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.
No comments:
Post a Comment