Life con cell phone sans job to pay

They lied to me.  They told me I could be whatever I wanted, that I was gifted and talented and that my choices and my resume and my volunteer hours and my letters of recommnedation and certifications would get me on a career path and make my life happy and long and rich in every way.  Where am I and how did I end up here?

I read the books, took the notes, did the time, and now, after so much preparation, I'm highlighting jobs in the classifieds with headlines like "part-time driver wanted- $15.02 an hour".  I spend more time on my MacBook and my Blackberry looking at ads for jobs than working at my part-time job.  And I'm not the only one.  For the last job I was really interested in, oddly enough the position of "Recruiter" at a temp agency (ironic), I saw the demographics for the applicants on one of the search sites: over 75% had a bachelors degree and over 60% had worked at a professional type job.  My generation is fighting over semi-professional jobs that educated workers 10 years our elder would scoff at as temporary jobs muchless career choices.

As a 23 year old in 2011, I am in crisis.  I don't like the looks of any of the blue collar, services, industrial jobs that are covering the classifieds.  I don't want to go back to school only to become more educated than any kind of future employment will need me to be (or too educated to even compete for those jobs for fear of the employer that I'll flake out right away).  Plus, why pay for more school when this is all it's got me?  I'm constantly fighting an inner battle of dignity; I know it's dignified to work for the money you earn, but working alongside those who only care about their next smoke break, their child support bills, and their next happy hour feels just about as satisfying (not to mention that at that kind of work I feel like a complete outsider for my lack of cultural similarities) as a smack across the face.

Is the only thing for us to start at the bottom and work our way up?  Are there no jobs for people who study and pay for education?  What industries are safe?  Where are the jobs?  I thought part of the plan, part of the promise, was a job for me to spend the rest of my life at, find my purpose in?

Looks like I'll have to find something from the classifieds to tie me over.












5

Back again

And, as goes in my life, I am back again.  Back to the house on 23rd Street, the RAC, the high school social life, and the search for the next adventure.  Now, though, my sites have been set higher than just going.  I plan on blazing a trail and never returning to the same pay as you go lifestyle.  How that will come to pass is yet to be determined.  Until then, you can follow me and my mini-ventures here, on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube.

Working hard to hardly work

There is an internal battle waging inside of me daily as the voices from the "responsible adults" in my life spit sarcastic comments about finances, loans, responsibility, jobs, careers, and duty at the gypsy trying to enjoy a few more weeks of vacation, freedom, culture, relationships, being a kid, and enjoying the moment.  One moment I am happy and excited about what I'm about to do in two minutes, five minutes, tomorrow.  The next minute I am feeling panicked by the necessity to fill my bank account, clock hours, and be seen as responsible to my family and friends.  Now, I am pressured to return home, talk to the people who want to hire me, start working, saving, planning, making something of myself.  The freedom of my last weeks tainted by the tension between the warring factions of my brain.

However, the truth is that I love to feel productive.  If only I had a way to produce on vacation.  To devote a few hours to doing something another person found worth money. :)  That would be the life.  And I truly believe that the skills I have, whether they be washing the floor or lab tests or typing or translating, are worth something, and I would be happy to put them to someone's use.  As most people know, doing work is a sort of purpose.  On this quest (that I have been calling vacation), like studying in college, the work is solely for your personal purpose.  If you do nothing but what you absolutely need to, you don't get much back either.  But only you see the difference, because in cold realworld truth, nobody else really cares.  So now my struggle is to get the most out of this travel, not to get complacent in vacation mode, and not to be stressed (about all the aforementioned things) in working mode.

In an effort to both get the most out of life and to give something to my hosts, I have requested to spend some time at the Fiat dealership, helping with whatever I can, talking to whoever will talk to me, enjoying a business with my host dad. Three birds with one stone.  Hopefully I can hit them all.

Working to... just say you're working.

Ok, this is kind of a hard fact for me to reckon with but I am jobless.  I have been since I left Colombia because that job wasn't giving me what I wanted.  I felt I was putting a lot in and not getting much in return.  And now I'm just around, living in Venezuela, learning about people and myself.  My journey up until this point has been relatively fulfilling, first school and working in the summers, then working at the lab, reffing, tutoring, coaching, and then teaching.  But the truth is that I haven't been this "free" since I was 17; and further, I haven't been this poor since then either.  So my next job will most definitely not be something I can be picky about, if it puts money in the hands of my loans and debts, then it works for me.  However, what I want to focus on today is WORK in general.  What thoughts people have on its purpose in our lives as both Americans and Venezuelans (and people of the world).  How do I view work in my life and what do I hope to find in it and give to the world through it?

I had a very enlightening converstaion with a good friend the other day about working and money.  They gave me a great perspective on what they find important about work and also what they leave at work and really live.  We had been talking about why it is important to them to work, their reason being money, the ability to pay for things around their house and to buy things when they wanted without asking their partner for money.  Basically, they worked out of necessity to bring in income to provide for the family.  They don't especially like or dislike their job, and they dislike bringing work home or talking to people at parties about their work or answering questions about work matters during social events.  They work standard hours and hardly ever stay later than necessary at work.  Sounds like plenty of people we know right?  Work doesn't form part of their identity (or any giant part).  They live, and identify themselves (for the most part, it seems) by their other relationships, family, likes, and accomplishments of their life and their kids' lives.  I like that, I get that.  But what about me?

It seems to me that during the early adult years of our lives, we spend a lot of time, energy, and money educating ourselves (or not), trying to attain something better than minimum wage, whether it's from social pressure, parental pressure, or just a drive to do something satisfying for 40 hours a week to put money in our bank accounts.  We do internships, presentations, interviews, and standardized tests to get into positions that lead to promotions which, part by part, give us a CV full of experiences; something to show.  And after all that work that we put in, is that a big part of who we are?  I think so, but I can't be sure.  There is a lot of time in there spent with others, relationships and spirituality and dreams and goals not pertaining to great careers.

This question is haunting me particularly right now because I'm in limbo.  In response to the question "what do you do?" my answer is honestly, "try to learn Spanish and enjoy Venezuelan culture."  I'm not ashamed, I feel young and limitless (though less limitless than when I was in college, as the post college realization that every choice made in one direction cuts off other paths or specializations and in the end, I can't actually be ANYTHING).  I feel excited, though it's speckled with realizations of the need to really work for the things that make me excited.  And I feel like identity is more than a job.  I am more than what I do or don't do to make money.  I am more than just some schlub on a couch in Venezuela living out an extended vacation.  I am a learner, an adventurer, a listener, an understander, a dreamer, a wonderer, and a writer.

Living History

Caracas Country Club.  One of the oldest golf clubs in Venezuela, born in 1918 and named so in 1922.  It sits in the middle of the city of Caracas in segments, separated by houses and streets.  A player passes through tall fences topped by razorwire and guarded by police in order to move onto the next hole.  The view of the mountains on most of the holes is spectacular.  The price of joining is spectacular.  In addition to its history and beauty, it's also a source of controversy, according to an article published in the NYTimes in December.  Many private companies have been seized by Hugo Chavez's government in the name of its Socialist Revolution, and Chavez is quoted saying something along the lines of "if the Country Club doesn't help out the poor by giving up land or helping to house those displaced in floods earlier this year, the government will force it." (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/28/world/americas/28venez.html). However, lucky for me, nothing like this has been done so far and I got to walk the 18 gorgeous holes today in a practice round of golf with Jose, Pedro, and Yoni as they prepared to play in a tournement at this prestigious establishment beginning tomorrow.

As we drove back from the beach city of Rio Chico on Sunday (or rather as the chauffer drove), I was told that the barrio of Caracas is the largest in South America.  Ranchos (shacks) cover the sides of 2 or 3 mountains, one upon the other with a stairway leading from the bottom as the only noticable means of scaling the impoverished dwellings.  The brightly colored squares blanket the natural beauty of Caracas' mountains and seem to occupy a square of the city, looking down on central Caracas in the valley (Country Club included) and facing the other mountains where the houses are much bigger, much more expensive (I don't think you have to pay to live in a rancho), and much more secure (walls, fences, electric fences, razorwire etc).  It's compelling to look out across the valley and see the other. They're so close, but really so far, physically, socioeconomically, and I think ideally.  I'm not sure the emphasis that is put on education in barrios, or the availability of good education, but I do know someone who rose out of one of the worst barrios in Rio de Janiero, so I like to think that hard work, perserverence, and intelligence can get a person out of poverty.  What's funny also is that many billboards displaying Chavez's "Socialist feats" and propaganda are located here including Chavez-philic graffiti.

One last thing that's caught my attention, and made me sort of glad that I don't have a working phone: in the car yesterday Pedro's mom warned us to hide our phones at one of the stoplights. "Here they rob phones" she said.  And in the car no one puts their phone or purse in plain sight and especially not with a window down.  One must always be on their guard, and if I had anything of value I would be so tired of keeping my things close to me.  Even when I carry a bag I'm reminded not to put it behind me because someone could easily grab it.  I suppose being a gringa makes me even more of a target, but I haven't gotten any second glances yet.  Such a strange mindset, I'm still getting used to it.  I think it's part Big City, and part Caracas.  Maybe 70-30 (Caracas 70).  Anyway, it's so beautiful.  And who needs a phone anyway? ;)

Not Fact, Not Fiction

Disclaimer: the things that come out of my mind through my fingers aren't researched pieces of scientific evidence and have not been read and corrected by a panel of peer experts.  They're just things that I think about, bad and good and crazy and weird, and I am unsure if you'll like all of them.  Or any of them.  But that's the way things go.

The past few days I've spent quite a bit of time at La Lagunita Golf Club in Caracas, walking and watching golf, taking pictures, eating, sitting by the pool, and talking to people who happen to want to talk to me.  The golf community is pretty small in this mammoth city and most of the players know each other from other tournements.  The tournement staff (at least the man that I talked to) even knows which country clubs whose parents belong to and their families.  At least a few of all of the people either playing or running the tournement have spent significant amounts of time abroad (a year of highschool, a university education, or a stint in the LPGA) and plenty of them are willing to say hi to me in English. :)  A funny but warm novelty for me, words I don't have to conciously open my ears to understand.

Over the past week I have been feeling ENLIGHTENED with the gift of tongues.  I have been able to understand about 60% of things said, sometimes more, and sometimes less when I turn my ears off.  If the Spanish is clear and without too much slang I can understand (now only to RESPOND!).  Despite my one-sided conversational ability, it feels good to not be searching in the dark with a keychain flashlight for meaning anymore.  Now I have a stadium sized light, and I feel much more confident in my presence with a group.  It's a strange thing to be sitting with people who are talking to each other and have no idea what's going on; there's a feeling of helplessness and stupidity.  I'm feeling that less and less.  Plus, when I don't understand I just ask.  This way there's no question of my intention, I'm here to learn and I want to communicate.  I refuse to be one of those foreigners who wants everyone to speak to them in English, though honestly sometimes it's hard not to feel like this, espceially when that helpless feeling sets in.

This weekend we're headed to the beach, I think for another golf extravaganza and some sun.  I'm told I need to protect myself from two things: UV rays and friendly strangers wanting to steal my things.  I am truly enjoying Venezuela.

La Lagunita as described by Yahoo!Travel:

La Lagunita Country Club is basically a golf, tennis and swimming club. It is the most ambitiously designed golf club in Caracas. It was built at the same time as La Lagunita, a housing project aimed at the successful businessmen, TV actors and so on who make up the city´s noveau riche. You can also practice paragliding and rock climbing at the club. It is located near El Hatillo, a little colonial town that has become part of outer Caracas.

Una vaina loca

I'm sitting on a terrace overlooking a city of multi-colored apartments tucked into a valley surrounded by tall, green mountains.  I see the mountains to my left, closest to the airport, blanketed with ranchos, small, vibrantly colored shacks, stacked one upon the next.  How do the people living there even find their own houses with so much chaos and stacking?  The sky in front of me is clear and things look clean and beautiful from this height and then I see the fences surround the house, and the next house, and the one after that.  I see the circles of barbed wire and electric fences lining the beautiful houses of this mountain that is so close, but obviously so far from the mountain of poverty.  Welcome to Caracas.

With me on the terrace are two people, Jose and Mrs. Oviedo (the dona of the house).  We begin talking about Mrs. O's son's trip to the US embassy tomorrow in order to get his visa to study in California this upcoming fall.  The paperwork, she says, is two inches thick, and in order to get money out of the country of Venezuela, Venezuelan citizens need to go through an office called Cadivi.  Cadivi restrics the amount of money leaving Venezuela by setting requirments depending on destination.  On a trip to the US, a Venezuelan can take around $1,500.  To Colombia, $3,000.  To Iran, maybe up to $5,000.  In this way, Venezuelan's are forced to keep their money in Venezuela.  Even credit card charges are restricted by Venezuelan banks according to the mandates of Cadivi.  In addition to these Venezuelan rules, in order to gain entrance into the university, the family must show evidence of available funds, meaning income statements, bank statements, titles to houses, businesses, and property.  Tomorrow, her son will leave the house at 8:30am to make sure traffic doesn't make him late to his 11:00am appointment at the US embassy where he will wait in line and then go over the paperwork with an official.  He is hoping to leave the embassy by 3pm.

I am stuck by the difficulty of things that I have never thought twice about in Minnesota.  I have never questioned whether or not my credit card would work in Europe, China, or South America.  I have never been so struck by poverty nor so overwhelmed by beauty and garbage at the same time.  I have never thought about paying hundreds of dollars to compile papers, make dates with an embassy, translate documents, in order to get an education.  And at the same time, while I feel so  lucky that those things are easy in my country, so straightforward and transparent, I feel like there is something in the spirit of the people here that I haven't seen before.  The knowledge and the acceptance and the experience of poverty and inequality and frustration and shadow and perserverence is something not many of my American counterparts have ever experienced outside a National Geographic commercial or news report.  It's difficult to step back and realize that my sheltered existence in the US, China, Europe, Mexico, Dominican Republic, the world, my life in a bubble, has never given me the wariness, distrust, determination, or fire that many people here have.  And this is the real world.  Or part of it.  Because Rochester is the real world too.  Now the question is how do I exist in both?

Step by Step

Sometimes I think about exactly what I'm doing, and I get really scared.  I compare my choices and my skills with those of others I deem successful and I wonder how I missed the boat.  I wonder how I got here, how I'm staying afloat, how I can make something from what I have.  And I just don't know.  So I don't think about it.  But sometimes I do.

I am staying with a lovely family in Venezuela.  They listen to my slow stories speckled with the wrong verb tenses and heavily accented.  They cook me food and genuinely care if I like it, at least they always ask.  They like that I have opinions (though, as I've already conceeded, I know hardly anything), and they like showing me their world.  But I'm still trying to figure out my role in that world.  I'm still trying to figure out how to live and learn and listen without being pushy, indignant, and tired.  I'm trying to be appreciative and helpful.  I'm trying to tell them that I love that they're taking care of me like their child without turning into a child and expecting to be taken care of.  I'm trying to love in Spanish; I'm trying to understand love in Spanish.

It was a full weekend with Jose winning a golf tournament, playing golf again Sunday and going to the pool, visiting a national park and one of the largest caves in South America, seeing a coffee farm, drinking homemade amaretto, playing word games and waiting a whole morning for some guys in tee-shirts (unofficial workers) to put some power-lines up so we could get electricity again.  Today, it looks rainy, but I'm sure we'll get to the golf course if not just to hit a few balls and exercise (aka stairmaster).  The next few weeks are going to be jam packed with travel and excitement and new words and foods and sights and sounds.  I only hope I can find time to write, time to think, time to find a place in all the ruckus.

Born This Way

For a long time I've wondered how or what inspired me to start learning about other cultures and people but traveling, studying, and befriending people other than Americans.  I wonder what was the tipping point, where did I go from ignorant to insatiable?  When did I begin to see the number of my international friends usurp the number of my American friends?  When did I start feeling like I was missing out by only knowing English?

I have vague memories of international friends and exposures to cultural events other than American during elementary school and I know I wanted to be a foreign exchange student during high school, realizing that dream during my junior year of college.  The fact that my mother is an interpreter and spends her days fostering communication between two distinct cultures is also one more block in my foundation of realization of something greater.

Before coming to Venezuela, I spent a lot of time anxiously thinking about the future, a dark cavernous vault that I'm not sure how to fill.  It's so easy to forget that all the steps you take lead you somewhere, there's never a cliff (or there never should be).  In my case I take a lot of big steps into unknown territory just to know.  I like to say, "I want to know what's going on there, I'm going to go and try to find out."  This time, though, I feel something different.  Some kind of connection, some kind of motivating force.  I'm beginning to understand another language; I'm beginning to see why and how and for what people live here; I'm beginning to feel like it's really never been "my way or the highway" because there has never been a my way or a highway.  People are people and all  it takes is a little understanding, motive to respect what you learn, and determination to keep trying to understand after you feel shot down or misunderstood.  I've felt a lot of the latter, but to overcome that is to open a doorway of humor and trust.

I'm in Venezuela, for the forseeable future (for me is like a week).  I'm living the life that my little steps have taken me.  I wasn't born to stay and choose a career and see the world through movies or books.  I was born to see and hear and smell and taste the world.  I'm here, and I love it.

Back to the Future

And... I'm back.  To the suffocating ease of living in a house full of couches.  Back to having choices and being annoyed with little things.  Back to looking at Craigslist and Monster and the Post Bulletin as if there is actually something there for me to do to fill my time.  Back to managing my adult (ha) life from the cockpit of my parents' basement.  Back to my perfect future.

Every other day I come up with something crunchy or poisonous I want to blog about; the selfishness of the early morning chair claimers in Cancun, the immaturity of an 18 year old on spring break, the disappointment of an OK experience, the greater disappointment of the experience of being an unappreciated leader.  The ultimate disappointment of not feeling qualified to work in any job and the combined self-loathing of the moneylessjobless endless days of half-purpose.  But I just don't know if writing for the sake of my ideas being tangible is worth the trouble it might cause me.  But I want to do it.  I'm warning you; I might do it.

On the other hand, I have a future.  It just seems like it won't start for awhile.  I've somehow retained the childlike idea that the future is some bubble up ahead that I'll enter with more security and knowledge and purpose than I have now.  Unfortunately for 12 year old Amy, the future is in one minute, 6 hours, tomorrow, and I enter with nothing more than I have now, and somehow that's supposed to be enough.

Et tu Colombiae?

Place: my apartment, windows open, fan on, 100watt lightbulb glaring
Time: 6:40pm but really floating in a surreal eternity of sweat and car horns and sand on my bed
Situation: failure, disappointment, uncertainty, worry, and above all excitement for something to give...

I did it.  I handed the piece of paper that makes my time at Berlitz officially over as of March 18th.  I printed it from the second floor of the school, signed it, finger printed it, dropped my blood on a certain spot, and then sealed it with my American ring and some wax they just keep around.  Now all that's left to do is finish teaching class this week, get an exit physical proving I wasn't abused, sign 350 more papers (including fingerprinting shenanigans), manually check out of the building, and then start compartmentalizing all the luggange I have unpacked in the last 2.5 months of living in a country without digital copies of anything.  I might actually have to go through the entire Berlitz exit with my aparment, my bank (wait I didn't unpack that part yet, maybe I can leave it in the box...), my visa, maybe even the person at the Olympica store will ask me to sign something saying I'm not going to be around to shop there anymore.  High five for being the most ineffcient place I have ever even imagined, Colombia.

The other day I taught a class in which we read a short article about a man who had a mis-transaction with a bank and the bank hounded him for 3 weeks about a 10cent deficit that he owed.  He finally paid the fee with a dollar bill and kindly suggested the clerk she keep the change; the suggestion not taken, she chased after him with his 90 cents.  After reading the story, I was livid with the complete stupditiy of the bankers actions and I asked my class what they thought.  To my semi-surprise, they agreed unanimously that she was a good employee and that she did a great job.  After further prodding, and an eventual "devil's advocate" position taken by me, they still had nothing more to say than "she did her job."  Is this Colombia's quest to use policies and brainwashing in order to industrialize?  If they're all sheep, at least they're going to get the job done...  And this frustration of mine only reminds me of how my American ideals of innovation, bending the rules to create efficiency, and independence of thought are valued where I'm from, but not necessarily here.  And waiting in line to fill out forms and visit offices of offices makes me tired.  I'm tired of this country.  I'm tired.

I came to South America with a vision.  I intended to learn Spanish, to live an exciting South American life filled with clubs and tequila and handsome dark-haired men dancing with me.  I intended to visit the beach after class, to take walks and play volleyball and do yoga.  I intended to build my life with the same blueprint that I've been using the last 4 years in MN.  However, changes in location and schedule and so many changes in lifestyle forced me to scrap the MN blueprint and begin to draw up a new one.  Yet the new one looks more like an amateur sketch than a print.  And some major pieces are missing; where there used to be plumbing now there is a hose, where there used to be a bank account now there is a spot in my top drawer with some bills, and where there used to be a plan to pursue now there is a languid half-intention to just get through the day.  Yet I feel like a fallladora, a failure.  With such intention came such hope and a surity that I would come back with some new skills not just new stories.  I have done some things, and now I know how to get a visa, how to stay in a hostel, how to teach a class of cadets or businessmen or true-beginners.  I know how to bargain for an apartment, and how to leave a contract.  But I don't know how to speak Spanish that much better, or how to move my feet to a latin rythmn.  Or was I just looking at one aspect before?  It seems I have learned all the things I never set out to know.

And that just makes me aware of the fact of so many more things that I haven't the slightest idea about.  Like how to get out on top.

Exploitation of me

A few weeks ago my boss confided to me that "you're helping me do big business here.  You're my star, everyone wants to hear your accent and all the students who have you love you."  Did my hours increase? No.  Did my pay increase?  No.  Did I have enough money to pay for my apartment?  Barely.  I just can't get over the idea of someone else making money because I am a good worker.  Shouldn't I see some of that?  If I'm going to bring something to a company, clients, skills, word of mouth advertising, shouldn't I see something more than $313 for around 130 hours of work?  Anyway, my American instincts of pure capitalism caused me a mini heart attack of defiance.  The problem is that when I become indolent with my work here, I'm not punishing my company, I'm punishing my students.  Which I just cannot do.  So... I quit.  And I'm bringing my dreams back to the US to rewrite my future; one mistake down, many to go.  Just not the same ones. :)

In other news, I was lucky enough to visit the islands outside Cartagena this week and I finally got some rest.  Despite being about as pretty as Cancun's worst beach, the atmosphere was total vacation and I got some vitamin D. :)  Now, I'm just waiting to know if I've been cut out of the system at Berlitz (I'm not working this Saturday, which is weird) so I can sign up for a Spanish class and get my life together before I make my humble return.

More later.

Amy

3...2...1... And we have a winner: a reflection on throwing in the towel

I look up and wonder if my eyes are even open because all I see is black.  The wind is blowing my wet hair across my face and I can't remember what day it is or what I did yesterday.  I just hear the sound of water running and the fan blowing; everything else is quiet.  And then I sit up in bed and realize it's already 4:45am.  Already 4:45?; that's a sentence I would have never expected my fingers to type.  And the day begins.

The warm Cartagena wind blows leaves and flowers across the empty streets as I make my way to a bus stop 3 blocks away at 5:25am, and I find myself stepping over exoctic flowers and dog doodoo with equal frequency.  I buy a water for .75 cents through a window at the tienda because it's still not open and tell a man advertising for vans that I don't want to go to Baranquilla today, just like yesterday, and will have the same answer tomorrow.  I get on a bus labeled with the name of the 4th largest laminating company in the world and immediately fall asleep in the airconditioned interior.  45 minutes later, the bus stops and the sleeping inhabitants slowly disembark to disapper among the crowd of workers filing off buses and walking around ducks and chickens to go to work.  I make my way to the guard station and trade my Iowa State ID for a visitors badge and finally find myself in an airconditioned lobby drinking sugared coffee out of a shot-sized cup waiting for 7 o'clock to roll around and my class to start.

95 minutes later I re-trade my pass for my ID and the guard eyes my picture and then me before he hands it over and smiles at me for 2 seconds too long.  Then I get into a taxi driven by a guy named Sergio who has both a Colombian and an Italian passport and immediately fall asleep again.  It's 8:45.

Around 9:45 I'm awoken as the taxi stops and Ryan gets out in front of Berlitz.  We go in and the cold air hits me and I realize I've taken 2 unsatisfying naps already and now I need to get to work to prepare for the classes I have this afternoon or later this morning.  I greet the friendly secretaries, say hi to my boss, and head upstairs to plan my lessons.  By 9pm I will have taught at the Naval Acadamy, and at least one other class at Berlitz.  The classes are usually spaced so there is enough time between them to eat (2 hours) but not long enough to do anything further than 4 blocks in any direction.  And this has been my reality for the past 2 weeks with only Sunday to live my life.  I realized that I haven't seen the Cartagena sun in 8 days.  I didn't even have a chance to see it on Sunday because I was running the errands I don't have time to do the rest of the week....

So my question is... when is enough enough?  Why am I here?  To work from 5am until 9pm and make $200 a week?  Or am I here to learn Spanish (which is really hard to learn when you spend all your time in an English center and when you finally leave the only interaction you get is with the taxi driver...).

Tomorrow I'm moving into my new apartment.  This week I should get a bank account and a phone... which I haven't had in over a month.  Weird.  Things are falling into and out of place so fast I feel like my life is made of tectonic plates; constant shift and volatility but things still seem to work.

Until I come to a conclusion about whether to fight another round or whether to drop the gloves, I'm going to try to sleep more and stress less.  After all, at the end of the day, I'm still in Colombia living an adventure and even if that adventure turns into a knock out round for the other guy, I'll still be able to say I fought.

Speak Americano

Finally, work has commenced.  Everyday at 6am.  Which means I am awake around 4:45am to get to the businesses who learn English before working hours by 6.  I can hardly speak English that early, how can anyone do it as a second language? :)

So far teaching has been pretty fun.  Despite my feeling of frustration when things aren't going smoothly or when it seems like I'm getting through and then some role plays show that I've actually been talking to myself the whole time...

The only hard part is the hours: 6am-7:30am.  Then again from 2:10-3:40.  And again from around 5-9pm.  The breaks allow for some time to prepare classes but not enough time to have a life.  It's a good thing I never got a chance to start one othewise it would be coming to an abrupt halt.  I don't remember the last time I felt so tired.

With that said, it's 10:15pm and I'm laying on my air mattress of sleepless nights in the room of claustrophobic roomsharing days, ready to sleep for a glorious7 hours (if I'm lucky).

More when my brain cells can funciton.

Cultural Correctness: to take or refuse shots of Aguardiente?

Since we've returned from Miami things have been a whirlwind.  I'm not exagerating when I say 10 minutes after walking in the door from the airport (we walked the 4 blocks home after an easy customs check out in which they didn't even look at my brand new visa) I was on my semi-mobile phone (aka computer) with someone I was told was looking to rent an apartment.  Thirty minutes later we were walking into an Olimpica to meet some Americans about the apartment we hoped would end our 2 week search and finally stop being guests in our new life.  An hour or so later we were at Berlitz talking to our boss and filling out forms.  By 9:30pm we were home.  Did I mention this day started in Miami?  With a 6am wakeup call, a bus, trolley, and metro ride to the Colombian consulate, more forms, a taxi ride to the airport, 2 hours of waiting, then a flight...

Since then, that night, we've had 2 visits to a doctors office, been to Berlitz every day (sometimes twice a day), seen the American apartment (not quite worth what they're asking... and I'm disappointed that some fellow patriots can't cut us a break), seen a concert celebrating the independence of Cartagena in 1811, seen a parade, and taken taxis to hell and back.  Now, we're finally relaxing on Saturday night.  I almost, for a second, thought about showering and going out tonight.  And then the moment passed and I realized I would be lucky to take a shower before I fall onto the airbed of my sweaty yet all-too-short Cartagena nights.

In other news teachers are dropping like pine needles from a Christmas tree.  The tree looks so beautiful and smells so nice until little by little it begins to degrade in your living room.  So the story of Berlitz.  So far, 2 teachers within our 6 person training group have quit or been "relieved" and another one has gone back to Canada to work to gain some money to get a visa.  And another is looking elsewhere for work.  If I said I didn't see this coming I wouldn't be lying, but I wouldn't be telling the whole truth either.  The whole operation seems kind of shaky.  More and more I'm seeing the gold leaf fall away from this magical deal in this magical city, and unfortunately there isn't enough wind for me to miss seeing the piles of it around my feet.  I can't say it's not still magical or that I'm unhappy to be here but... I'm becoming disillusioned with both the job and the people and... horror of horrors, the culture.

After having to stubbornly insist on semi-drinking abstinence today at the parade with a friend and her friends/cousins/whoevers, Ryan and I had a thoughtful conversation about work ethic.  After explaining to our friend that our week must have been designed by a cousin of the devil and that we needed to pick up our stuff from work and get cracking, she still complained that we were lame and told us we'd better come out tonight.  Or else we might be lamer.  I could probably tell you already that I'm lame, and very happy about it. :D  Obviously there are cultural differences, but are Colombians really interested as work as an outlet for talents and ambitions, or are they more likely to work just to pay the bills, buy nice stuff to show to other people, and party every chance possible?  I am sure the answer is that there are people who fall on both sides of the spectrum, as in any other country.  The question is, in our realm, how will our perception of hard-work and responsibility to our work differ and parallel those of our co-workers.  And how much will we suffer because we take our job, and ourselves, seriously when it comes to work?

Now, if you're wondering why I am so gung-ho, you have to know that I've been watching my bank account (which I worked hard to see grow since May) dwindle on seemingly neverending expenses related to this job, I'm still a guest in my wonderful friend Carmen's house, I still don't have a phone, and I still have no idea how to make a bank account.  Now, after my 3 week vacation including a short trip to Miami, a visa ($205) to work, and the sadness of throwing money into the black hole that investments sometimes seem to be, I want to work.  I don't want to drink, dance, or party.  I want to work.  So, whether it's culturally acceptable or not, please take this shot of Aguardiente away from me before I toss it in your face.  I'll get back to you after my life has settled into a pattern, I feel like I have some kind of control, and I know what I'm doing at work.  Maybe I'll even blog that I can hardly find a moment to share my life because every free minute is spent living like a Costena on vacation... but until then, I'm still an uptight American who likes to sleep and work and organize before I make a controlled mess. And then clean it up again.

When beer is cheaper than Coke...

Last night I visited the bar in the hostel on a search for some kind of blood sugar replenishment and I found that the cost of a bottle of Bud Light was cheaper than the Coke I wanted.  Honestly, I find Bud Light less than satisfying and went with the $2 Coke despite the slight draw saving .50 had.  Enjoying my empty calories I found Ryan in the hostel's theater room along with a nice (albeit surfer-hippie-ex-drugaddict 45 year old) man who was eating a massive amount of fried chicken from what looked like a grocery store-bought box.  Having offered Ryan a piece he turned to me, "hey you want a piece of chicken?"  How could I resist?!  "As a matter of fact I would love some free fried chicken."  I grabbed one of the hostels plates and sat down to enjoy a reminiscently KFC-like feast of 2 big wings and my Coke while watching Hancock on FX.  I was so overwhelmed with gratitude I wanted to wait until he finished and wash his plate but he beat me to it (I'm hoping karma doesn't kick me in the rear for that). ;)

Fast forward to present; I'm once again laying in my bunk bed, accompanied by my 40-something Brazilian roommate (who is also on her computer), $400 poorer, hungrier, and less sure about making the choice to go with the Coke.  Let me explain....

We made it to the Colombian Consulate by 9:20 this morning, and after wandering around like two gringos in a bullfight (always trying to figure out what's going on but never wanting to get in the way of the action) we entered the visa waiting room around 9:26.  Ryan went in first, lasted 4 minutes, and came out shaking his head.  "We're going to need a notarized copy of our Degrees, and a notarization of our contract."  We made our way to the convenintly located printing/notary/apostille/document translation place for those assholes who come unprepared to the Consulate (going to say 78% of people) where we nervously left $83 a piece and walked away with some more papers with stamps on them.  Thankfully the Visa Lady was friendly (after notifying me that I needed more stamped papers she smiled at me, put up the index finger of her latex gloved hand, and told me, "I wait for you").   By 11:25am we had also found out that we would need to return NOT Wednesday but Thursday with a $205 MONEY ORDER (what is that?!?!) and we would receive our handy little work visas to be able to teach some Colombians our Lingua Franca.  Thanks a bunch Colombia.

After having completed our Consulate date we had time to burn so we decided to find out how slowly we could get back to the hostel and the Miami Public Transportation System seemed like a great alternative to walking.  Turns out navigating the little colored lines and day/week/month/lifetime passes is easier than getting a visa!  As we made our way across town, first on a metrorail then on a bus, I began to feel like a tiny grain of sand in a universe filled with sand overwhelmed by my seemingly futile existence of invisible money and beach-fronted-cardboard-cut-out dreams.  Except that I was a grain of sand with an ipod, $220 cash, a pair of Christmas RayBans, and an American visa on my person in the middle of a sandstorm. Which is enough to make any sane grain nervous.

As I was entertaining thoughts of shouting at my boss (who neither told us that visas take longer than 2 days or that we'd need to cut the bottoms out of our pockets at the Consulate), I began to wonder why I was planning on going back to Colombia in the first place.  Why spend more than one month's wages just to GET a job?  Why deal with bureacracy and red tape and fines and taxes and flights and customs and language barriers just to get a job teaching English?  Did I make the right decision?  Was I really that bored making $13/hr, living in my parents beautiful house, taking yoga classes and playing racketball and seeing my family every day?  Why did I buy the Coke when the Bud Light was cheaper?

At this point I need to tighten the slack in my head and remember that the boat needs to be going fast for the waterskier to stand.  I am investing in my dreams of speaking Spanish, knowing the business culture of South America, establishing a network of friends and businesses and people, knowing how to salsa, and living by the ocean.  I spent 6 months living the same life that I lived in high school (down to the resarurants that I frequented) in order to grow a bank account that could handle the occasional pruning.  I practiced living with stress and a cultural pressure that was akin to altitude sickness in China.  For what?  To be here now.  I hate to say "to be here, spending money on things I don't get to physically see or touch or appreciate the value of yet" but it's true.  I'm in a mirage of limbo, the things I see aren't the way they'll be in a few minutes or hours or days.  Things are difficult right now.  It's raining in my dream projection and I'm trying so hard to do well; I'm wearing my best clothes and trying to stand up straight but the bus still doesn't drive around the puddle but instead splashes me on the sidewalk.  But instead of calling my mom to pick me up from work because the day is over and it's time to rest and try again tomorrow I now need to grab a towel and keep walking.

I've already paid for the Coke, now it's time to try to enjoy it.

Isn't it dangerous? You mean the cheese or the cocaine?

Today I woke up at 6:30am in Cartagena, Colombia to the sound of birds and salsa music and some guy whistling in the garage of the building I'm living in.  I had dust on the parts of my body that were outside the blanket and my skin was slightly damp from the pre-perspiration that glazes my body 99% of the time.  I made sure I had all the necessary things in my gym bag and computer bag, washed the dishes in Carmen's sink, and set off on foot to the airport 2 blocks away.  The streets were desserted because it was Sunday and Lord knows the Colombians found a reason to party Saturday night.  As we entered the airport all we had to do was look across the fieldhouse sized building that the Cartagena International Airport is to see the line in front of Avianca; everyone is flying to Miami today!  After repeated safety measures (I was frisked twice) we ended up in a "terminal lounge" consisting of wooden connected beach-like chairs.  I bought a coffee (Colombians do kid-sized coffee, but at least it's delicious) and a chicken and potato empanada for breakfast for $3 and sat down to await the final baggage check (as you leave the door to the stairs outside the airplane they take one last look in your carry-ons).  Two and a half hours, one delicious airplane meal, most of Whatever It Takes (movie), another coffee, cup of coke, and half cup of beer, and amazingly aircondidtioned trip through the warm and cuddly US Customs Check Point later, I'm in Miami, FL whizzing by canals and sky-scrapers and $15 NY Style Deli sandwiches.  After moving stuff into a pretty nice Hostel (South Beach Hostel in Miami Beach), Ryan and I took off walking to try to find a grocery store to purchase necessary food items (having deemed Miami too expensive for our meager budgets).  We took a detour to the beach (beautiful!) but eventually found some mostly Latin Food Marts.  And here I found my necessities: a bag of Cheetos, a Little Debbie snack, a large bottle of water, a giant pack of saltines, and a block of cheddar cheese.  While purchasing said necessities the man at the counter asked me "So where are you from?"  I replied that I was from MN but living in Colombia right now.  He opened his eyes wide and stared at me then asked, "isn't it like, dangerous there?"  I laughed and said "is it dangerous in Miami? Where are you from?"  He replied that he was from Puerto Rico.  Colombia's bad reputation beats even the most dangerous of US cities.  It's funny to think that most of the cocaine that people use in the crazy Miami nightlife probably originates in Colombia too. :p  However, I wouldn't know the first thing about that, and I was hungry as hell.

The walk back to the hostel was treacherous as I was nearly dying of hunger (which lately has been my MO, and a terribly terrible idea because I always get grumpy when there's not a bolus of sustainence in my belly).  When we returned we sat down in the lobby to enjoy the Lakers/Celtics game and eat.  What do you think I ate first?  The crackers and cheese of course, but without any cutting utinsil I was forced to take mini-bites of the cheese and chase them with the crackers.  I can only hope whoever saw me found some humor in a nice looking girl eating a block of cheese straight.  This is what visiting Miami for the sole purpose of a visa looks like. :)  A block of cheese.