There's No Place Like Home

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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!