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.
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