No se me había ocurrido eso

Bogotá

2011-06-05T19:04:00.000-07:00

I recently read a few snippets from a book called Una Gringa en Bogotá. Ought to be the story of my life. I’m a gringa, and I live in Bogotá. It was even written by a Fulbright scholar. I have no criticism of the book, just that it struck me how differently she – the author, June Carolyn Erlick – and I experienced something so similar.

She describes having felt something in her stomach, something in her soul. Love at first sight. She mentions the courtesy of people on buses, and the absence of stray dogs and street trash. As I read it, I was impressed with her gift with words and the way she described the enchantment she experienced, but…

Bogotá and I did not experience love at first sight. No magic. No spark. Neither she for me nor I for her. Bogotá for me is more like a cat, a mangy cat. This mangy cat is not for everyone. Many will cast it off at first sight, thought, or sound; many will try to love it, but never truly will; and many will watch over the cat temporarily and decide nothin’ great, nothin’ terrible, just another mangy cat.

But I like mangy cats, in the best sort of way. They’re the best kinds really. You may have to work for their love, but once it’s there, it’s the strongest, best kind of appreciation and respect.

There’s no spectacle, no show, no hip-hoorah. It’s a city of people living, working, and studying. The streets aren’t terribly clean, it’s a game of push and shove to get on the Transmilenio (public transportation system), and taxi drivers are frighteningly untrustworthy, whether you’re a foreigner or not. I wouldn’t call it high fashion or couture. The city is riddled with corruption; the mayor just got tossed out for precisely that. But there are people here, around 9 million actually, who need this city, this mangy cat, because unlike their hometowns, Bogotá is a beacon of opportunity. It has a little bit of everything; that’s why it’s so mangy!

Bogotá is a mangy cat with a soul that runs deep. I wish more people would give it a chance. Cities like Bogotá are those that keep the world running. I see a bright future here: for this city, for this country. I love this mangy cat of mine.

Making a Difference

2011-05-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

If my contribution to La Universidad Libre (where I’ve been teaching for the last 10 months) could be measured in chocolates and goodies, I’d say I contributed rather a lot. So far this week my students have absolutely showered me with everything from arroz con leche to hand-written cards to endless cakes and chocolate bars. Just what I need right; my dress for the wedding in June is what size?

Wednesday

Unfortunately, chocolate is not a legitimate currency for measuring impact, change, or knowledge exchange. Helping someone can be a tricky business. Good intentions are not sufficient. Sometimes we make a huge effort, we feel that we´ve done well, but actual notable change either in performance, behavior, or some economic statistic goes unachieved, falls short. It`s like the old cliché of teaching someone to fish rather than fishing for them. But even a detailed instruction manual, a face-to-face demonstration, or 2 semesters teaching still may not be enough.

This is one thing that has always frustrated me about volunteerism and non-profit work. Sometimes, despite everything, it can be a lot of “feel good” and technically not so much “do good.”

So has my being here for a year made a difference? Any difference? That´s what Fulbright gave me the grant for right?

Well I haven´t been sitting around on my ass that´s for sure. I`ve poured hours, days, weeks, months of my time into “doing good,” but is there change?

I honestly don`t know. I haven`t published anything official (yet), didn`t affect any large-scale organizational change within my university, didn`t change any student`s life, didn’t come close to alleviating poverty, didn`t didn’t didn’t!

But I did something. The following thought sounds annoying to me as it toggles in my brain, as I think it, as I type it. But it rings true. Perhaps my greatest contribution this year has been character. I’ve tried to lead by example in showing my students to have a positive attitude about knowledge and learning, about English and opportunity, about critical thought and challenge. I’m not a trained teacher, but I have a genuine love for school, the acquisition of knowledge, and the conscientiousness of being a student. How I transferred the importance of that through grammar, vocabulary, and oral exams, I can’t be sure. But I think I did.

I “feel good” about my efforts, now let’s just hope I’ve “done good” to boot.

TEACHER MOMENT!

2011-05-11T19:17:00.000-07:00

I had a teacher moment today, and I feel impelled to share. I hate hearing over and over that you really know you love being a teacher when you see the look in a student’s eyes that they understood something - finally got it. It’s cliché. But something similar happened to me today and now I guess I have to join the force of the cliché.

My students have class from 4-6pm, but they were required to attend some presentations today in the auditorium until 5pm at which point they could leave, go home, chau, hasta la vista baby. But a group of about 15 of them found me (wandering around looking for a teacher) and asked if we could still have class from five to six. My reaction… what??? I couldn’t believe it! My students were given the option to take the afternoon off and they wanted class with me. And they actively sought me out to ask for it! Again, what? Yayyyyyy! I was so pleased. We had a little debate and I had them ask questions about modern expressions etc, nothing crazy, but how cool? I’m the biggest school-loving, teacher’s pet ever and I don’t think even I would have done that.

I love being a teacher today.

Nosotras Corremos: Nike 5k

2011-05-09T20:09:00.000-07:00

Official time recorder chip thingy

Most unfortunately I couldn’t be with my mom this Mother’s Day. I still wanted to do something “girlie” though. Get in the spirit at least. I signed up to run Nike’s 5k called Nosotras Corremos, which translates roughly to We Run, but its feminine, so it’s more like Us Ladies Run. It was Daniel’s idea actually. Given that society in many parts of Latin America is still quite male chauvinistic, I was intrigued by the idea of an all women’s race. Would anyone go?

Struggle-ville

Every culture has a generic idea of what’s considered the ideal body type. I like to believe it’s all in the eye of the beholder, but there is one too many psychology studies to prove that a strong general consensus about beauty does exist. The standards in Colombia are pretty darn high. Medellin, the second largest city in the country, is the plastic surgery capital of the world. It only costs around $500 to get a standard boob-job, so lots of women go for it. A picture is worth a thousand words. Check out this mannequin. Need I say more? And this is standard.

Wowzas!

Ready to Run

The shirt they gave out for the event was adorable, a highly motivating factor, and they almost immediately ran out of Smalls. Figures, I thought, women here tend to like unnaturally tight clothing. And I bet everyone will show up in a push-up bra to boot. As you can see, I was excited for the run, but fairly pessimistic in my expectations.

Celebrating in an Irish Pub afterwards

Race day came and went. I finished in 29 minutes, 361 out of 2,000, a near glacial pace, but hey, I blame the altitude. (Ha.) Mostly, I was impressed; proved wrong. Two thousand women at 7am on a Sunday (Mother’s Day nonetheless) is a reputable turnout. And they were movin’! Sure there were a few classics with booty shorts, black push-up bras, and the shirt rolled way up, but they were the minority. It was a genuine, heart-felt, girl power experience.

Well done Nike. Well done Bogota.

Post Race - lookin' pretty rough

FAIL BLOG 2

2011-04-25T18:31:00.000-07:00

Lost in Translation: Given its name, this little hot spot is always hopping! But only because they have delicious breads and sweets. It´s actually just a bakery. The Spanish verb “to bake” is “hornear.”

Body taking a beating: I´m learning to play squash (a strange derivative of racquetball). I felt like my arm might fall off after just 3 games to 15 and my cute knee is pictured below. It´s not a game in which people fall… I also got eaten alive by mosquitoes in Yaguará and I´m really pale, so my legs are a sight to see.

Before and After: Went to see Millionarios (Colombian team I root for) play Nacional (Colombian team I definitely don´t root for) yesterday. They were tied for first and had long since been rivals. Somehow Daniel and I ended up sitting right under the fans who brought fire extinguishers full of colored spray of some sort to shower over the fans and field at the start of the game. It was pretty cool, but most likely looked much better from afar. Because of this I had to take two showers in one day and if you know me you know I hate when that happens.

La Lora: Apparently I like to talk a little bit too much. I went to the doctor with what I thought was an earache; turns out the joint in my jaw is swollen from talking, screaming, singing, etc to the point that it has affected my inner ear. I’m supposed to talk and eat less in order for it to heal… ha.

Stairway to Heaven? Still unsure what this is for.

Hangovers are Fun: I was feelin’ a little queasy one morning when I made the worst possible decision. I got on the Transmilenio, a subway-like bus system in Bogota, and ended up smashed between the door and a guy who smelled of sewage. Imagine my face smashed into his armpit… I puked at the next stop.

Animal Rights Not an Issue: In a game between Barranquilla's Atletico Junior and Deportivo Pereira (Colombian teams), a small owl, known for flying in and around the stadium fell onto the field. The game was stopped and a visiting player headed over to help it off the field. He helped it by kicking it off the field… the owl died a few days later in the animal hospital. Fans were so upset the striker had to be escorted out of the stadium with the police force. You have to see it to believe it

.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jyA_yrD1ko

April Fools' Day

2011-03-31T13:59:00.000-07:00

It’s April Fools come early here in Colombia. I just couldn’t resist…

Good morning class.

Good moooooooorniiiiiiiiiing

How is everyone today?

Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.

Ok, I need you to please clear off your desks, face front, and separate yourself from your neighbor. (Initial looks of terror; they know what that means.) Quickly, we haven’t got all day. Now don’t worry, this is just a little pop quiz to check how well you’ve been paying attention in class the last few weeks.

Does it count for a grade????? (slighty frantic)

Yes. (All eyes immediately shoot to the real professor as if to ask, Are you really letting her do this to us? The teacher nods in approval).

Please do not flip over your paper until everyone has one. Everyone ready? Okay, now turn over your paper, read the directions carefully, and begin.

The directions on the test read: Read over all the questions and then begin. You have 10 minutes to complete this quiz. The last question on the test reads: Flip over your paper. Do not take the quiz. It is a joke. Happy April Fools’ Day.

Pencils scratch feverishly. The first question is easy. The second one as well. The third question not so much. Students start looking up at me like, I thought you were nice! And others, I really hate you right now! Students look back and forth between each other for confirmation of the difficulty and unfairness of the quiz. Number four is even harder. Some look ready to cry. Others giggle in discomfort. Write a brief paragraph about the current conflict in Libya. Include 4 phrasal verbs that we studied last week. OUR ASSISTANT IS THE DEVIL!!!!!!!!

Students start coming to my desk with questions of desperation. Wait, I have a question. When did we talk about Libya? Does it matter what tense the phrasal verbs are in? I don’t understand number 3. I don’t think we discussed number 4. How do you spell Gaddafi?

Just do your best. You only have a few more minutes.

I let them struggle for 10 minutes. It's a long ten minutes. Pencils down please. Immediate outbreak of Spanish speaking.

So how do you think you did?

Bety bety bad. (Spanish pronunciation) They are straight up mad at this point. Why? What happened? No answer. Common, what was hard about it? Overflow response: not enough time, crazy questions, we didn’t study that, bla bla bla!

Ok, Diana, would you please read the instructions aloud? Ok, Santiago, would you please read the last question aloud?

Small screams, sighs of relief, outbreak of Spanish speaking. Most importantly, smiles, big smiles. Relief. I then capture the moment to explain to them what April Fools’ Day is and how we “celebrate” in the U.S. The next few moments are spent laughing and showing each other what they wrote out of desperation on the quiz. Everyone fell for it. I played this same trick on four classes today, and the dialogue above was the same in all four. Each quiz was tailored to the recent subject matter of that particular class. Except for the Gaddafi question; that was universal. Had to make it believable.

I love April Fools’ Day. The best part is, I get to do this again to all the fresh blood in my classes tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll forget what April Fools’ Day is. At least not any time soon.

Homeward Bound

2011-03-16T09:22:00.000-07:00

The next chapter of my life will take place back in Chicago, Illinois!

What a weekend! I flew home and spent three days without even leaving the confines of 912 Lake Street. I fell in love with my nephew, Will, and had a great time catching up with family and friends. He liked me! Some said I even had maternal instincts….not sure I’d go that far, but I didn’t drop him and he seemed pretty calm in my arms. Then I flew to Washington, D.C. for a final round interview.

Received the job offer yesterday, about 99% sure I’ll accept!

Having a Fulbright Scholarship is the best; the only bad thing is it has a very fixed end date, so I’m really excited for this new opportunity and it’s a relief to have something nailed down. That being said, it would be hard for me to just pick up my things and leave Colombia as of today, and I think it will be even harder three months from now. I feel a mixture of excitement and sadness. Trying not to think about it just yet.

That’s all for now; thanks to everyone for believing in me.

Anyone looking for a roommate in Chicago?

For your viewing entertainment...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qjs-u0VXjxQ

Help

2011-03-10T11:59:00.000-08:00

The Beatles put it nicely:

Help! I need somebody,
Help! Not just anybody,
Help! You know I need someone, heeeeeelp.

Simple, to the point. Easy right?

In the past month or so I have read two books about help. One is literally entitled The Help, and tells the story of a young, homely woman who helps black women living in Mississippi, working as hired help for white families in the 1960s, to tell their stories of love and pain. These black women also help her to find herself and make her dreams of becoming a writer come true. The title is ambiguous in that it remains unclear which help the author is referring to, either way, help is rendered.

The second book is called I Know This Much is True and tells the story of twin brothers, one of which is a paranoid schizophrenic who amputates his own hand in a public library to stop the war. Both need help, equally, it just takes the “normal” brother much longer to let go and accept it. He’s supposed to be the strong one.

I’ve had this idea of help on my mind a lot lately; I’ve noticed a striking number of inconsistencies.

My English tutoring hours have really filled up this semester compared to last. Encouraging, except that about 80% of the students who repeatedly visit me are my most advanced students. Those who most desperately need help don’t ask for it, won’t ask for it.

I have more students willing to cheat than to ask for help (this is NOT a Colombian phenomenon).

I was offered a raincoat a few days back because I came to work in a fleece North Face and it started to pour just as I had to walk 8 blocks to a bus stop. I said “no gracias.” Having trouble admitting that you might not be invincible against the elements Annie?

Why is it so hard, asking for help. It’s not hard, we just make it so. Survival of the fittest right? Don’t we want to survive? I think there’s some implicit assumption that by asking for help we admit defeat, weakness, inferiority. That’s not even kind of true, at least I don’t think so. Just because someone helps you doesn’t mean they carry you, doesn’t mean you can’t, doesn’t make you any less an individual. Help is helpful, period. And a little psychology tid-bit, if someone helps you it subconsciously makes that person like you more (to an extent of course).

So how do I convince my students (and professors) that they need my help without crushing their egos, driving them even further away? Thoughts? Suggestions? Now I need your help.

Stereotype This

2011-02-08T20:16:00.000-08:00

It’s Black History Month in case you forgot. So naturally I have been hosting discussions in my classes about words like prejudice, discrimination, stereotype etc. In basic levels we just discuss what they mean, advanced levels how they apply to history in the U.S. and Colombia. The word that urks me the most is stereotype. It’s a hard word to explain. It’s also hard to convince people that even though we may say we aren’t racist or exclusive (and we very well may not be), that doesn’t mean that stereotypes don’t still help dictate our daily behavior, thoughts, and judgments.

We’re human; we use heuristics and stereotypes to help us make decisions, perceive new circumstances, fill in the gaps. I don’t see anything per say wrong in that. The problem is when we demonstrate fixedness in that our early use of a heuristic or stereotype primes the way we see, understand, and predict future circumstances or behavior. We have a natural tendency to want to be right, and for that reason we notice and remember behavior typical of a stereotype far more frequently and powerfully than anything contradictory. It happens subconsciously.

I’ll be the first to admit that stereotypes exist for a reason; they aren’t arbitrary. The problem is that they are usually extreme, exaggerated. So I had my Advanced 2 students stereotype themselves. Make a list of some of their personal information that categorizes them: city of origin, neighborhood, age, activities in which they participate etc. What stereotypes correspond? Does that perception match their true self or even their desired self? In over 90% of students, neither was the case (this was a crap study btws, seeing as n=20). I stereotyped myself.

From a wealthy suburb à stuck up; naïve about the real world, fixated on money and success

Traveler to “dangerous” places à risk-taker

Like watching and playing sports à butch (excuse the non PC term, just trying to make a point)

Proud member of a sorority à elitist, follower, superficial, girly girl

Likes to study and probably (definitely) cared too much about grades à dork!

Non-religious à no faith, uncaring

Dance team member à sold out ballerina

Domestic fool à poor future husband

The list goes on. Now obviously there are positive stereotypes that correspond to each of these, and we use those on a daily basis as well. But looking at that list, is it even possible that I be all those things at once? I’m far from fixated on money. Risk-taker? I can hardly handle betting valueless clay chips in a friendly round of poker. You get my point. I guess I just wanted to show my students that even though stereotypes are natural and we shouldn’t beat ourselves up for subconsciously using them every once in awhile, they can still do a lot of damage. The best thing we can do is be ourselves and overcome our stereotypes, maybe then we’ll learn how not to use them against others.

Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers

2011-01-25T19:15:00.000-08:00

Ever been stranded on the side of a deserted mountain road in Ecuador? Alone? Kicked off the bus by a police officer for not having the proper stamp on your passport even though the numb-nut at Border Security said U.S. Citizens only need the immigration form? Had everyone on the bus look at you like you were some sort of terrorist as they drove off? Started walking in the direction from which you came hoping to find some sign of civilization before the sun went down? Had an indigenous family (no teeth) drive you 2.5 hours to the airport because no one else would?

In case you haven’t already come to this conclusion, I had some issues getting in and out of Ecuador about 3 weeks ago. Because I was alone there was no time for panicking, crying, even hesitating. Somehow, I honestly don’t know how, I remained totally calm. It felt like some sort of a biological reaction. My body (and mind) just instinctively kicked into 4-wheel drive. Solve the problem Annie, you have to, and now.

The closest I came to panicking was when I retold the story to a group of friends once I finally got to Quito and to my parents when I got back to Bogotá. Understandably they weren’t thrilled.

Stressful things happen to us every day, but I’ve really come to believe that for the most part those things are only as stressful as me make them. I learned studying psychology that our bodies are built to be able to cope with a tragedy every once in awhile: death in the family, illness, etc. That’s not to say these events are taken lightly, but that most people eventually learn to move on, the weight eventually alleviated. What our bodies are not designed to do is put up with a constant grind of stress and anxiety. It may be smaller, less notably dramatic, but it does not desist, if we don’t let it.

There’s a book by Robert M. Sapolsky called Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers. It’s rather scientific, but the high level message is that animals (zebras in this case) use stress related hormones to help them survive and cope, whereas humans secrete these same hormones at higher quantities and for extended periods of time, which can significantly damage our health. The best thing you can do is learn how to not stress yourself out; it’s not worth it anyways, and will probably only inhibit you from solving the problem at hand.

Save your stress for real misfortune, and then let biology kick in. When it’s over it’s over, just a story to tell, an event to remember, or to forget. But you have to let yourself let it end.

Grow Up

2011-01-13T18:15:00.000-08:00

More than anything, after a certain age, life expects us to act as grownups. Make responsible decisions, look after ourselves and others, abide by moral standards, bla bla bla. My brother recently had a baby and one of my dearest friends from college just got engaged. They´re growing up! The importance, rather, necessity of growing up is tantamount to the continued functioning of not only our individual lives, but of society as a whole. Regardless, I still see a value in moments of immaturity, childishness, letting loose once in awhile.

Carnaval de Negros y Blancos (a carnival in Pasto, Colombia, which I recently attended) is an example of just that. It’s a typical carnival: parades, concerts, local food and drink. Now add thousands of aerosol cans of foam (picture shaving cream), thousands of pounds of flour, and paint of all colors. Upon entering the streets one enters straight up battle mode. It’s actually ridiculous. One literally cannot walk to the corner bakery without having flour thrown in your hair, foam sprayed anywhere and everywhere, paint caked on your face, or some bizarre combination of the three. Your only defense is a good offense (and a pancho).

My first thought was, this is awesome. But then I thought, would this fly in the U.S.? At a Vandy frat party, sure, but in any old city, not so positive. It didn’t matter your age or your social status; several senior citizens shot me directly in the face. Everyone participated. I was thoroughly impressed with the level of immaturity. I like to think that I take myself and my life pretty seriously, but sometimes you’ve just gotta buy a spray can of foam and squirt it at someone you don’t even know.

To quote my favorite Disney movie, “If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up, not me!”

You`re Welcome

2011-01-03T19:00:00.000-08:00

I`ve had a lot to say thank you for as of late, and I`ve found that (as in English) there are many, diverse ways to respond to a simple "thank you." Some I like more than others. You`ve got the nonchalant sort: "no prob," "don`t worry about it," "don`t mention it"; the gleeful kind: "sure," "anytime"; and the formal sort: "my pleasure," "you`re very welcome."

Words are just words; we attribute meaning to them, so it shouldn`t matter how you say it, but I like the latter sort the best. This way one aknowledges the favor or service provided, accepts the recipient`s gratitude, and expresses one`s willingness to have served. Rather than casting it aside de nada (it`s nothing/no prob), one recognizes that it was actually something while almost inviting you to feel free to do so again. It`s rather nice.

Colombians have hospitality figured out; precisely why I end up saying thank you so much. Upon arrival in Cali, two travel buddies and I were taken in by a friend`s family, provided a bed, breakfast and sometimes lunch, and a place we were told to call home for five whole days. Geovanny (the friend) ushered us around by car, by bus, and on foot to all the different events of the feria. We saw parks, markets, malls, bull fights, live concerts, salsa dancing, you name it. A family I met in Bogotà also had me picked up one night so we could stroll the streets and enjoy a most delicious homemade pasta dinner. They even tried to buy me some clothes considering I arrived to the hot coast of Cali with only my Chicago luggage (got locked out of my apartment due to forgetting my keys...oops), but I simply couldn`t accept. And then today a nice family we`ve never before met held umbrellas over our heads and watched our backs for pocket thieves as we watched a parade in Pasto. They then made a special clearing for us to cross the street and safely accompanied us to our hotel. Allllll of this was done out of sheer goodness in their hearts. Sounds cheesy, but really, I never once asked for help or extra service. It was just offered.

The most hospitable people in the world however are your parents. The vast majority of their time is spent in providing favors for their kids and the ones they love. I happen to know of one new set of parents who I`m sure will do the same for their new son, my nephew: Thomas William Freyman. He already has a lot to be thankful for as they graciously welcome him into their world. And again it`s all done in the name of love and goodness, not expecting anything in return, except, maybe, one day, a "thank you."

3 Weeks, 1 Backpack

2010-12-22T12:40:00.000-08:00

Not even a proper backpacker’s backpack, just a standard book bag.

Chillin' with a blowfish (pez globo in Spanish)

I am now in the comfort of my own, warm, Christmas-adorned home, where I will be for the next five days, but I spent the first part of the month getting to know some different cities within Colombia. I went from jungle trekking to scuba diving to historic city meandering. All wonderful.

Traveling is an art. It can be done lavishly or on a shoestring, hastily or lackadaisically, methodically or spontaneously, or some permutation of the aforementioned. No matter how you choose to do it, it opens your eyes to a simplified way of life. Restricted either by airline weight regulations or those of your own carrying capacity, you can only bring so much shit along with you. And you still probably bring more than you need.

Me and some militaries at La Ciudad Perdida (Lost City)

I’ve got more stuff than I’ll ever know what to do with. This particular trip made me appreciate the bare necessities. Uphill hikes through the jungle make insect repellent and a decently-sized water bottle much more important than spare sets of clothing, especially when everything you have will get wet anyways. And you can forget about a brush, hairdryer, straightner, or makeup of any sort. Not at all relevant. Your alarm clock is the sun, a bothersome rooster, or your noisy neighbors, whichever comes first.

Another thing I realized on this trip is that I’ve always liked to have a plan. I still do. There are many benefits to a plan. But sometimes you have to be willing to throw the plan to the wind. Make a new plan. Don’t stick with something just because you’re already mentally, physically, or financially invested in it. In psychology we call this the sunk cost effect. Basically, the impending dissonance involved in accepting that we messed up or had another, better option keeps us stubborn, resistant to change, or blindly hopeful. The funny thing is, children under the age of 2 and monkeys do not demonstrate this principle. So apparently, you have to be pretty smart and “rational” to do something so stupid.

Ready for a night out in Taganga

My mom used to tell me that I would say, “I didn’t even know I wanted this” when I would open a present that I liked yet hadn’t specifically noted on my Santa Wish List. Same goes for life. Not everything can be planned for or predetermined because you don’t always know you want something until it’s in your lap. Don’t wrap it back up just because it’s not part of the plan. Go on, take the money and run. – Steve Miller Band

Gunther

2010-12-02T19:05:00.000-08:00

Playing parques with Benjamin

The following post will almost undoubtedly reveal my insanity. Here goes.

The official trailer for the new movie The Social Network says, “You don’t get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies.” This thought struck me.

I’ve always been of the camp that I’m a good person and I am who I am, take it or leave it. I can’t possibly make everyone happy, and I wasn’t put on this Earth to do so. Of course I like to be liked, but I don’t need everyone to like me. I’m still of this camp. I think. But to an extreme, this mentality is no more than a good excuse to be unkind, unfair, perhaps a little stuck in my ways. So I started thinking. Who do I know that’s truly liked by everyone? And what is this person like? How can I be more like him/her?

The first “person” who came to my mind was Gunther. I’m 23 years old and I still sleep with a teddy bear. His name is Gunther.

Gunth & Stemp

Gunther is the best listener; he’ll listen for hours on end, to anything really. As Gunther is a bear, he’s naturally a protector, but he also likes to snuggle. He’s the ultimate secret-keeper; loyal to a fault. Gunther is open-minded and accepting of all others. His best friend is named Stempy. Stempy has no arms, and wears a silly lace collar and a mismatched, patterned sweater. But Gunther sees through all that to Stemp’s good heart. He knows how to forgive. He’s humble. Gunther is anything but manipulative. He likes to party, but is also good for a night in. Gunther is constant, sound, reliable, steadfast. He’s not perfect: his neck is a little long and he’s a tad chubby (gets the munchies sometimes) so he’s not threatening or intimidating. Gunther is a good sharer. He’s easygoing, far from high maintenance. Gunther has a lot of love to give and lets you love him back.

Everyone loves Gunther; he wears easy on you, makes you happy.

So am I going to fret and worry if not everyone I meet thinks I’m an angel in disguise? Nope. But I think I can learn something from Gunther about how to love and be loved. I don’t need any enemies, just friends.

In Colombia & At Vandy: warming him up after someone put him in the freezer.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T17:05:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving isn’t exactly big in Colombia. The only tradition I managed to salvage was watching football; we put the Lions Patriots game on over lunch at work. I had a ham and cheese sandwich.

What’s the big deal about Thanksgiving anyways? We gather together with family, watch football, and eat too much. Whoopie-doo. No presents, not many decorations, and let’s face it, even though it’s technically about the pilgrims and the Native Americans, you learn about it in second grade, make a cute hand turkey, and that about marks the end of it. But everyone loves Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving.

This is my third Thanksgiving out of the country, my first away from my family. Having “seen” the holiday from an outsider’s perspective, I finally figured out what makes Thanksgiving so great. It’s 100% American. The United States has an extremely unique social culture, but when it comes to food and holidays, we kinda just steal from everyone else and Americanize it: burgers, pizza, Chinese food, sandwiches, etc. We didn’t exactly invent that. Christmas, Hanukah, Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day… not quite. But Thanksgiving? That’s ours; only ours. We watch football, a game that the U.S. enjoys far more than any other country. We eat turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, casseroles, stuffing, apple cider, and pumpkin pie. There’s not even a translation for those foods in Spanish because they simply do not exist. And even though I already negated the relativity of the pilgrims and the Native Americans, can anyone else claim that as part of their history?

Every day, every minute, this world becomes more and more globalized, less and less ethnocentric. I’m all for it; I’m a citizen of the world. But Thanksgiving, that stays with us. I’m thankful for that.

This year, I’m also thankful for technology. Ew right? I’m supposed to say family, friends, and good health. Plus, I’m not even good with technology: I have a Blackberry, but I don’t have it synced to my email account and I still write my daily agenda on the palm of my hand; I have a kindle, but I have yet to play with any of its multifaceted capabilities other than reading from the screen; I have an iPod… correction had an iPod, with no more than 200 songs on it. But this year more than ever, technology, primarily GChat and Skype, has kept me close to those things I’m really thankful for. Last Thursday I watched the Bears beat the Dolphins with my Mom and Dad through Skype. It was like I was there in the family room. Today I got to talk to my entire family. I saw my sister-in-law’s pregnant belly that holds my nephew; my Dad and my brothers; and my Mom preparing dinner. I could practically smell the turkey. And thanks to the 21^st century’s advanced mailing system, I received a hand-written letter from my Aunt Mary wishing me a happy day.

What’s not to love about Thanksgiving?

Trust Me

2010-11-03T22:08:00.000-07:00

One thing that has never come easily to me is trust. Trusting people with my personal information, trusting people to follow through. I would rather just not give them the chance to let me down, to disappoint. But trust has managed to weasel its way into nearly every important element of our lives. Even the one-dollar bill says In God We Trust. The value of money itself is based in trust. We don’t have gold reserves anymore. Just think about capitalism… it’s trust. Trust in those we don’t even know, those who don’t know us. But society wouldn’t function without it.

I arrived at this rant about trust because of a current debate I’ve been following in microfinance. SKS, now India’s largest MFI, announced an initial public offering just over three months ago. Compartamos, an MFI in Mexico, has been publicly traded for years, but this is still a big step, and possibly an indication of where the microfinance industry is headed. From what I’ve gathered it boils down to a couple main points of contention: Does commercialized microfinance imply exploitation and/or mission drift?

The benefits of being an aggressively for-profit MFI are evident: SKS reports an annual compound growth rate of 165% since 2004. That represents millions of poor people who now have access to financial services, and women who have been empowered. Furthermore, because SKS has reached such a large scale, they have been able to utilize their unique distribution channels to strike special deals with other for-profit companies to offer products such as cell phones, water purifiers, and sanitary pads to the poor at drastically lower prices. Things they wouldn’t otherwise have access to; things I take for granted every day.

So what’s all the fuss about? Microfinance is about helping the poor help themselves, giving them access to capital, formal savings products, life insurance, things ordinary banks have denied them for centuries. Its mission is based solely around the best interest of the borrower, the client, the poor. With commercialization, new major players are introduced: stakeholders (and not just the clients themselves as in Grameen Bank). Profits no longer solely go back to the borrowers, but out to other stakeholders. Is this pushing the industry towards loan sharking and profiteering? Will short-term investor needs overshadow long-term strategy and dedication to the needs of the poor?

Thus far, I say no. Going public has helped SKS achieve significantly greater outreach, better and more diversified products and services, and they are now under the ever-critical public eye. Governance must be more transparent. But once again it’s a matter of trust. SKS is an extremely powerful institution that could easily, I mean easily, exploit the poor. In a big way. So do we say it’s not worth the risk? Or do we trust them, and ourselves, to put the right people in charge and stay true to microfinance’s mission so that this life-changing industry can continue to grow?

It’s not an easy decision. Trust me.

There's No Place Like Home

2010-10-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

Little Dorothy has had it right all along. Although I wasn’t “home home” per say this weekend; it sure felt like it.

This weekend I was reminded of so many things that I already know. But it feels good to be reminded. I was reminded of how strikingly beautiful Vanderbilt’s campus is on a warm, cloudless, October afternoon; of how you can’t go wrong with the plethora of options in a Panera’s You-Pick-Two; of how despite now being 23 I think I will always prefer a good frat party over a bar; and of how peanut butter and conditioner make a perfect combo for getting gum out of your hair. Exponentially more importantly, I was reminded of the value of true friendship; of the joy of a good surprise; of the strength of a mother’s love; of the comfort of sharing with those you trust; of the solidity of an honest, dedicated father; and of happiness so genuine it’s hard to keep down an obnoxious smile.

So why leave? Good question.

For me, the adrenaline, the leap of faith, and the test of personal strength and perseverance is just as important as the comfort of the familiar. When it comes to my room and my eating habits, I like it the same: if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. But when it comes to life experiences, I’m incessantly asking for more, for new. I think I have been able to love and appreciate travel because of how much I love home, not in spite of it. So thanks; I miss you already.

World Peace

2010-10-15T11:28:00.000-07:00

World peace… every beauty pageant contestant`s famous last words. But wouldn`t it be nice?

I spent this past weekend in Sogamoso, a relatively small town in the Department of Boyacá. As part of the Indigenous Art Festival hosted by the city, I attended a free, outdoor Aterciopelados concert. The group has been popular for over 20 years, but they are 20 years young. The spirit of the group, the audience, and the message they sent could not have been more alive, genuine, and absolute. While the main singer, Andrea Echeverri, did partake in a few corny/hippie-esque demonstrations, like holding up a sign that said Amor y Paz (Peace & Love), what I got out of it was more than just an idealist let`s get together and feel alright sentiment.

I`ve always wanted to save the world. Don`t we all. And I`ve always been disappointed by those who say that you don`t have to make a big change in order to make a difference; every effort, no matter how small, matters; it`s the thought that counts. To me all of this always sounds like an excuse, a cop out, a way of accepting mediocrity.

Now I think there´s more to it. Peace takes political reform, from the top. Period. But there´s no means by which to compel compliance if we don´t have a solid middle class: a group of people who make peace contagious through their active positive attitude, acceptance of differences, and dedication to loving the good and doing the right. It´s a two way street, so unlike Harry P and Volds (new nickname), top-down and bottom-up, world-wide and inner-city, group and individual efforts can and must coexist.

So I guess every effort does count, but don´t get lazy; I´m still rather critical of that concept. You can give more, be better, try harder, so that when this Earth goes to rest, it may do so in peace.

You Are What You Eat

2010-10-04T18:39:00.000-07:00

Some say the best way to get to know a culture is to eat your way through it. Sounds like a fat person’s rationalization to me; or anyone’s excuse for gaining weight on vacation. Been there done that right? Actually… in Colombia’s case, I tend to agree.

Colombians are really into their food. That’s not to say they’re overweight, just that, in general, Colombians derive a great deal of pride from the perceived deliciousness of what they eat. Everyone, I mean everyone, has asked me So how do you like the food here??? They ask genuinely, but they’re waiting for a very specific answer. Sometimes they even prime the answer by “asking,” Isn’t the food here amazing??? I must say, the food is good. Of course I miss my mom’s famous gooey noodles and French toast, but Colombia knows what’s up.

Being the domestic fool that I am (and as I am really busy), grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, pasta, and bizarre combinations of the three are as far as I’ve gotten. Even when my roommates cook, they give me remedial tasks like mixing things and setting the table. Pathetic I know. I’ve found some local “hot spots” to eat out on weekends, and Arepas rellenas off the street are so delicious and so cheap I’m not sure why I eat anything else.

My greatest eating experience thus far however, bar none, was the weekend I spent out on the farm. Benjamín (Ben-ha-mean in Spanish), a good friend without whom I would admittedly be rather lonely, invited me to travel out to Fresno where his parents live on a farm. Not the Illinois, flatland farms you’re picturing. This farm is in the mountains. It’s ridiculously beautiful, and they grow chocolate (yes, chocolate grows on trees here!), bananas, coffee, plantains, maracuya, guayaba, mangos, oranges, avocado; you name it, they grow it. They have dozens of fruits that don’t even exist in the US. Aside from fruit, as it is a farm, they also have chickens and the like running around everywhere. Most unfortunately, I woke up Sunday morning to a giant rooster hanging upside down with blood oozing down its face into a bucket placed appropriately below. Graphic I know. So this is where Benjamin’s mom comes in.

For starters, she’s ridiculous. She cooked all day Saturday and Sunday; I’m literally not sure she ever stopped. Everything’s from scratch. And I mean scratch scratch, like start-by-killing-the-rooster scratch. She prepared traditional Colombian tamales, which start as a mixture of potatoes, rice, carrots, corn, chicken, beef, and probably lots of other things I’m unaware of, and are then wrapped up in giant leaves (picked from the trees out back) and cooked in boiling water for 2 hours. She made 100… one hundred. It was almost comical, like a witch with a giant wooden spoon, ladling her magic potion in a giant cauldron. And the kitchen is far from high-tech. We’re talking coal and wood burning under the stove.

Needless to say, I overate. She just kept handing me food, and I kept eating it. She even sent me home with four tamales to eat throughout the week: hospitality in its purist form. I watched her cooking the whole time, intrigued, and when she caught on to my curiosity she asked, Well how does your mom make them? She struggled to understand what exactly we eat in the United States if we don’t eat tamales. Adorable.

In Colombia, food is a way of life. Boasting about your mother’s homemade meals is a common pastime. Sharing a good meal in good company is about as good as it gets J.

Wake Up Call

2010-09-16T20:34:00.001-07:00

I was robbed today… by a guy with a knife.

Perhaps you’re imagining a narrow alley, late at night, creepy homeless guy. None of the above. Noon, sunny day, I had just gotten off the bus that I take three days a week between my two jobs. I had been walking pleasantly along the sidewalk of a busy street, when a guy about my height came up behind me, wrapped his arm tightly around my shoulders, held a knife to my cheek and mumbled something almost under his breath. As I was listening to my iPod at the time (Yo no sé mañana, great tune) all I heard was “iPod.” It’s the same in Spanish. Unable to take my eyes off the knife in my face, I frantically reached into the pocket where my iPod was nicely tucked away, grabbed my cell phone and iPod, threw them at his feet, and took off in the opposite direction. That’s it. Four seconds of my life.

Since I can remember, I have been fortunate enough to have a great deal of self confidence; a great deal. It has served me well and allowed me to be one of the happier people I know, but my self confidence has a tragic flaw. It managed to translate itself into a perception of near invincibility. It has allowed me to remain naïve. I’m not ignorant, nor do I maintain an “I’m invincible” attitude, just that my perception of security has always felt real to me. Today I was reminded that my perception of security is a mere state of mind, not a reality.

Bottom line, I’m fine. I was lucky (relatively speaking). He let me flee after I threw my stuff to the ground; for the first few moments I was sure he would follow me. I lost a cell phone and an iPod: a $10 cell phone and an iPod with a more than lame compilation of music. Somewhat traumatizing experience on the whole, but I already feel calm, and now that my Colombian friends know what happened their super-protection-Annie radars are back on. Learn my lesson and move on; sometimes that’s all we can do.

I Hope You Dance

2010-09-13T09:18:00.000-07:00

“Si no bailaste, es como si no estuvieras allí” – 9th semester student, male. If you didn´t dance, it´s as if you weren´t even there.

Thus far my only workout has been going out. Pretty much anywhere you go, when the right song comes on (and that´s nearly every song), everyone gets up to dance. This dancing does not include standing in a circle and bopping up and down, not that there´s anything wrong with that, but I´m talking about Salsa, Meringue, and Vallenato. Each has its own rhythm and basic steps. I´m still working on distinguishing the difference between the three.

As much as I love soccer, dance will always be dearest to my heart. It´s culture is a paradox: creativity, discipline, expression, conformity, tradition, innovation, control, freedom. Saying so much without saying anything at all. It´s art. So does dancing in a noisy, crowded bar count? Yes. It most certainly does. Perhaps this is dance´s truest form: of the people, by the people, for the people. It´s dance´s vernacular. Sure there are dance studios (at which I´ll be taking lessons starting next Sunday wooot), but most people learn from their family and friends. The tradition is passed by “word of mouth.”

I spent at least 14 years of my life learning, practicing, and perfecting the art of dance. Although performing will forever be one of the greatest joys in my life, I like to look at dance from a more practical perspective these days. For one, it adds a level of sophistication to the standard drinking scene; an alternative if you will. It´s also a way to boost your game. If you´re not so cute, learn to dance, you´ll do just fine. On a simpler level, dance makes me happy. Not sure what it is exactly, but it´s one of the most genuine feelings of happiness that I can identify in life.

Dancing is a test. A test of courage, putting yourself out there; a test of faith, learning to relax and trust your partner; a test of balance, the push and the pull; and a test of assimilation, every new song, new partner, new space, requires you to change a little bit about yourself and your ways in order to adapt and survive. Do all of that, yet to thine own self be true. Therein lies the paradox yet again.

If I have succeeded in anything in writing this blog it has been revealing the intricacies and complexities of dance. What I wanted to do is regress to eighth grade and say, in every aspect of your life, “If you get the choice to sit it out or dance… I hope you dance.” -- Leanne Womack

Beautiful Game; Vulgar Hinchada

2010-08-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

It is thought by some that soccer (fútbol) is the most popular sport in the world because anyone, despite his/her socioeconomic status can play. All you need is something that rolls (anything from the 2010 World Cup Official Ball going for $132 online to a blown up pigs bladder), two goals (regulation size or two stones to designate the area), and some teammates/opponents (talented peers or just random neighbors, family, and friends). It’s an interesting argument, but I think there’s more to it.

Soccer is a universal language. You’re most certainly better off muting the announcers anyways. The clock keeps running, as in life. If you need time to figure something out, it’s on your own time, you’ve got to do so on the fly. It’s just your body out there, as is: no pads, no rackets, no bats, no helmets. And shin guards do not count as they are currently more to protect the precious shins of young players, the ones professionals use, if any, are about the size of a King of Diamonds. Individual contribution is undeniably important, but acutely insufficient. Points aren’t easily accumulated, no battle easily won. There’s no one strategy, one alignment, one plan of attack. One size does not fit all. There’s room for veterans and rookies. It helps to move fast, but a well-placed pass beats anyone in a race. The good is not rendered meaningless by being equally glorified with the ugly. The fans make sure of that.

Soccer strategy reflects current national philosophy. Take Brazil, hasty progress turned to calculated, sustained development. So are politicians learning from the soccer players or vice versa?

Soccer satisfies our need to have both elegance and chaos. A beautiful game; a vulgar hinchada. The hinchada is the fan base. Beers are not sold in or anywhere within the immediate vicinity of the stadium, you’re not allowed to enter wearing a belt, a police force forms a semi-circle around the player taking the corner kick, and it’s the perfect place to pick up all of your much sought after Spanish swearwords. The fans are brutal to say the least. Even towards their own team. After a rough loss, players leave in a fully armed tank, not a bus. Regardless, soccer fans are the most loyal of all. They jump and sing the entire game, win or lose. There’s zero entertainment. I take that back, the Millionarios (Colombian team I’m currently supporting because I live right by the stadium) has cheerleaders, if you can actually call them that hehe. Next week I’ll make a video; perfect material for the fail blog. My point is, the seats are uncomfortable, there’s no beer, no jumbotron, the sound system is as pathetic as the cheerleaders, and yet, fans focus intently on all 90 minutes of every game. It real life, no frills.

In the words of Phil Woosnam, a once well-known Welsh soccer player and manager, “the rules of soccer are very simple, basically it is this: if it moves kick it. If it doesn’t move, kick it until it does.”

A Workin' Woman

2010-08-24T21:52:00.000-07:00

Having officially been in Bogotá for three weeks now, I´ve finally started both of the official jobs that I was sent here to do. Thus far I´ve merely gotten my feet wet.

I am once again reminded of how much I love being a teacher. Perhaps it fulfills my innate tendency and desire to boss people around. My students are great. They act as if everything I touch turns to gold. Each week the professors tell me what the class is currently learning and I prepare some sort of lesson, activity, or presentation pertaining to that topic. This past week I taught everything from conditionals to my basic students, The Fall of the House of Usher to my intermediate students, and reported speech to my advanced students. Needless to say I myself am learning quite a bit about English and American culture… Additionally, I have tutoring hours where the students come visit me either with a question, or what seems most popular, just to practice speaking. I am fairly certain that my students think that I am absolutely nuts. Actually… I´m 100% certain. In refusing to speak Spanish with them (they desperately need total immersion), I am often reduced to jumping around, acting things out, drawing pictures, and making strange sound effects. It´s rather fun. A handful of students already chat me up regularly in the hallways and on Facebook, but I am hoping to develop a relationship with all of them.

On the north end of the city, I work with ACCIÓN Internacional. I am already fascinated by the work this organization does. My projects here are threefold: assisting Jackie Urquizo in her quest to systematize the organization´s findings and publications regarding rural micro-insurance and micro-savings throughout five different countries in the Andean region; assisting Mery Solares in the field launching her pilot project; and helping Paula with research and database analysis. At least that´s what I think I´m doing (all instruction was provided orally and in Spanish). Essentially, I´m in over my head, but luckily everyone here is extremely helpful and easy-going. Last Friday when I arrived at the office around 2pm there was a live Vallenato band right next to my pretty, little cubicle (the whole back wall is a window) and everyone was dancing. I could get used to his culture.

Weekends are fun too, and I´m expanding my Colombian friend-base little by little. Unfortunately, similar to Argentina, I have yet to make a single Colombian girl friend. All the girls I´ve met are super nice to me, but the relationship stops there. Never get an invite to hangout or anything like that. I´ve got a few British and American ones though! Any advice anyone?

Lastly, as you could have most likely inferred for yourself, little “Fail Blog” accounts continue to occur, so I will continuously update that particular blog post if you care to check it out each week.

İQue les vaya bien!

FAIL BLOG

2010-08-15T21:14:00.000-07:00

Since when Lau? Lauren's been keeping a secret relationship from us all. The table at my favorite pizza restaurant says it all... No mercy: Apparently, dotted paths (as seen below center) were added to all the sidewalks in the city a few years ago as a means for the blind to more safely traverse the streets. Look a little ways ahead... not nice.

Good try, no cigar.

Don't ask: Went to the market with some friends Sunday morning. The boys ordered these giant bowls of assorted meats. Jeisson made me try a bite of the "delicious" meat that you see below. I'm open-minded about just about everything, especially in other countries, but this I chewed on for about 5 minutes and then proceeded to spit it into a napkin when no one was looking. I'm still not sure it was actually edible. When I asked what it was Jeisson replied, "Don't ask." Perf.

Mooooove it: Traffic jam caused by cows.

Shower before class: The ultimate fail. I stopped in the middle of a busy street (when the green "ok to cross" light was on) to help an older woman whose shoe had fallen off. By the time I looked up, four lanes of rush hour traffic were speeding towards me so I jumped onto the median. This "median" was 1.5 feet wide max. Busses, trucks, cars, and motorcycles went speeding by at a distance of about ehhhhh 3ft on either side and splashed me from head to toe about 15 times. It actually looked like I had jumped in a lake, a brown lake. To top it off I was in heels and a cute pink dress. A man at the candy stand on the other side of the street handed me three suckers for free. Miserable...

No wonder the place is empty: Read carefully, even if you don't know Spanish, you should notice something odd, something English, that doesn't quite fit with the fact that this is a student cafeteria.

English: randos who clearly don’t speak English very well teaching English. I should assume this is a joke… right?

Not so PC: when someone isn’t home at dinner time, his/her food gets left on the table with their name on it. This is what Consuelo writes on the black kid’s plate every night… Salsa: so I went to a salsa class at my university just to try it out. They assumed the gringa (that’s me) “no tiene ritmo” (has no rhythm) and paired me with this 45-year-old fat guy with two left feet. I don’t even know how he got there. I was dyyyyyying.

Real shoes: As most of you know I have grown very fond of my Nike flip-flops over the years, but now that I’m a teacher and working in a business casual office, Nike flops really aren’t an option. My feet are very serrriously rejecting the flats I have been cruising around in. I would put up a picture of my bloody and blistered toes and heels, but I figured that would be in bad taste.

From A to B: public transportation around here isn’t the most organized of systems, but I’m learning through experience. I got stuck in the turnstile during rush hour and caused a honking craze. At least I’m not drawing unwanted attention to myself.

"Cannot": A friend I live with is currently taking an intensive English course for his job, so I have been helping him with pronunciation etc. I have pretty much banned him from saying "can't" because no matter how hard he tries he very clearly pronounces "c*nt" every time. Awkward.

But you know what they say: If at first you do not succeed, try try again.

Tomorrow I’m headed to Parque Natural Chicaque to do some hiking and site seeing. Hopefully I’ll have some beautiful pictures to share next week, and I won’t have to include this adventure in my fail blog J

First Impressions

2010-08-07T10:54:00.000-07:00

So my orientation program has kept me safely in “gringolandia” for the past several days, but I’m finally here in Bogotá! I must say that Bogotá is not the most beautiful city, at least not in the traditional, physical sense of the word. It’s huge and verrry spread out as most buildings are only two or three stories. But que buena onda! The people are magnificent. Everyone calls me “mi vida” (my life) after about two minutes of knowing me. So Latin-loverish!

I have so much to learn. Luckily I’m living with eight Colombians so I hope to catch on quickly. I’ve already arranged a few cultural exchange agreements through my contacts at the university, trading my only skill (English lessons) for salsa lessons, cooking lessons, and trips to local soccer games. This city is so alive. Today is a very important day as the new president, Juan Manuel Santos, will replace Álvaro Uribe, arguably the best and most popular president in Colombian history. La Plaza Bolivar is decked out in red, blue, and yellow, and thousands of people are out and about.

Most impressive thus far has been the group of students and professionals I have had the pleasure to meet over these past few days. Everyone is so intelligent, so motivated, so interesting, so worldly, and yet so down to earth. How did I get here again? There is so much I want to do, see, and experience. Ten months already feels like not enough time.

I shall close with a quote from Pillars of the Earth, the novel I have been reading: “but mourning the passing of his youth. Never again would he be as naïve, as aggressive, as hungry or as strong as he had been when he had fallen in love” (Ken Follet). Don’t worry, I’m not in love, just infatuated with the culture, the language, and the desire to soak up as much life and experience as physically possible, so I guess I should run with it now, in my youth, rather than fret about it later J