Scoop du Monde

Life after happily ever after

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 19:03:00 +0000

I've decided to start writing again. What exactly, I am not entirely sure of. But, after 6 months back in the US, I realize the hardest part is this. I knew it. I've told enough students in the past that the biggest culture shock they will experience will be the return. It's the unexpected difficulties that you can't anticipate that make it so hard. I braced for the normal things: settling into a new apartment, reexamining a (not-so-new) city, finding a job, having a (not-at-all long-distance) relationship with my friends and family.

These are big enough transitions. But the unanticipated hardship has been settling into these changes with a completely unsettled me.

All of these transitions I took in stride. I found a job. Check. I am in the same town as most of my friends and my boyfriend. Check. I can talk to my family on a regular basis. Check. I understand the culture I am in and it understands me. Check.

And now, what?

Well, quickly into my "technically great" job I realized that it wasn't great at all and I quit. Bummer. After a roller-coaster of anxiety, doubt and unhappiness, I find myself back at the beginning, and pretty darn happy about it. I feel like I stole a little trip in the time machine and get to explore and have fun as I figure out my next steps.

I also soon realized that perhaps my long-distance relationship with my man was better than my in-the-same-town, real-life one. All those moments of waiting for my return and now we are both adjusting to all these moments of real life. Not to mention that many of my friends are taking big steps in their careers, are getting married and having the babies. It's hard to be gearing up for a fresh start, when everyone around you is in "got my shit together" mode.

So, it's been a gallimaufry (look 'er up) of transitional moments and really the only thing that has become clear to me is that life is really like travel - sometimes you get upgraded to first class and sometimes you have to sleep next to a buffalo for two weeks. Either way, you can try to plan for it, but usually your plans change.

And so, I am turning to the only thing that kept me sane during my last transition: writing.

I hope you'll follow as I write about my brand new life as a traveler, paused.

The Return

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 21:39:00 +0000

I've successfully ignored this blog to the point of distraction and so that it's become so big a task that I can't wrap my brain around it. Is it because I've been so busy having a fabulous time that I've stopped tearing myself away from the fun to record it? Or, is it because travel has become so very normal that I'm not sure what to share? (After a while, how does one really describe the craziness of travel when one moment you can be swimming in the Bay of Biscay at 8:00 a.m. drinking a beer and the next moment you are waking up in a tent in the middle of the Czech Republic with a horse staring at you).

Well, I can't avoid it any longer and I'm facing a difficult job summing up how the last few months have been. But, as I'm now unemployed and have a delicious amount of time on my hands, I'll give it the good ol' college try.

***

After a certain amount of time on the road, travel changes. A corner is rounded. You start to feel the strain. The peaks and valleys are higher and lower. The plateaus are endless.

I've spent the majority of the last three months in Spain continuing to learn Spanish. After Nepal, the transition to Spain was tremendous and painful. Returning to the first world is not easy. After the initial wonderment from electricity and running water, the bustle and routine of real life is hard to come back to. There is more distance between people and I feel the strain of social obligations. People have their lives and keep to them. I felt the isolation immediately and missed the days when you met people just walking down the street. In the first world, it's weird if you just approach someone on the street to start a conversation. I was a traveler lost in the middle of normal life.

And so, I found myself much less inspired in Spain and it was a time of language learning and introspection. As plateaus go, this was a long one and I had a lot of time to think and stare down the barrel of the rest of my trip. I wrote little and counted the days. The Fear of returning started to creep in, despite an intense longing to be done with travel. Was it going to be like this when I returned to the states? What exactly am I doing, anyway? I was in a rut.

I was saved from myself when my brother met me in Spain and I started moving again. Trains, planes and buses. Hostels, shitty dorm beds and travel shenanigans. I lay looking up at the underside of my bunk bed and I see all the bunk beds. Suddenly, I was a traveler again and it was good. Travel is like that, just when you think you know what to expect, it changes - it gets harder or easier, or you just stop noticing it all together.

After three weeks of racing around Spain and Portugal and eating as many fried baby squids as we could possibly shove in our mouths (a lot, it turns out), Dylan and I had a race to the airport and then - goodbye! On to the next. I was off to the Czech Republic to meet my boyfriend and start the last leg of my trip. Wine tasting in Moravia and a 3-day music festival in Slovakia. Camping at the beach in France and catching up with old and new friends in England. After the silent panic of my sojourn in Spain, I stopped thinking about what would happen after The Return, and found my old friend the travel groove.

Movement is a good thing, and I've had plenty of it. I feel instantly at ease once the train starts pulling away or the bus tickets are booked. And so, I find myself starting the most difficult part of my journey: returning.

Once a traveler, I'm now just broke and unemployed. I'm excited to find a new job and start over but I'm overwhelmed with the task at hand and how to go about reintegrating into normal life, doing things that are difficult under normal circumstances, with the added difficulty of adjustment and a new identity.

It is great only owning a backpack and a few possessions, but not so easily explained in a job interview. It's romantic in a novel having only $50 in your bank account and a fresh start, but in real life it poses obvious problems.

And the big question: What do I want to do now? Well, I am not quite sure. I feel changed, obviously, and I don't want to lose all that I gained on the road. I am not anxious to get back to office life; I have no interest in rushing back to the grind. I'd like to do much more intentional work and I am not in a rush to define that. I guess I am not interested in returning at all to my old life, but rather continuing. There is no going back now, it's all forward.

And so, it continues. Now, I'm just a traveler, paused. I am going to continue to write, although I think I'm just writing to space. It's no longer "How to quit your job and travel the world," but rather, "How to travel the world and return."

Some belated thoughts on turning 30

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sat, 30 May 2009 21:34:00 +0000

I am a late bloomer. Always have been, always will be. And so, it is exciting to me that I am finally turning 30. To think, all the things I have yet to do, and how much better they will be now that I am not such a stupid, naive and unprepared 20 year-old!

Ha, yeah right.

When it comes down to it, I am still 15 years-old: I spend my days convinced everyone is looking at the zit on my chin, I wonder when my body is ever going to look like I want it to look and I can't wait to figure out what I'm going to be when I grow up. The only difference now is that I am armed with better friends, wine and a superior ability to rationalize.

The bottom line is, I don't feel older (and thanks to my mom's genes, I don't look any older) and I wouldn't return to my twenties for all the money in the world (unless I could return to my younger self to pry the bread from her hands and give her a good slap regarding all things related to ex-boyfriends).

Of course, I miss the fleeting wonder of my ass at 19 years-old, but I'm so much happier now, knowing myself better, knowing what I want and need and just not giving a shit what others think.

I also find it interesting that I've spent this last year traveling. Normally, taking a year-off to travel is done after college and I met a lot of people in their earlier twenties, or the infamous gap-year kids ruining the British reputation the world over. Personally, I couldn't have done this journey any earlier and certainly wouldn't have been able to appreciate it like I have. I learned all the same things I would have learned - how to adapt to change, problem solving, language skills and in general who I am - but this time, I think the learning experience was a little bit more profound. I know who I am and more importantly, I know who I will never be. It's a whole lot easier to work on being a better person in the areas you know you can change than wasting your time wanting to be something you cannot. I can't kid myself that I will ever figure it all out, I hope I don't. It's just too much fun learning.

So, I'm a little bit wiser and my ass is a little bit wider and softer (but I care less, so it's a bit of a wash). I can't deny the importance of my twenties, I have them to thank for all those "what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger" moments that have brought me here today. But I happily say goodbye to them and I hope the door doesn't hit their ass on the way out.

A year later

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 17:37:00 +0000

A year ago, I got on a plane to Guatemala. The first step is always the hardest and I remember being full of nerves as I flew into Guatemala City and looked down at all the lights and all the unknowns. But after that first step, that first flight, it all just settles into a rhythm. A crazy, unpredictable, emotional roller-coaster of a rhythm. Until, you find yourself a completely different person.

And I am, completely different. Perhaps, a better way to put it is that I am more myself than before. When you take away all the external factors, both good and bad (stress, job, friends, family, income, your bed), you are left with a reality that is completely controlled and managed by YOU. That means if you are unhappy in any way, it's wholly because of you. It's in your control to change it. When you become stressed, it's obvious, based on your new, stripped-down reality, what it is that is stressing you out. Only you can make yourself happy and only you have the power to do anything about it.

You become utterly and absolutely selfish. If you don't like something, you don't do it. End of story. If you want do to something, you do. Period.

What I'm trying to say is that, over the past year of traveling, I've turned into a man. Ha!

As I look back, I look ahead. This has not just been a year-off, it's been a lifetime. I can't remember doing anything different. The feeling is very similar to some of my long-distance runs that I did when training for my marathon; at some point, you just don't know how your body will stop. When I get on my last plane home, now set for July 29th, I believe I will be starting the hardest part of my journey. Will I keep with me all that I learned during my travels? A year from now, will it all be gone? A happy ghost of a memory? Will I continue to be different, or will I slowly creep back into a routine of work and daily life, will I settle into old ways?

I hope not. I hope the lessons I have learned will be permanent additions to my life. As I have often felt over my journey, I am grateful. I am thankful to all of the people I have met and that have supported me over the past year.

So, for my last three and a half months on the road, all I know is that you never really know, you just keep going.

I found my post from the night before my travels to be just as true now as it was then:

http://scoopdumonde.blogspot.com/2008/04/night-before.html

¡Besos desde España!

18 hours in Hong Kong

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 13:40:00 +0000

1. Got drunk with Miguel before noon
2. Ate dim sum
3. Had a massage
4. Dominated at darts

Who says layovers can't be fun?

Hawasta

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 05:21:00 +0000

The world of Nepal is punctuated, underlined, by its sounds. Hacking. Spitting. "Miss, Miss!" Buffaloes groaning. The whir of generators. Farting. Burping. The silent moment of someone picking their nose with their long fingernail (specially grown for the purpose). That strange, half-laugh sound of women chasing the chickens away. The chanting songs. The rooster crowing. You haven't lived until you've heard a Nepalese band cover "Killing in the name of" by Rage Against the Machine. Or listened on hopelessly while a travel-sick goat bleats meekly on the bus.

These are all the things I will remember. The smells as well, but those I choose to forget. My days with squat toilets, and their sickening smell of sewage, are happily numbered. But, in the end, it really wasn't all that bad. You can get used to a lot, on the road. I sleep soundly in the guest house blankets, even though I know they haven't been washed that frequently. I eat with my hands. I shower when it becomes necessary. I am travel.

What a shock, then, to be heading to Europe. After five pristine days of trekking in the Himalayas, I'm having a hard enough time being in the grasping clutches of Kathmandu. But, with all things, one must move on. I'm embracing a different kind of adventure now. Learning a language. And surviving Europe on a budget of 20 Euros a day.

I will miss waking up, snuggled in a rickety guest house perched on the edge of the mountains. I will miss eating heaping meals of daal bhaat (for under a dollar). I will miss the joy and sorrow of Nepal.

Rangichangi

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 05:32:00 +0000

I am humbled writing this entry. I do not know where to begin or how to possibly explain how much has happened in only two short weeks in Nepal. In many ways, I feel that here and now, I am at the culmination of my travels. I also feel that I am just beginning my journey and I am reminded every day how important it is to get up and take each day like it‘s your first. Climbing a mountain, I find many more mountains on the horizon.

There is no way to shorten this, or make it bite-sized, so here it is in it’s entirety.

My first three days in Nepal were a whirlwind of host families, Kathmandu sightseeing and arriving in Nirmal Pokhari, where I would be volunteering. My guide in Kathmandu, Kshitiz, took me around to all the temples and sites on his motorbike and I consider myself blessed by a higher being to still be alive and have all my limbs. I loved it. In Kathmandu, I stayed with Karuna, her daughter and two servants. The poverty slowly starts to creep into your awareness, and even well-off families like Karuna do not have running water and wait like everyone else for the electricity to come on. Karuna is 35 years-old, has been married for 22 years and has a daughter that is 15 and son that is 20. How very different my life would be if I were born in Nepal. I spent a memorable evening drinking beer by candlelight and eating curry on the carpet.

After only two days, I left Kathmandu for a crazy bus journey to Pokhara, the second largest town in Nepal, and onto Nirmal Pokhari and the small village of Miadan. This is where culture exploded all over me.

I was met in Pokhara by Amanda, another volunteer that has been here for four weeks. We took a 45-minute bus to Miadan and this has to be the bus journey to beat all third-world country bus journeys. (Perhaps I shouldn’t speak too soon, I still have two more weeks in Nepal). Climbing up a road that looks more like a hiking trail, we were covered with dust by the time we arrived and surrounded by loud, curious, locals in an explosion of colors and smells.

I arrived to find that I was not working in an orphanage, as I was told, but would instead be teaching English in a resource library run by volunteers and at the local secondary school. But all that had to wait, as Laxman (my host father) was just cutting up some goat, served for special occasions, and Sita (host mother) was serving daal bhaat (rice and lentils) before going to a party at a nearby neighbor‘s house.

There, the women danced and sang, while the men kept mostly to themselves. Amanda and I were encouraged to dance, but I couldn’t quite figure out how it was done. I resorted to my own dancing, and let me tell you - the running man was a hit and they are still talking about it in the village. I think making an ass of yourself really opens doors. This theory was proved right just a few days later when I was washing with some local women by the water tap and carried some water on my head for one of the ladies. They all started waving and calling to me, making dancing movements and laughing. Still, they call to me on the road and imitate my dancing.

I woke up the next day and started my first week of teaching English. After two weeks here, I am still unsure of how to walk away from this volunteer experience. I don’t really feel as if I really made a difference - it is not long enough and Nepal is a place that needs more fundamental help and aid at a deeper level. I feel overwhelmed with hopelessness at the secondary school. The teachers don’t seem to care and will even complain about the poor quality of education, oblivious to their role in it. There is no set schedule for the students; we teach English at random timeslots, teachers don’t show up and leave classrooms full of children just waiting. Some classes are a mix of rejects - students stay behind a year if they don’t pass, well beyond their age group. Some classes have 60 students, ages ranging from 10 to 15 years-old. The English books are wrong. Classes are chaos. Kids have never had discipline, other than getting smacked around the head.

How do you make a difference with just two weeks, a school system that isn’t even trying and no teaching skills?

The resource library is a little better. Volunteers teach English and play with the kids before and after school. It is entirely run by volunteers and has a long legacy in the village. This makes it even more sad and hopeless, as it is still very basic. The children want to be there and are starving for attention and positive reinforcement. I struggle with cheery childhood activities when I know exactly where these children will end up. Even more so, I struggle when they are so badly behaved and acting out. It is an emotional rollercoaster. Most of the children are unwashed and wear filthy clothes. Sometimes they cannot go to library or school because they have to work at home. The children are fun and exhausting and adorable.

You cannot tell me that teaching English in a broken system is going to help them. I am not giving them a future; maybe I’m helping bring some play to their lives. I do not know.

I do not believe that InfoNepal is doing it’s best to help people in Nepal, but with thousands of NGOs in Nepal, I think they are perhaps better than many others. I have yet to hear of a good organization in Nepal, where the money goes where it should. There must be one out there. There are also two Dutch volunteers living here with us, from an organization called Cross Borders, that teach at the primary school. They have had a positive experience in their three months here, and they give a lot of hope to this situation.

I am not disappointed in my experience volunteering, because I think that I would be looking in the wrong direction. I am more frustrated with myself for doing so little for others during my year of travels, and like a selfish American, I am only going to return home to my hot showers and….and what? The truth is, that you cannot make a difference in just two weeks. I think volunteering has to be a longer commitment, a lifetime commitment. I feel even more selfish because I am really enjoying Nepal and the amazing experiences that volunteering is allowing me. Staying in this village, living with Laxman and Sita, is an incredibly opportunity to see Nepal at the local level.

And the local level is poor. Laxman’s and Sita’s house is pretty typical (and maybe a little nicer than most): tin roofs, a hut for the bathroom, a hut for the toilet, no running water and random electricity. There is no shower and a bucket of water is your toilet paper. You can wash at the tap, where everyone gets their water and does their washing. They have a buffalo, chickens and a small plot of land. They have nothing, but, like many Nepalese, they give everything.

And the beauty of the Nepalese people is their humor. Even when the children are screaming “Miss, Miss!!” and misbehaving, even when the women are tired from working all day, they are smiling, laughing, joking. I find that beautiful.

I laugh a lot here. Mostly at ridiculous travel moments. Apparently, moles in Nepal are quite rare. On more than one occasion I have been asked, “What is wrong with your face?”

“Um, excuse me? Oh, my moles. Koti, Koti.” Yes, koti, moles.

Also, Samanta is a man’s name in Nepal. Hilarious. Meeting new people is just a ten minute laugh riot.

After a week, I took a short break from Nirmal Pokhari and went to Pokhara for a night. I had my first shower in eight days. It was my first shower in Nepal, my last being in Hong Kong. It was a short break, but I returned to Nirmal Pokhari recharged and ready for one more week.

In Nepali, rangichangi means colorful, but also crazy or drunk. That pretty much sums it up for me. I returned to the village to be hit by more cultural bombs and my last week flew by. I went to a traditional engagement party (and the wedding which took place four days later). I helped serve food, I had my hair and makeup done. I was dressed in a sari and again, entertained the locals with my dancing. I spent the next day throwing up with a rangichangi stomach, apparently a little too much culture for my belly.

Last night, after a full day of wedding celebrations, Laxman and Sita took us to a neighbor’s house for another drum and song evening. The night had become misty and with a full moon, you could just see flashes of singers faces in the candlelight. We all packed onto the porch, sitting on woven mats and leaning against one another. The Nepalese are very touchy people, and have no sense of privacy or personal space. My hand is often spontaneously held, or an arm around my shoulder, a hand on my knee. I thought about how much my back hurt, after two weeks of no chairs. I thought of my brother, Dylan, and how much he would love the music and the open-faced humor of everyone. I thought that maybe there is hope, that simply being here and opening yourself to the village can help everyone. I felt happy to be there, happy that a life like this still exists.

I return to Pokhara with a head full of laughing, rangichangi children and song.

It's a mad, mad, mad, mad mall

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 08:04:00 +0000

I didn't really know what to expect in Hong Kong. This is my first visit to Asia and I wasn't sure if I would be overwhelmed by the cultural differences and lost with the language barrier.

Hong Kong is definitely where east meets west. Most speak English and the streets are crowded with a mix of Chinese and a huge cosmopolitan ex-pat community. Oh yeah, and business rules. It's the cleanest city I have ever been in, the metro is absolutely spotless, as are the streets, and the food is amazing. Cantonese, Shainghainese, Pekingnese, Japanese, Indian, French, Italian, Tapas...all of it is living and thriving in Hong Kong.

Besides food, there is also theatres, art, temples and markets. Hong Kong has it all.

If you wanted, you could spend your entire day underground and in a mall. Exiting the metro tends to be a 20 minute walk through underground, connected malls: Gucci, Chanel, Furla...all the major brands, just as expensive as anywhere.

I was lucky to have a friend in Guangzhou; a two-hour train ride from Hong Kong, but miles away from the international feel. Guangzhou is China. Very few English speakers, very few foreigners. Amazing food. I stayed with Zach and Winnie (and their little one, Miles) and they, along with some of their friends, treated me to a cultural introduction to China. Chinese hot pot and dim sum were pretty tame. Things got weirder with the trip to get a massage. We had an hour foot massage, an hour back massage and some cupping. All for the bargain price of 110 RMB (about 15 USD). I was bracing for a painful foot massage, but they were gently for us foreigners. The back massage was more intense, but the cupping was by far the most painful (check the video, above). The things you do for good Chi.

With a Chi-high, we went to dinner. The dinner was a cornucopia of Chinese oddities...we walked aruond the mostly live fish stalls to choose our food: worms, clams, aligator, snakes, turtles. That night, I ate chicken feet, worms, clams, oysters and snake penis rice wine (surprisingly good).

I returned to Hong Kong the next day happy, hungover and very bruised. I spent the next two days enjoying more food, visiting temples and resting up before my trip to Nepal, where I write to you now.

Nepal has been a dream of mine for many years and it is amazing to be here. I have escaped to Pokhara to write this email and take a hot shower and I return to the mountain area of Nirmal Pokhari tomorrow to continue volunteering. Next week, I'll share some of my adventures!

Life's a batch

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 10:21:00 +0000

I started the second half of my adventure in business class on a flight from LA to Melbourne. I'm the new backpacker: unemployed, broke, but with platinum status and friends in great places.

People in business class always give me condescending smiles, like I'm visiting their world on a guest pass and isn't it so great for me. Sexism aside (I doubt a 29 year-old man would be simpered at the same way), I smile right back and happily take my free pajamas, cocktails and three-course meals. When I go to the bathroom, I smirk at all those suckers in economy. Ha.

Well, the joke is on me. My platinum status comes crashing to an end at the end of this month and I'll have to say goodbye to free coffee and booze in the airport lounges, boarding first to avoid the amateurs and bubbly while we wait to take off.

'Tis better to have flown in first and been downgraded, then to have never flown in first at all.

All that to say that I arrived in New Zealand completely pampered and continued to be pampered for the entire time I was there.

I stayed with Tiff and Phil - my family when I was living in London, now relocated to Auckland - and I was joined by Nicole for a week of fun in the North Island. After eight months of travel in South America, it is incredibly nice to travel with friends and share your experience.

So, New Zealand. The only rule in New Zealand is that wherever you go, whatever you see, the Kiwis have figured out a way to jump off it, into it, roll down it, climb up it or crawl through it. Abseiling, bungee jumping, zorbing, horseback ridigin, skydiving, caving...you name it, it's done in New Zealand.

Nicole and I were fearless - we jumped off waterfalls, abseiled 100 m (330 feet) into a cave, crawled our way through underwater rivers and laid beneath the glowworm night sky. We also drove on the other side of the road and didn't kill ourselves.

After Nicole sadly left, I escaped with the FloodSmiths to a friend's batch (bachelor pad = beach house) in Pauanui. Right on the beach and in a teeny tiny town. By the time I left New Zealand, I had all but forgotten the cold showers and sketchy hostels in Latin America. Hong Kong, China and Nepal would be a shock...

I leave you with some pictures and the promise of a Hong Kong episode very shortly.

Tiff and Phil's house

The FloodSmiths
Me and Nicole

America, the beautiful

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 21:25:00 +0000

Well, there is nothing like a presidential inauguration to baptize you with patriotism and make you want to drink beer, eat hamburgers and fly American flags emblazoned with "Obama is my homeboy."

I was back in the states for a month, long enough to get a little chubby, take at least two hot showers a day and recoup before my last seven months of travel. It was an interesting time to be in the U.S.; a new, black president; a financial crisis; a sense of hope and worry at the same time.

I arrive in New Zealand to spend time with my friends and ease back into travel, before heading to Hong Kong and Nepal. After a month of utter luxury (damn those fleece sheets), I imagine cold showers and dirty clothes will be tough to get back into.

Stay tuned blog friends, I'm back.

Travel tides

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 21:56:00 +0000

I have arrived in Bocas del Toro, Panama after six days at sea. Huh, I´ve always wanted to write that.

I left Cartegena, Colombia on the 6th of December and sailed on Captain Daniel´s 40 foot sailboat, the Naylamp, stopping off at the San Blas islands and Cayo de Agua island, before finally arriving here. With a week to go before returning to the states for a break, my journey between continents was fittingly ridiculous. Encapsulating so many elements of travel, I was at the mercy of the travel winds and quite literally, just had to go with the flow. Out at sea, one has a lot of time to think, and between daydreams of Johnny Depp-ish pirates taking over the ship, I reflected on my last eight months of travel.

There are moments of travelling when I really have no words to explain the pure absurdity of it. It´s like the world is giving you a little nudge in the ribs, and exclaiming, ¨he he.¨ I often turn to share my astoundedness with others and find blank, puzzled stares. Equally, there are moments that take your breath away, make you want to whisper and suddenly remind you of the quiet beauty of the world.

And so, as a sad farewell to Central and South America; a goodbye to beans and rice; to the hunt for small change; to bed bugs and sand flies; to cold showers; to travelling Irishmen; to bottles of rum; to reggaeton; to ham and cheese sandwiches; to every identical travel conversation and to those few you meet, that count, along the way...here are my favorite WTF (what the fuck) moments of travelling; the ones that awed me and the ones that will never cease to be ridiculous...

(in reverse chronological order)

1. Sailing the Caribbean sea with this man:

2. Sleeping beneath the stars on the open sea, sailing with dolphins, eating seabass caught 10 minutes before, shooting stars, moonsets and jumping mantaray.

3. Breathing underwater.

4. Singing along to a medley of hits from the nineties sung by a Norwegian on a rooftop in Quito.

5. Juanes, live in concert. Drunk and surrounded by screaming teenage fans, I thought I had lost the plot when the Vice President of Ecuador came out onstage in between songs to bequeath Juanes ¨El Embajador de la alegría¨ (ambassador of happiness). This actually happened.

6. Reggaeton. You know, I just have no words for this one.

7. Lunch, in Ecuador.

8. Defending the goal as five Ecuadorians rush me and knock me down (let the record show that I blocked this particular goal). The last thing I heard was, ¨Como la jirafa cae.¨(how the girafe falls).

9. Travelling with this effin guy. A little bit of an asshole, a little bit of a sweetheart, and completely Irish:

10. Realizing that you are exactly where you want to be, where you are supposed to be and wanting nothing more.

11. Having a raunchy antiquated nineties Spanish pop song named after you in Argentina.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xH3T1aQ2YSs

12. Sleeping with cockroaches in Antigua, Guatemala. I hear you eat about 20 bugs in your lifetime. I am positive that I have quadrupled my number just with my time spent in Maria´s house.

13. Being on the road for eight months with the same five pairs of underwear. Amazing.

There are more moments, so many more, and unbelievably, more to come. That is all for now.

Machetes and wellies

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 14:07:00 +0000

It feels good to earn your food and a hot shower. It´s amazing to work with a machete. It really is the only tool you need. I would buy one to take back with me, except for the problems with convincing the airlines that it´s a garden tool and not a weapon.

Monday morning I started my volunteer adventure in Ecuador and hopped in a truck with the crew going to the Santa Lucia lodge. After a 45-minute ride, we hiked the rest of the way up.

Santa Lucia was a plot of land bought by 20 families in the 1970s, a part of a government act to return land to the local communities. Originally, the families farmed the land, but this proved to be difficult as the land is not good for agriculture and required a lot of deforestation of primary cloud forest. In the 80s, 12 families still remained and began to look for alternatives (bee farming, sugar cane production, etc). In the 90s, after Santa Lucia was declared a protected forest by Ecuador, the familes moved to ecotourism as a sustainable source of income for their community.

It is great to be working directly with the people you are supporting and to immediately see where your work is going. The work varies depending on the day and the time of year. This week, we cleared the main trail and made panela (sugar made from sugar cane). We spent a full day just cutting and cleaning the cane, and another whole day extracting the juice (with mules and a large handmade crusher). After the cane has been extracted, we boilt it down until it is more syrupy, then mix and mix until it is powder. Two full days, for probably about 30 kilos of sugar.

We are up at 6 a.m. every day, and to bed at 9 p.m. Our uniform is work clothes and wellington boots. I am there with five other volunteers (Germans, a Norwegian, an Irishman and an Australian). The people that run the lodge are mostly from the Molina family, and all employees are part of the cooperative of Santa Lucia. Everything is done in Spanish, which is great (and a lot easier to understand than Argentinian Spanish).

I decided to stay another week, and just made a short trip to Quito to use the internet and relax. I am back to the volunteer house tonight and then back up the mountain tomorrow morning for more time with my machete!

Escaping paradise

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 16:17:00 +0000

Everyday in Jericoacoara is like pleasure tripping through molasses. You can´t move too quickly, in a town of sand and beating heat.

I woke up at 8 a.m. and would eat breakfast looking at the Por do Sol dune; melon and cake and coffee. Then, lather on sunscreen and put on the only outfit I wore all week, my bathing suit. At 10 a.m. I exercised with a group of locals on the beach, then went for a swim and laid on the beach for an hour or two. Todo bem.

Midday, to escape the sun, I would shower and dose in the hammock with my book. At around 3 p.m. I would pick Miguel up on the beach and head for our daily açai (brazilian fruit, eaten with honey and granola). When the town started making an ant trail up the dune to watch the sunset, I would grab a beer and head up. Afterwards, it was caiparinhas on the beach and maybe an outside movie, or forro dancing.

We stayed a week and a half and I´m a bit in shock to be so far away, so quickly. If I ever dissapear, you´ll find me in Jeri.

After 48 hours of travel, and another brilliant night out in Sao Paulo with the amazing and beautiful Camile, I am in Quito, Ecuador. I leave in a few hours to volunteer at Bosque Nublado Santa Lucía, a community based ecotourism lodge in northwestern Ecuador. www.santaluciaecuador.com

6 months later

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 18:47:00 +0000

A jew, an irishman and a travelling tattoo artist go to Sao Paulo. At least, that´s where I found myself six months after leaving California for Guatemala.

Miguel, the irishman, and I met in Guatemala and we reconnected months later in Buenos Aires. After rain and cold and snow in Argentina, we decided to head for the sun. We picked up a travelling buddy, Michel Luna, a tattoo artist from Peru. We immediately regretted our choice in travel partner when we went to the airport the next day. Next to our two backpacks, Michel had one large suitcase, a rolling suitcase, a large backpack, four large cases of CDs, another small backpack and a case for his tattoo materials (9 bags!!). After a day carrying around his CDs (no, he didn´t know about iTunes), my giggles got the best of me when the airline lost our bags. But I really started to laugh when Michel pulled a taser out in the subway, for protection of course, from the bag he carried on the plane. A taser. Really?!

Needless to say, we ditched Michel in Sao Paulo and since then Miguel and I have found our travel groove in Brazil.

Brazil, a country that was not high on my list, has been an amazing surprise. Alive with spirit and music and dance and culture, I have completely fallen in love. People are really friendly and open, and Miguel and I have spent much more time with locals than with travellers.

If you could just see where I am now...after four days in Sao Paulo, we headed to Rio, then further north to Fortaleza. Yesterday, we took a seven hour bus ride and then a one hour buggy ride to get to Jericoacoara. Jeri is a small town in the sand dunes; no cars, no banks, no roads. Just beaches and dunes. It´s perfect. It´s just where I want to be. I need to be still for a moment. I need to think.

It is amazing how lucky I am to be here...as I type, I can see the sand dunes and the ocean. People will start walking up the dune for sunset soon, and then gather to watch Capoeria (Afro-Brazilian dance) on the beach. People gather around drink stalls in the sand, where you can get a caipirinha for $1.50. Afterwards, it will be time for a meal of fish, rice and beans; all fresh, all for $2.50.

The overwhelming part is not that it is so easy and so cheap to find a small piece of paradise; the overwhelming part is that it took only one choice to be here. I won the lottery when I decided to travel. I won it all when I realized that you can be the richest person in the world, or the poorest, and still be exactly where you want to be.

It´s a powerful gift that I do not take lightly. It comes with the obligation of responsible travel. Six months later and I have doubts. I am tired of the same old travel conversations (Where ya from, how long are you travelling for...), and the lack of substance (one might say the vapidity) that can come from sightseeing and boozey nights out. I am not travelling to check things off a list, or drink my way around the world. I am seeing beautiful places, drinking with new and interesting people, but I am giving absolutely nothing back.

I realize that it´s extravagant in its selfishness.

I am the first person to preach the benefits of travelling, and yet 6 months later, I am questionning my own ability to make good from all this. There is a time for travel and relaxation (which I sorely needed and that I appreciatively take for myself), however, as the rest of my time travelling starts to take shape, so do my goals and intentions for the next 10 months. It´s time to give back to say thank you for all that has been given to me.

Yo, moi-même and I

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sat, 11 Oct 2008 17:23:00 +0000

I am at the very bottom, the very tip of the world and it seems a good place to start. I feel as if my journey has just begun. I left America almost 6 months ago, but this is where I feel it all begins. There is nowhere to go but north, and so I do.

I am absolutely deliriously happy to be on my own and I feel as if I came to the end of the world to find what I needed. I hiked in Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, near Ushuaia, chatting to myself the whole way. I saw two people in three hours, and I hiked along the water and through grasslands that looked like scenes from The Neverending Story. When I came to the swamp of sadness, where Atreyu´s horse dies, I re-claimed it the swamp of happiness and I came back to my hostel with mud up to my knees and soaked through with snow and mist.

After Ushuaia I spent 20 hours going to El Calafate, crossing the border into Chile twice and getting a little tipsy on box wine in the bus station with a new friend. I continued on to El Chalten, a pueblo out in the middle of Patagonia - only 23 years old with no banks, dial-up internet and the pristine and free Parque Nacional Los Glaciares. I hiked to Lago Torre, where ice chunks from the glacier float in the lake. I cried on the trail because it is just so beautiful. In five years, this new little town will be overrun with tourists and paved roads.

I am shockingly low on money and I have the entire South American continent to cross with two and a half months until I touch US soil. I´ve never been so happy. I´ve never felt so lucky to be here, to be doing what I am doing.

Teaching

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 21:31:00 +0000

Well, for one, I quit.

Which feels amazing, I am not going to lie. Teaching English is a great way to travel the world, and I would recommend it to anyone that asks. I will do it again (but perhaps in a country where I am making a little money each month, rather than losing). However, my itchy feet are calling and I just had to GET THE HELL OUTTA BsAs!!!

And so my few observations on teaching. In homage to David Letterman...

TOP 10 THINGS YOU WILL OBSERVE TEACHING ENGLISH IN BUENOS AIRES:

10. Argentinians are absolutely ridiculous. They make teaching very easy as they are highly entertaining. They´re like Woody Allen with Italian hand-gestures.

9. Speaking of Woody Allen, this country is one big neurotic jewish community. In fact, it has the 7th largest jewish population in the world. Paranoia abounds.

8. The morning routine in offices is full of kisses. And, unlike kisses as greeting in other countries, in Argentina the kisses are LOUD. I mean, all you hear from 9 to 930 a.m. is sucky face noises. I kinda love it.

7. ¨Touch and go¨ means something very different in Argentina than in English. They use this English saying to allude to a one-night stand. Awesome, right?

6. For 6 hours of actual teaching, you spend 3 hours running from class to class, 3 hours killing time in between and approximately 1.2 minutes actually preparing your lesson.

5. Further to that, in an hour class you spend the first 5 minutes waiting for them to arrive (sucky face noises in the lobby, exchanging pleasantries with the receptionist); 15 minutes asking how their weekend was, another 15 discussing their children/wife/ex-wife/girlfriend/boyfriend; 20 minutes discussing superlatives/comparatives/past simple vs. present perfect or when you use i.e. vs. e.g.; and the last five minutes asking them what they are going to do for the weekend.

4. You make up definitions to words because either you have no idea what it means, or you are just fucking with them. And thus, lesson learned, you hesitate to use articles from the New Yorker.

3. No one really knows the the difference between a gerund and a present participle, especially you at 9 in the morning.

2. There is a very thin line between teaching English and being someone´s psychologist.

1. No one is safe from laughing like a child at students innocent blunders. The truth is, ¨sheet¨pronounced by a Spanish speaker comes out like shit. And that it just funny.

Mi casa, mi musica

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 18:34:00 +0000

When expats move to BsAs they move

to Palermo. Even before you arrive, travelers tell you that you will spend all your time in Palermo, that it's the only place to be. Cheto (posh) bullshit, that's what I say. I live in San Telmo and, for me, it's the place to be. It used to be a run-down neighborhood, but in recent years it has been revived. True, it does have a lot of tourists, thanks to a million hostels (at least three on my block alone), but the people that live here are porteños. Great restaurants, much cheaper than Palermo, stores, local artists, a fruit and vegetable market; I feel at home in San Telmo.

I live with Cristina, a 24-year-old bass player who owns the house, an inheritance from her grandparents. No heat, no internet, the oven and washer-dryer broken, but the house has a cool vibe with musicians coming and going and I can't complain too much with the $300/month rent. I have a monastic cell of a room, but access to the roof terrace and I'm happy in my little space.

Julia, a fellow English teacher, also lives here. A neurotic Jew (she wouldn't mind me saying) from New York City. We often huddle together over the gas stove (it's really freezing here in the winter) and discuss where to find moneda for the bus and whether our boss has a mild form of autism (he must).

The house is full of music and I have to admit, I love listening to Cristina practice with the metronome keeping pace. I can hear it now, in fact.

Every Sunday, Cristina plays with a group of musicians at the street fair in San Telmo and they often hang out in the house afterwards to play music. Impromptu jam sessions, cigarettes, Fernet Branca, smelly musicians...you never know what you will find on a Sunday evening.

Because my thoughts are never far from food, I am thrilled to have my favorite restaurant in Buenos Aires just two doors down, El Federal. A bottle of wine and a picada (plate of cheeses, meats, olives, etc.) is really all I need to make me happy (unless we're talking two bottles).

A wonderful little nothing of Argentina is that when you order coffee or tea, you always get a plate of cookies or two little bits of cake. A traveler's dream. Me and El Federal like to hang out together, do Spanish homework, and play a little game of "Am I going to eat the cake, or not?"

But if you want to know where I spend most of my time, it's in the old-man cafes that populate the city. Part coffee-shop, part brasserie, and completely Argentinian -- I am addicted to these places. The always have great food, are always a great option for coffee and a medialuna between classes, and always have old men sitting around and shooting the shit. Love, love, love.

It's starting to warm up a bit and it has been a cold and miserable winter. God knows why I decided to have two winters this year; that's why I am planning on having two summers. The first day of spring is this Sunday and I am off to the end of the world in two weeks (Ushuaia)!

Just two more weeks of work...

Movement

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 13:52:00 +0000

I just took a 2-hour colectivo ride to the Ezeiza airport to catch my flight to São Paulo. 1.50 pesos (50 cents). I am freezing and the bus ride started to play with my emotions (twice it doubled-back as if mocking me). I didn't want to pay the 40 pesos to take the airport shuttle bus and I had 2 hours to ponder why BsAs doesn't have a direct colectivo to the airport. Shrug.

But here is where it gets good. I love American Airlines. I know it isn't very popular to say, as if I have bought into the consumer masses and support big business, gas guzzling, slick advertisement driven consumption. But, I love 'em. Let me tell you why.

I have been rubbing pennies together for weeks; I am still living on two pairs of jeans and 5 t-shirts and honestly, I am sick of them. I have staked out the best cafes in BsAs to get a coffee and three medialunas for only 6 pesos, not because I love pastries, but because its a cheap way to eat. I am starting to loathe medialunas.

But now, right now, I am sitting in the Admirals Club, thanks to my ridiculous amount of frequent flier miles and my platinum status. I am drinking nescafe; it is warm and delicious. There are cookies. Free internet. I bet they even have showers. I never want to leave.

I've wasted so much time in airports. I kind of love them too. Something about the people coming and going, the overpriced food, the airport air, the people dressed in their best and their worst, the strange purpose of queueing and going to the bathroom.

I wonder how many hours I have actually spent in an airport in my life. What have I done with that time? One time, I got drunk off a large beer in Texas (somewhere) and set up a match.com account (look at how many things are wrong in that sentence)! I've written blog entries in Madrid's aeropuerto. I've eaten in the creepiest bar in the world - Phoenix's "Fox News Restaurant," with Bill O'Reilly on 20 screens. Conference calls. Crying. I've spent many lonely hours in Heathrow. I missed a flight in Minneapolis. I've never been so excited to be going home. I've never been so unsure of what I am doing. I've never been so excited to be going somewhere new. I've done work. Read great books, horrible novels and trashy magazines. I've slept. I've been unable to sleep. I've never wanted the plane to land. I've changed my life getting on planes.

Airports seem like limbo. And in a way, they are. You are going or coming - it's a crossing point for so many momentous moments and insignificant passageways. The thoughts of travelers are stifling; their thoughts of loss, joy, expectation, worry, longing, frustration, sadness, anger; their thoughts of who they are going to and who they are leaving behind. All of this fills up an airport and makes it a unique little pot of human emotion. I can only imagine that the poor dogs travelling in their little doggy cages are happy to be shut away from all the human chaos swirling around.

And so, I find myself in the warm womb of the Admirals Club and looking forward to a bit of travel and a new city. It's good to be moving again.

Absentee Blogism

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 15:42:00 +0000

Yeah, yeah. I know. Something about BsAs (Beez Ayz) makes time disappear and leaves you with, what I like to call, the "South American Shrug." What can you do?

No change at the supermarket, so you have to wait 20 minutes until enough customers buy enough things and they can give you your 10 pesos ($3) change. South American Shrug. I tested in level 4 at the University of Buenos Aires Foreign languages department, but put on my best porteña accent to talk my way into Literatura Argentina (level 6). "¿has leído nunca un libro en español?" "No, nunca. Pero, no problema, peudo hacerlo." South American Shrug, and I was in.

So you see, I shrug a little bit at my lack of blogging.

You have to shrug it off here, or else things will get to you, like they are starting to get to me. I am working 23 hours a week teaching English and I have 26 students, who I love and adore. I make roughly 193 US dollars per week, and spend most days rushing from one class to the next through the smog-filled streets of BsAs. One dinner can blow half a days work, a night out - an entire day. The idea, the goal, of coming here was to work in order to prolong my travel. Earning a little plata would allow me to stay a bit longer in this quasi-reality of traveler's bliss. But, alas, as I'm only earning enough to just get by, and my savings are quickly disappearing, I have decided to move on. I was open to falling in love with BsAs, open to staying longer, possibly living. But as boyfriends go, BsAs is a lot of fun, but often a son of a bitch. He'll keep you out until 8 a.m. dancing and drinking, but he'll also steal your wallet and leave you feeling like you are a little too old for his shenanigans.

I have to remind myself, the goal was never to stay, it was always to travel. So, I shrug and I move on.

The beautiful thing about a timeframe, about an end-date, is you take full advantage of your time left. I will start moving northwards in a month and a half, and so I have 6 weeks to enjoy the food, the culture and my Spanish classes!

And so, I leave with a promise...I will write more, and in fact, already have something ready for you. Please stay tuned for glimpses into BsAs...mi casa, trabajo y el castellano.

¡hasta pronto!

El Asado

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 12:00:00 +0000

(asado = argentinian bbq)

Nico invited the TEFL girls and me to another asado at his house on Saturday night. For those of you that have eaten argentinian meat, you know it´s good. For those of you that have eaten argentinian meat in Argentina, you know that it changes your life. It is, without a doubt, impossibly good. Most of you know that I was a vegetarian for several years before travelling. I started eating meat before my little world adventure because a large part of discovering a new place is through its food. For me, meat has always been okay. I don´t crave it - it usually doesn´t do it for me. But la carne en Argentina...I want to take my clothes of for it. I´m having a dirty affair with meat and I can´t seem to stop myself.

Nico was the asador extraordinaire - I think you have to be born here to really cook meat like this. Seasoned just with salt, it cuts like butter and you are in heaven with every bite.

Nico, and his friend Gabriel, purchased 5 kilos of meat...la morcilla (blood sausage), chorizo, vacío, tire, lomo...

Asados normally start with chorizo and bread, or rather, choripan. Sip some wine, nibble on some choripan and gawk at the mountain of meat sizzling on the grill.Also, traditionally, you have provoleta - cheese grilled on the bbq - another life changing experience. Then the asador serves you meant until, well - you are a broken, former shell of a vegetarian, lying on the floor and rubbing your barriga (belly).

Morcilla - who knew it could be so good. There is no bigger leap from vegetarian to morcilla. I am not even ashamed.

So, hows my barriga? Well, perhaps I´m sporting an extra jiggle here (and there), but another BsAs tradition keeps me in check: walking. I also started running again and found a nature reserve not far from my house where I can run nextt o the Rio de la Plata and prepare for my next dirty encounter with mi amor, asado.

Stay tuned...a portrait of my apartment, coming soon!

Re Rad

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 23:47:00 +0000

Adding ¨re¨ to a Spanish word causes it to be emphasized. Re bueno. Re rico. It´s pretty informal; it´s what the cool kids are doing.

Well, I have decided to introduce Rad to the Argentinian vocabulary and so far, so good. When rad starts sweeping across south America, just remember where you heard it first.

So, here is my Re Rad list of Buenos Aires...I applaud you, I salute you, I muse at your strangeness and I thank you for making me giggle:

1. Maria Panagos, anfitriona extraordinaire: for bringing me soup and an entire bottle of wine in bed when I was sick this weekend. You are re rad.

To the guy who was walking down Avenida Alem with your headphones on and singing at the TOP of your lungs. You are re rad.

3. To the dog taking a huge dump on the grass out front of the Casa Rosada. Way to protest. Re rad.

4. To all Argentinians and your strange sense of personal space, and especially to the woman that walked straight into me in the middle of the crosswalk last week. Our little game of chicken was amusing. I respect your resolve. Re rad.

5. To Hugo in my advanced English class and to your advanced knowledge of English. You rattled off at least 4 synonyms for the word ¨pot¨....grass, weed, marijuana, shit. Re rad.

6. To Juan, you close talker, you franglais speaking, bad driver. You are re rad for so many reasons, but I´m going to put you on this list for driving your car from Argentina to Alaska 20 years ago...and still owning the car. Thanks for driving us to the party (and god-thanks for getting us there safely).

7. To the cheerleaders at La Boca football game. You have no shame showing your entire ass. Wow. Re rad.

8. To eating steak at 1 a.m. at my new neighborhood parilla, Desnivel.

9. To my female taxi driver, one of only 40 in Buenos Aires. Re rad, gerrl.

10. To the old lady who weilded a fork at my friend Brittany the other night in the bar....not so cool, in fact- a little creepy. But I´ve always liked a geezer with hutzpah. Re rad, for a goy!

chow for now!

Do you want to make party?

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 20:05:00 +0000

Are you still with me, are you still following along?

My infrequent blog posts are not due to lack of content - trust me, there is enough material. I could write volumes on the young American students I have met and how they only re-affirm my reasons for taking a break from work. I could dedicate weeks of blogs to just food (and perhaps I will). And I am just not yet prepared to tackle some burning questions, such as why milk is sold in plastic bags here, why every Argentinian woman wears purple as a rule and what in the hell is everyone´s staring problem. I´ll get there. But for now, I´ll stick with what is most relevant...the joys and mysteries of teaching English.

Walking down the street in foreign countries often means people will spontaneously practice their English. The people that shout things out, however, usually have a limited vocabulary. In France, for example, a lady walking down the street can be serenaded by ¨Fuck You.¨ In Peru and Guatemala, you can expect ¨Hello, my friend, my friend!!¨ In Italy, they don´t speak much English, so they just grab your ass. But in Argentina, it´s ¨I loves you!¨ There is a lot of love here, apparently.

With this in mind, I have come to educate the masses on a little language we call English.

I started my TEFL course two weeks ago and have been in the throes of learning grammar, lexis, phonology, and practice teaching to a group of lovely volunteers. The course is intense, a lot of work and exhausting. School is from 9-5, then I usually spend my evenings writing lesson plans and researching grammar points. It´s not as bad as I thought it would be, but teaching is hard.

My first class consisted of teaching the past simple to our advanced class (all men over 40) by means of talking about past relationships gone wrong. Whoop dee do. Try explaining the meaning of ¨to chat up¨(for those Americans out there, that means ¨to hit on¨).

Teaching our beginner class is challenging because you have to think about every word that comes out of your mouth and be prepared to ask a million concept check questions to make sure they understand the difference between ¨I want...¨and ¨I went...¨ which sounds very similar to Argentine ears.

Graded language. Eliciting. Concept check questions. Teacher talk time. Student-centered learning. And don´t even get me started on the schwa /Ə/.

I am not a natural teacher...just because I like to talk to people doesn´t mean I have any idea how to teach future perfect progressive. But the volunteers that come to the school to learn English are amazing and make it a great environment to learn, make mistakes and have fun.

I did a listening activity using Bob Dylan and discussing how music can be revolutionary. Hugo is very adamant that punk music is a load of crap, and Claudio swears that Steve Vai is the best guitarist ever born.

I have two more weeks of classes, and then will be job hunting and interviewing to find a job.

I found an apartment for $300 a month, living with a porteña (a person from Buenos Aires) that plays the bass and teaches music. I will have to do a visa-run every 3 months to Uruguay to get my passport stamped.

And just like that, I am an English teacher. An illegal alien. One more expat in Buenos Aires.

stay tuned...

Everything´s coming up steak

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 22:24:00 +0000

Somehow, I am in heaven.

I arrived in Buenos Aires (BsAs) last Thursday and was met at the airport by Nico, a friend of a friend of a friend. Not only did he pick me up at the airport, but he came armed with my very own sign (since I´d never met him before), chocolates and a sweater (it´s winter in Argentina). He took me to my hostel and out to dinner. I honestly thought I had died and gone to heaven. But then, it just kept getting better. I spent a couple of days exploring BsAs with Lily and Chris (some friends from Guatemala) and consuming massive amounts of cazuelas, empanadas, meat and wine.

But wait, it gets better.

My anfitriona (home stay mom), Maria, picked me up on Sunday and brought me to my new home for the next 6 weeks. I have my own room, with TV, phone and dresser. Right next door is my roommate, Jodie from Australia, whose room has a desk and internet for us both to use. Beautiful, comfortable bed. White, clean sheets. Hot water. Maria is wonderful...very chatty and loves having students in her house.

Maria took me directly to a family asado (barbecue), where I met her sister, neices and nephews, and her son and daughter. Her son, Alexis, lives in London and was only visitng for a few days. Too bad, because he is so good looking I could barely contain myself. Honestly, after seeing my new digs and the promise of argentine meat on the way, I thought I was going to pass out when I saw Alexis. Oh well, plenty more argentinians where he came from.

The rest of the family is really nice...it was like being at home. TONS of meat, I mean mountains of it, and wine. We just sat around chatting, they are really funny and nice. I mostly listened ...still have a ways to go with my Spanish.

Since I arrived, I keep pinching myself because it seems like a dream. Maria makes us breakfast every morning, and every night we come home to wonderful dinners, a bottle of wine always corked and ready to go, and great chats.

Everyday is better than before. Today, I visited the Malba (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires). I stopped for a coffee and croissant, then visited the Cementerio de la Recoleta. The cementary was like a city for dead people. Streets and alley-ways of mausoleums and tombs. Beautiful, minature buildings. It scared me; I kept picturing all the people crawling out of their tombs at night, and populating their little dead city.

Thus far, Buenos Aires seems like a European city filled with laid-back, but stylish people. Not as snooty and à la mode as Paris and not as crazy as Madrid...somewhere in between.

With a couple of friends already made, some newly purchased boots and Buenos Aires yet to be discovered, I have a good feeling...a very good feeling.

Goodbye Guatever

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Wed, 28 May 2008 23:35:00 +0000

One month, 12 days, at least 30 cockroaches, countless bug bites and many good friends later, I am finally leaving Guatemala. I can't say that I am sad; many of the people I have met, I will be seeing in a couple of months in Argentina. And while I enjoyed Guatemala, and met amazing guatemaltecos, I can't say that I fell in love. We dated, it was nice, but it was never going to be a serious relationship.

Guatemala is a country full of contradictions. The people are incredibly open and easy to talk to, but Guatemala is at the same time a dangerous and tense place. The best teacher, who counsels people in AA, can also sell pot to make extra cash. People may complain about the noise from a bar or club, but don't seem to even notice the roosters crowing continuously throughout the night. The most beautiful vistas and canyons are often covered in trash. The friendliest people will screw you for a couple of dollars. The happiest looking kids will wave at you from their squalid, rundown towns. Robbers will politely take your belongings while asking where you are from. So it goes.

I left my brother this morning at El Retiro, an amazing backpackers lodge in the small dusty town of Lanquin. Shirtless and hungover, he has a few more days of swimming in the river and enjoying their famous barbecues. Dylan and I had a whirlwind tour of Guatemala: we spent 3 blissful days in the jungle, sweating our brains out and kayaking in Rio Dulce; we went on the sunrise tour of Tikal, famous mayan ruins; we met some amazing Aussies, who I am positive will pop up on my travels again; and we finished back at Semuc Champey, swimming in caves and natural water pools in one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

All in all, I did it all in Guatemala. As a goodbye, and a type of ode, I present:

Things you can only do in 3rd World Countries
- Ride in the back of a pick-up truck with 15 other people
- Get electrocuted in the shower
- Swim through caves, holding candles and never sign a waiver
- Jump off waterfalls
- Eat a tostada for 50 cents
- See a family of five ride on one motorbike
- Not bathe and nobody notices
- Get shot at
- Ride in a 50-person bus for 6 hours, with 150 people and get dropped off at no dirt road in particular
- Buy a complete chicken meal from a basket on a ladies head, without leaving the comfort of your sweaty bus seat
- Go to a movie for free and get all you can drink wine
-Wait an hour and a half for granola, fruit and yogurt and only yogurt and fruit show up. Then the next day, order the same thing like an idiot and only granola and fruit show up

To the people I have met along the way (Chris, Lily, Barry, Michael, Billie, Anne, Thalia, Emma, Thierry, Nina, Matt, Dre, Tim, Camila, Judith, Laura, David, Victor....), I can only be appreciated of all the amazing conversations and drunken shenanigans. I hope to see them again and can only hope to be as lucky and continue to meet more great people in my travels.

Tomorrow, I am off to Buenos Aires and I cannot wait for a city, clean sheets, clean clothes and a big ol bottle of yummy, delicous malbec. On to the next...

Photos!

noreply@blogger.com (Sam: Traveler, runner, drinker.) — Tue, 13 May 2008 01:12:00 +0000

Por fin: http://samanthacooper.shutterfly.com/

You can always access my photos by the link on the right!