you google shirtless you get a surprising amount of Zac Efron results.) My favorite season however is Fall. Crispy leaves, Cool air. New school supplies and hot professors in tweed waxing poetic. John Slattery-ish.

Not that it matters. For as I've already said, I'll always be a Lloyd Dobler girl.

What's the worst that could happen?

My father has a motto: "What's the worst that could happen?" In college my friends decided that the worst possible scenario should always end with "And then you can never have sex again!" which requires quite a bit of creative thinking. And although it can be a little annoying when my dad says it, I find it a useful exercise to hypothesize about all the horrible situations that could happen and how I could handle them. (In fact my father and I did it just this morning when I found out that the building I live in is foreclosing and we decided that the worst would be if I had to move back in with them and commute 2.5 hours to school which would be logistically impossible because I don't have a car and I rarely leave the academic buildings to begin with...and that would most definitely result in the situation that my college friends foretold)

Anyway, L and A and I were all set to leave the ecovillage and head on to the beach (!!!). We had called a taxi to come at 7AM, figured out the bus and ferry schedule and gotten all packed. The taxi showed up! On time!  And despite my bruised little bottom the ride was not too horrific. The taxi driver and I spoke briefly about the semantics of the words parque, plaza and cancha...after he corrected me several times when I told him to drop us off in the central plaza. (Evidently their soccer fields are called plazas, their plazas are called parks, and their stadia called canchas...they also give all directions using meters instead of blocks "de la esquina 500 metros" which made me feel like I had to triangulate everything or carry a surveyors tape).

We arrived at the parque and the girls ran for breakfast while I again guarded the bags and verified the bus schedule....we were an hour early. As I sat, I noticed that some buses arrived with standing room only which worried me because we had a lot of gear and I didn't want to stand for 2 hours. So we got on line early and got seats and set out....on the slowest and hottest bus known to man. About a half an hour out of town the bust stopped for the gazillionth time, but this time people were muttering "Puntarenas, puntarenas directo, hay que bajarse, Puntarenas." A quick survey revealed that the bus behind us was going directly to Puntarenas (our intermediate destination) so we quickly got our stuff and switched buses. I actually thanked my lucky stars because if we were in Bolivia people would have silently debarked just knowing that the other bus was better and having no need to state it to the hot and frustrated tourists. Although equally oven-like the new bus was indeed better, less crowded and much faster....and thus we arrived at noon to Puntarenas described by my trusty rough guide as the hottest place in all Costa Rica, fading and wilting in the sun. I had a general idea that the next ferry to Nicoya  Peninsula (yet another intermediate destination) left in two hours but I was hoping that there might be an earlier boat so we rushed into a taxi to the other end of town. No luck. A two hour wait. We chilled in a lovely gulf-side restaurant in perhaps the only town in Costa Rica where it is not recommended that you drink the water. A declined to take this advice citing the fact that she's Indian.

I am a nervous traveler and one of my quirks, besides needing to be fed at regular intervals, is being early. When I get to the airport I like to go directly through security and to the gate and then go to eat or pee or whatever. The same with buses or ferries or any mode of transportation. I am irrationally afraid of being left behind. (This phobia is in the same category as being afraid of being locked in the bathroom. Both situations have happened to me numerous times...sometimes with one causing the other.) So even though we could see the ferry from the restaurant and knew that it wouldn't leave for a half hour I was still nervous because we weren't actually on it yet.

But we didn't miss the ferry and not one of my numerous forays to the bathroom resulted in being trapped. It was at this point that I realized how ridiculously bad I smelled, which A had said was her travel quirk. Besides also needing to know where she would be eating next, she detested smelly people. L declined to let us in on her weakness but I suspect it's control. We quickly deduced that she is a youngest child and must always get her way. Luckily A and I are middle children and are capable of compromise or alternatively joining forces to get our way. The ferry was actually quite nice, although slow like molasses, and we arrived at Paquera to be shepherded into a waiting bus. The ticket taker was the least pura-vida Tico we met the entire trip and he was in such a hurry that we finally just threw some money at him and got on the bus. We had to stand.


Even standing wasn't too too horrific. At least we were in the front where there was a breeze. And hanging on for dear life builds arm muscles. So at approximately 7PM we arrived at Montezuma our final beach-front destination. Hooray! I walked up to the hotel and the man at the desk opened with (in Spanish) "You're the three girls who reserved yesterday. Please don't yell at me."

He had given away our room! Despite his request, I started to yell (just a bit). "What do you mean you gave away our room? I reserved with a credit card! Why didn't anyone verify it on the phone! Are there any more rooms? Are any other hotels free? Are you fucking with me?" At this point, my brain busted and my Spanish completely failed me so L took up the charge, "Can we call your manager? Will you pay for the taxi to another hotel? You have the responsibility to make the customer satisfied! You can't just give away rooms!" This man was exasperatingly smug and just sat there as we fumed.

We calmed down a bit while talking to a shirtless American tourist named Michael (Michael was a good distraction but A said he wasn't suitable because he didn't have six-pack abs just a four pack and I said he wasn't suitable because he was an idiot.) and the receptionist eventually found another hotel for us (far far outside of town). He was not willing to pay for the taxi or the extra cost for the other hotel and he declined to call the manager saying that she would only yell at him and at some point he made some comment to the effect of "At least you guys speak Spanish" which caused another round of yelling and fuming.

We left our bags and went to dinner where we took photos of our comic distress and decided to construct an alternative narrative of our day...something about a yacht and catching seagulls with our bare hands and enjoying cocktails at sunset. We finally arrived at our new hotel; L remained exasperatingly optimistic and went night-swimming while A criticized everything about it before going to bed. I bridged the gap by criticizing before going to check out the beach.

The girls set out on a three hour cruise, a three hour cruise

They are stranded on an island

The girls despair

But then with extreme facial expressions they realize their skill at catching their own food!

Also somehow they can do cocktails

Next up: socialism at its frustrating-ist and our own private beach

Where did you learn Spanish?

One of the more surreal experiences was the daily dance around the questions, "Where are you from?" and its close follower, "Where did you learn Spanish?" Being a veritable United Nations of single lady travelers we generally stuck with "We study in the United States" for the first answer unless one of us was asked specifically. The second question made for some ridiculousity.

My favorite conversation was one I overheard between L the Mexican and one of the Costa Rican hippies. The exchange went something like this:
H: Where did you learn Spanish?
L: I'm Mexican.
H: Oh so you learned Spanish in Mexico?
L: Uh, yes.
H: Did you take Spanish in school? Or just from living there?
L: What?
H: Because you speak really well. You even have a Mexican accent.
L: Right.
H: Because that other girl has a different accent. She says she learned in Bolivia.
L: But I'm Mexican.

Conversations with me usually went:
Where are you from?
The United States
But you speak Spanish!
To which I would respond either "I lived in Bolivia" or "All New Yorkers speak Spanish."

Upon reflection, this isn't as strange as it at first seemed. We did meet several Americans living in Costa Rica who had made no attempt to learn Spanish. One of the hippies, for example, had been coming to CR for 11 years. The owner of our hotel had been living there 15. No Spanish. Honestly, besides the Subways and Dennys and Walmart and Burger Kings, I think this is one of the reasons that I didn't really enjoy Costa Rica as much as I could have. At the very least, our sojourn into hippydom gave us the opportunity to speak with real live Costa Ricans who were super proud of their land and the efforts they made to make the country environmentally friendly.

Of body odor and composting toilets

The morning of January 1 we struck out for an ecovillage near San Mateo. Not that telling you it's near San Mateo will give you any indication of where we were; the town only has about 500 residents. But in case you're interested it's about halfway between San Jose and Puntarenas if you go the back way. The bus ride was a good opportunity to see the areas surrounding San Jose (including the Walmart and Dennys) the mountains, pineapple plantations and all variety of four-wheel-drive vehicles. I must take a moment to admit that even recognizing that pineapples are very heavy and it would be anatomically illogical...I thought they grew on trees. The road itself was quite steep and extremely curvy. Some small children were yelling "wheeeeee!" at every curve but even they got silent and motion sick in short order.

We arrived in San Mateo around 1ish to find that the guy who was supposed to meet us had not shown up. He was also not answering his phone. L asked everyone and their mother if they knew this character or if they had any idea where the ecovillage was located. We even asked the one cop and all the little old men hanging in the plaza who were less than helpful; the cop couldn't even figure out how to dial his cellphone. I voted to just go to the only bar in town and just wait and eventually L found a taxi driver who sort of knew where we were headed so we relaxed with a burrito and a few beers before setting out. The town (and the bar) were actually quite charming.

The taxista took us about five miles out of town and up a dirt road for a few miles before determining that his car couldn't handle the terrain....so he dropped us off. Ok. L and A started walking while I guarded the bags and read the Economist until a jeep came and picked me up about five minutes later. The guy driving was actually a local farmer who was going home for the day. He just picked us up out of the goodness of his heart, recognizing that  it would be a loooong walk. Like good little nerds, we talked with him about his citrus crops and asked about the other landholders and the history of the site. And then we arrived. I could tell that the farmer was particularly curious to see what the crazy hippies were doing in the middle of nowhere. I'm not sure what he was expecting, and I'm not even sure what I was expecting but this was....different.

Sure, an ecovillage is an "intentional community with the goal of becoming more socially, economically, and ecologically sustainable." Sure, that indicates some alternative worldviews, a lack of electricity and composting toilets. But this place was a bit less formal. They created a shareholder group with half American and half Costa Ricans to live on the land in the ideals of permaculture....which until this trip I didn't realize included communitarian aspects.

Anyhoo, people lived in half built houses with a communal kitchen. Each hut had a dry compost toilet (that they didn't really dress up much so it was basically "shitting in a bucket"), solar shower (which judging by the smell of certain individuals was not universally used) and a communal kitchen. As I later learned it had been formed by a small group of people who had a camp together at burning man in the early 90s...which should give you an indication of the vibe. Sure I've hugged a few trees in my time and my personal goal is to have a composting toilet in my house...but I'm not much into cleanses and spritituality. I don't believe in the paranormal or indigo children and I'm pretty sure that cutting off a cow's horns does not affect the quality of its digestion. (The last two were actual conversations with residents of the village. long conversations. Mostly one-sided.)

the kitchen

the little girls room complete with New Yorkers to peruse

Our humble abode

I was ridiculously cranky from wasting an entire day traveling and waiting around only to discover that I would be stuck in the middle of nowhere being bitten by ants. I even got angry when I discovered that the dog was named Yaku. (It means water in Quechua and in the recent movie Even the Rain is used as an example of neocolonialism; the foreign characters in the movie are criticized as thinking that they are somehow more enlightened because they know this one word and are therefore more "one with the people.") I didn't say it was rational anger; in fact, I apologized the next day for being so snippy. L responded, "I don't know what snippy is, but I didn't like your tone!"

So A and I immediately began to plot our escape. Jan 2 we got a ride into town to plan our next stop. Like dealings in any "non-Western" nation this involved talking to everyone and their mother to figure out bus schedules and calling lots and lots of hotels that all seemed to be full. After successfully figuring out how to  leave town and reserving a room over the phone, we rewarded ourselves with ice cream and headed back to the hippies.

That afternoon we had a lovely vegetarian lunch and headed up to the river to swim in the waterfall where L mocked me mercilessly for being so white. On this trip I was even more obsessive than usual about sun exposure and remained yuraq siki (See...my Quechua extends towards racial slurs for white people and their white asses!). The most eventful part (for me) was when I fell on my ass climbing down the rocks. It hurt so bad that my legs went numb for a second. A bruised tailbone right before the day we had a long day of travel planned. oh boy.

L and me

right before falling on my backside

Next up: travel quirks and yelling.

Costa Rica: the good, the bad, the ridiculous

When thinking about this post, I was torn between two different beginnings to describe my recent Costa Rican vacation:
1. A Mexican, and Indian, and an American walk into a bar. It sounds like the start of a bad joke but is instead the beginning of a worse vacation...
2. On several occasions my friends have commented on my propensity for disaster in all travel undertakings. And although many admit that I generally escape unscathed, some have decided to never travel with me again....
Although both seem overly dramatic they are based in truth (ok it was a party not a bar) and my notes from the trip place events squarely into three categories: the good, the bad, and the purely ridiculous.

It is important to note that each day, no matter how ridiculous, had at least one highlight. And I should start with my travel companions: two lovely ladies and classmates L the Mexican and A the Indian. Their company was invaluable and positive, our travel quirks were well balanced, and although towards the end of the trip we made a pact not to talk to each other our first week back...I think our friendship will survive.

Day 1! We arrived in San Jose bright and shiny at 1AM and went directly to bed. L and I had to share a bed which was no easy task. Although I was forewarned about her propensity to toss and turn (and I of course shared that I sometimes cuddle others) the scope of her spreadability was incredible. At some point during each night I woke up to find her taking over 3/4 of the bed. The other seven gazillion times I woke up were due to the noise of cars rushing past...a sound akin to a freight train.

That morning we set out to explore the city. The Rough Guide writes that Ticos who live outside of San Jose describe it as, "a maelstrom of stress junkies, rampant crime, and other urban horrors." They go on to cite "pothole-scarred streets and car dealership architecture," deep open drains, and kamikaze drivers. Determined to make the best of it we took cheesy photos of ourselves at all the parks and markets and made a valiant effort to check out the National Library, the National Museum, and the Gold Museum which were all closed without explanation. We did pee at the swanky Gran Hotel Costa Rica where JFK once stayed. At night we headed to San Pedro to eat hummus and drink with obnoxiously young university students. Someone actually called me senora.

Day 2! The next morning A and I woke up at 6AM to head to Poas Volcano...except we accidentally woke up at 5. I'm not entirely sure what the time difference is between the East Coast and Costa Rica and I didn't bring a watch or cell phone in an effort to enter a state of zen timelessness (which transitioned pretty quickly into stress and asking every five minutes, "What time is it?") but this was a bit extreme. Anyhoo we were on time for our bus! Once inside the Park, A and I walked to the crater where we looked over the wide open expanse....of mist. You could see nothing of the crater, the surrounding mountains, or even the sky. Nothing. We took a picture anyway because I'm thinking of starting a "Lenni in the mist" photo album. (If you'll remember, my experience at Macchu Picchu was similar.)

Mist!

What we could have seen

More mist!

Post-mist we hiked around complaining about how our old knees hurt and avoiding the green squirrels and then checked out the tiny volcano museum, gift shop, and tiny art gallery before realizing that we had two additional hours to kill before the bus headed back to San Jose. We spent this time passing back and forth a three-month old copy of The Economist. Getting back to the city we checked out a few churches before heading back to the hotel to meet a friend (P the Bolivian) for dinner.

Dinner was actually pretty sweet. The food was delicious, the atmosphere local and although our ordering was like a scene out of When Harry Met Sally the Vegetarian with simultaneous translation the staff was very accommodating. Chelles is panelled entirely in a rich mahogany and has an old drug store/soda shop feel to it. A San Jose institution, the restaurant's atmosphere afforded us an unparalleled opportunity to malign the incredibly loud American tourist at the next table. Usually open 24/7, even Chelles closed early for New Years Eve and we moved on making plans with P to meet up later for drinks because A and I needed a rest and L needed to finish work on her grad school application.

I wish I could say we finished strong and that our New Years Eve in the tropical nation was one for the books but unfortunately we are surprisingly lame. On our hike A had mentioned that one of our young professors had an open Facebook page that had several shirtless photos so we perused those before watching the ball drop on tv. Keeping in mind the time zone issue, we may have accidentally fallen asleep at 11PM Tico time.

Photos to come!

Next up: dirty hippies and compost toilets.

The skates that changed the world

Part 1: The purchase.

This Fall my Grandma gave me $20 to put towards a purchase of new hockey skates. Even though I've been on the ice since before I could walk (which honestly hasn't helped me develop any great level of skill), I can only remember once receiving a brand new pair of skates. So this seemingly age-inappropriate gift was surprisingly sweet.

Starry-eyed I set off to make "the purchase." The salesman, or more accurately the saleskid, was named Vladimir or Olaf or Gordon or some other name associated with cold weather countries whose citizens hold innate knowledge of skate craftsmanship. As such, he explained that skates come in a variety of stiffnesses that support the skater in his her speed and acrobatics. He also explained that although junior skates would be infinitely more comfortable, flexible and perhaps most importantly cheaper, they would not be really usable after they had broken in (too too flexible). However, unless I planned to skate all day every day or gain 100 pounds this was unlikely to happen. After an hour and twenty pairs of skates, Vlaimir-Olaf-Gordon began to doubt my true commitment to providing him with a sales commision and pawned me off to an even more junior associate. This guy handed me a 21st pair which I immediately bought. (Shameless plug: Paragon Sports offers free skate sharpening for life with purchase.)

I brought my skates home and put them on display in a place of prominence so that I could gaze at them and admire them every day. So excited was I that later that week I actually invited a guy back to my apartment to "meet my skates." Luckily he knew me well enough to realize that 1) I was a smidge intoxicated and 2) I was totally serious. "Meet my skates" was unfortunately not some footwear related euphemism like "knocking boots." (He declined by the way.)

As we all know, $20 does not buy a pair of skates...or even one-fifth of a pair so I swore to make them worth every penny and set the goal of skating in every rink in New York City.
Queens: Flushing Meadows and City Ice Pavillion
Manhattan: Wollman, Lasker, Bryant Park, Chelsea Piers, and Rockefeller Center
Brooklyn: Abe Stark
Staten Island: Clove Lakes, Ice Skating Pavillion

Paying to skate may not seem the most reasonable way to offset a big purchase but it provided a uniquie adventure that allowed me to experience a wide swathe of NYC with my friends.

First up: City Ice Pavillion!

dating dilemma

Like all modern urban women of a certain age, I have tried the online dating thing. Since I generally judge people on the their grammar and wit, the idea of scoping people out through a written profile and email exhange (plus carefully choreographed photos) appeals to me. I meet well-read, politically literate guys who are awesome people and spiffy dressers...and we have one date.

 

Moving away from that sad fact, one prospective boytoy recently posed the question "Who would you rather date, James Bond or Indiana Jones?" Never one to make an uninformed decision, I immediately began to draft a pro-con list:

 

James Bond

 

Pro

 

• Athletic
• Snappy dresser
• Likes to travel – even been to Bolivia!
• Good with gadgets – could probably program VCR! (I still hold this as the gold-standard of gadget mastery.)
• Variety – in the literal sense you almost never get the same Bond.
• Sophisticated – he owns his own tux!
• Sexy accent – what girl doesn't go for an accent?
• Intelligent
• EU citizenship – better healthcare and education system just in case we marry
• Well paid and well connected
• Tan suavecito – por Dios!
• Superduper hot – especially Daniel Craig
• Can defy laws of physics

Con

 

• Brits not known for sexual prowess
• Emotionally distant
• High maintenance
• Ladies’ man – must have the herp by now
• Questionable morals
• No sense of humor
• High risk profession

 Indiana Jones

 

 

 Pro

 

•  Athletic
• Boy Scout
• Likes to travel
• Low maintenance
• Quick thinker
• Close to family – you could have a charming inlaw
• Self-deprecating wit
• Good with whips – if you like that sort of thing
• Dog person
• Intelligent – reads dead languages (siiiiigh)
• Looks good in a bow tie – honestly that is hard to pull off!

Con

 

• Emotionally distant
• In love with Marion
• Gruff (could be super sexy pro)
• Somewhat naïve
• Afraid of snakes and rats
• Bad temper

 

 It all comes down to this astute observation from my friend Christian, "Would you rather die a horrible death in a foreign country on the adventure of a lifetime or would you rather die a horrible death in a foreign country on the adventure of a lifetime with an std? On the other hand James Bond comes with the new-every-two plan."

I'm not sure it really matters. I'll always be a Lloyd Dobbler girl.

 

 

How Peace Corps made me insufferably pretentious

My college asked me to write a short essay on my experiences in Peace Corps. They didn't give me any direction beyond that so hopefully they have a sense of humor because here goes:

How Peace Corps Made Me Insufferably Pretentious

Pretentious, defined by my big, heavy and expensive Webster New English Dictionary as "a showy display, as of wealth or knowledge," describes many a Peace Corps volunteers. I can see the shadow of doubt crossing your face so allow me to explain.

First, please take a moment to think of all the loathsome behaviors of those who continually try to impress with their greater knowledge, experience and cultural savvy. Now think of your average returned Peace Corps volunteer. Using me as an example (Bolivia '07-08), let's see how they compare...

Listen to world music: Peace Corps Bolivia introduced me to new instruments (the charrango, the tarka) and new music (the chacarera, the copla, the ever so sexy saya), some of which I loved and some of which I hope never to hear again...and many of which have made it onto my next generation iPod.
Greet everyone with a kiss on the cheek: due to depth perception and personal space issues this culturally acceptable greeting took a lot of getting used to. Now that I’m used to it I find that it keeps my pressed suits from wrinkling.
Use the word ciao: in much of South America they say "chao" to say goodbye. It's less final then "adios" and makes me seem so cultured.
Use foreign words in every day conversation, particularly from obscure third language: heck, Peace Corps taught me to speak Quechua. Where else will I use it if not at cocktail parties?
Stock your refrigerator with exotic foods: at first I did not really enjoy squeaky cheese, dehydrated potatoes, or purple corn but I will admit that I now have an unhealthy addiction to all of them. Ok I lie. I will never ever enjoy dehydrated potatoes but I am pleased that my supermarket carries them just in case I should experience a conversion. I will serves papas a la huancaina or sopa de mani with pride at my next fine china dinner party.
Pronounce foreign country names in their original language (eg, Mexico = May-hee-co): I was mocked mercilessly during my Peace Corps career for mispronouncing Chile. It won't happen again. And now I sound intelligent and word traveled.
Use the phrase "pencil you in": things don't always go as planned in Peace Corps. Meetings that you agreed to and confirmed several times may not actually happen generally due to circumstances beyond your control or cultural issues that will never fully be explained to you. It is best not to be too firm in your scheduling. It is also common to...
...arrive fashionably late: I had Bolivian friends who would invite me to parties saying "It starts at 8. You should arrive at 10." After a few months it was no longer necessary to advise me on the proper (late) arrival time, an attitude that I find has stuck. Either way I am much too busy and important to show up on time.
Name drop: by some unfortunate quirk of familiarity, most people refer to Bolivia's President Juan Evo Morales Ayma as simply Evo. Examples would include: "Evo has a really large head. Quite enormous in fact." or "Evo is the first indigenous president of Bolivia." which brings me to my next point...
Make obscure references to politics, world leaders, geographic locations, etc: I might say, in casual conversation, "Last Spring, Evo sponsored a conference in Tiquipaya on global climate change inviting environmental crusaders from all over the world." You will be impressed by how I keep my finger on the pulse of Latin American politics (and I'll never tell that I am updated by my Bolivian Facebook friends).
Say things like, "when I lived in South America...": Well I did live there! I learned a lot, met wonderful people, and started listening to chacarera, eating humintas and referring to the President by his first name. You too can become insufferably pretentious. Consider Peace Corps.

Lenni (‘03) served as an environmental education volunteer in Bolivia ('07-'08). She set up schoolyard tree nurseries and a couple of community gardens maintained faithfully by the kindergarten. She worked with the middle school to host an environmental radio show and tried desperately to get the high school interested in recycling. She was an insufferable American, eating exotic cheeses and reading English books.

Road Trip From Hell

My heroes at CarTalk recently put out the call for Road Trip Stories. I shared mine with them and will now bless you all with it too:

Sometimes road trips (and breakdowns) let you see the good (and the less good) in the world. In July 2004, I moved back to Washington, DC from St. Paul, MN stopping along the way to visit various relatives. My 1995 Dodge Intrepid (white, named Moby) was packed to the gills and equipped with a few days worth of snacks and the same mix tape that had been stuck in the tape deck for the past six months. First stop: Fond du Lac, Wisconsin.

Correction. First stop: somewhere in the wilds of Wisconsin. Moby, with impeccable timing, overheated on a stretch of country road where cell service was unavailable and no buildings were evident. In a characteristic belief that all will go well, I abandoned my car and started walking. Soon I came across a small housing subdivision and started knocking on doors. (What was I thinking?) At one house, a young couple (just married they said!) invited me in to cool down before setting out to cool down my car. Instead of just handing me a phone book to call a tow truck they grabbed a jug of coolant and drove me back to my car. They refilled the radiator and accompanied me to the nearest gas station…still miles away from a garage. The couple waited for a tow truck with me and the gas station attendant even let me recharge my cellphone.

Not the end of the story! I made it to my aunt’s house in Fond du Lac and after a short visit and a surprisingly long mechanic bill I set off to pick up my brother-in-law in Gary, IN. In a complete highway-driving haze (or perhaps I was distracted by the vitriol of Indiana’s conservative talk radio) I drove right past the exit and wound up going an hour out of the way. When I finally made it back, my brother-in-law nicely offered to take over driving. Instead of enjoying the ride and napping I found myself cringing when he started to drift a bit into the shoulder with increasing frequency. He was falling asleep at the wheel! I offered to take the driving responsibility back but he declined...at which point I yelled “PULL THE HELL OVER AND GET OUT OF THE CAR!” I am nothing if not subtle.

The road trip still held a little more excitement. I had to make a desperate pit stop for “lady products” and explain to my brother-in-law why exactly I needed to borrow 50 cents. AND after dropping him off in Pittsburgh, my car broke down again a half an hour outside of DC. Resigned to my fate, I packed an overnight bag, left the rest of my worldly belongings (and my car) at the mechanic, and hopped on a bus to a friend’s house. Not quite home safe: he had forgotten I was to arrive and wasn’t home. I slept on his back porch braving the 900 degree heat and a swarm of eagle-sized mosquitos.

No exaggeration. Except for maybe that last part.