Things i’ve done this week that i wouldn’t have done in the US…

-Rode the city bus

-Went and bought groceries without driving my car

-Bought pink toilet paper

-Ate a crumpet for breakfast

-Watched the X Files (i don’t think the ever show this in the US anymore)

-Babysat for my cousin’s cousin (on Thanksgiving day)

-Cooked a turkey for Thanksgiving

-Ate Thanksgiving dinner with 2 old friends, and 8 new ones.

Total Thanksgiving Day recap coming tomorrow. I can’t remember the last time i laughed that hard. It was a very entertaining even cooking dinner.

Hope everyone else had a great Thanksgiving!

Ciao,

Sheila

Indeed, it has been quite a while since I last blogged. I finished all my assignments exactly one week ago and now I am busy relaxing. LOL.

About a month ago, I was up to my neck with assignments. It was literally a marathon of them! Every week, I had between two and three deadlines. The final week was the craziest: there were four major assignments due for submission. Naturally, for each one, I stayed up 48 hours to complete the essay. I did not eat and sleep well, so I lost quite a bit of weight. In any case, I have gained back all the weight lost the past week! :\ It was a hellish week. I am so glad that the semester has ended. But that also means that I have only half a year left in Melbourne before I am due to return home! I am not looking forward to that.

The past one week was pure relaxation. I slept and woke up whenever I felt like it without having to worry about deadlines. I finished watching one Korean drama and am halfway through a TVB drama. I hung out quite a bit with Friendly Babe, had dinner with her, Gorgeous Babe and Healthy Hunk a couple of times, and went shopping with her and Slim Babe. Speaking of which, for the first time in my life, I splurged on a branded blouse – which came with fantastic discounts. So, I am happy.

I will be flying home this Thursday. I intend to straighten and snip off my hair (it is getting too long and thus time-consuming to maintain), and go for a good massage and a manicure. I hope I will not shop much (though I am looking forward to shop again with Friendly Babe and Slim Babe). I intend to save all my money for my trip to New York and Mexico this Christmas and New Year 2010!

Yes! I will be flying to the Big Apple from 22 December 2009 to 10 January 2010. I hope to get some great bargains from the post-Christmas sales. The exchange rate should be pretty good now. Ah, so many things to do when I get home later this week.

I am not sure if I miss home, but I sure am glad to be going back for a short break and meeting up with the rest of the Babes. I have so much to tell them!

Last Thursday night, I was sitting at my little desk in my little classroom that I use twice a week at our sister school. It was break-time, and I was grading papers. The classroom door was open, and Keith, an Irish gentleman who’s been teaching over here forever, leaned in.

“Ah, I almost forgot,” he said. “You’re American. Happy Thanksgiving.”

I sat back and had to think for a second. Was it Thanksgiving? I hadn’t become completely oblivious to life back home, had I? Were the Cowboys playing at 5 am the following morning? No, no they weren’t. It wasn’t Thanksgiving. That was next week. I related this all to Keith, but thanked him nonetheless for his charming well-wishes.

And then it hit me. No, this wasn’t American Thanksgiving – next Thursday was; but next Thursday would be the same as this Thursday – I’d be teaching English all day, eating rice or noodles when I got the chance, and coming home exhausted. And when it actually was Thanksgiving, Keith would probably pop his head in the door and extend his well-wishes again, and I’d be pretty sad that I was sitting in my little desk in my little classroom, instead of eating turkey, laughing with my family, watching football, and playing games.

I fully realized when I signed up for this adventure that homesickness would be part of the toll. And every so often since I landed here in July, I have gotten a bit homesick. It never lasts very long – maybe an afternoon or a whole day; certainly nothing emotionally crippling. But as summer has turned into fall, I have started to get that little twinge a bit more often. Seasons are changing back home (and here, to a far lesser extent, weather-wise), and I guess subconsciously I’m fully realizing that I’m gonna be away from home for a good long while. I do love this time of year back home, too. I miss taking walks with Bonzo in the crisp autumn air; miss being a 3-hour drive from my mom and my childhood home; miss going to the State Fair – there’s something magical about eating corny dogs, playing corny games, riding rides, and perusing booths selling everything from shampoo to the Sham-Wow; I miss playing with my friends, and watching football at normal hours.

And I miss the holidays. I love the holidays. I love Thanksgiving – the cool air outside, exchanging stories and laughing with my family, watching football, playing games, and, of course, the food. My God, the food. Taiwan’s fare is okay, but it’s got nothing on turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Sweet Jesus, I’d teach one of my classes completely improper English for a whole semester just to have Thanksgiving with my family. “Teacher like the Thanksgiving much a lot.”

And Christmas. Due to financial reasons, I won’t be coming home for Christmas or New Years – my 30th birthday, by the way – either. Now before we go blaming Phyllis and her bloodthirsty zeal for my money, it’s not all her fault. Certainly, she made it impossible for me to return to the states; but I don’t think coming home was a great idea, money-wise, to begin with. Plus, I mean, I’m living in Southeast Asia, and flights to Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, the Philippines, China, and Japan are super cheap here. I’ll actually be in Thailand over Christmas and New Years. So that’s cool.

But still, I’ll miss the holidays. I’m an incredibly nostalgic human. I get this entirely from my father. He loved Christmas. Absolutely loved it. And so do I. I’m a huge Christmas dork, and I don’t mind the world knowing it. I love Christmas decorations; I love Christmas trees and Christmas carols; I love Christmas lights and secretly harbor ill will for any house that does not display them. I’m just a nerd like that. I love the BFC (Boeglin Family Christmas); I love having Christmas Eve at our house, and I love Christmas Day with my mom’s side of the family. Christmas this year is going to be tough. I’m going to miss my mom and sister – not to mention the rest of my family and all my friends back home – more than I ever have before. But again, I knew this came with the territory of living overseas.

But still. I’m in Taiwan. I’m living in Southeast Asia. And I will be in Thailand for Christmas. So that’s pretty damn cool.

And so, here I am, on the night of the fourth Thursday in November. In America, it’s Thanksgiving. Here, it’s a Thursday. I taught all day and made myself a grilled chicken salad for dinner. It wasn’t a bad day by any means, but still, today I am homesick.

But it is Thanksgiving, and by nature, I’m not the brooding sort. So despite my homesickness, let me count the numerous things for which I am incredibly thankful.

I’m thankful for my health. I’m a month away from 30 years old; I have had periods in my life where I’ve drunk too much and other periods where I haven’t worked out enough. Sometimes those periods have coincided. And yet somehow, I’m doing quite well.

I’m thankful for making myself come on this adventure. There aren’t a whole lot of Americans who can say they picked up and moved to Southeast Asia. I’m glad I have. It’s been an adventure so far, and the adventure’s really only in its infancy. I can’t wait for everything else I get to do and see while I’m here.

I’m thankful for my kids at school. Every day, their exuberance, their desire to have fun, and their laughs make me smile. Despite the fact that they regularly test my patience and wear me the hell out day after day, I have never once come home upset that I’m their teacher.

And, I’m eternally thankful for my family and friends back home. There are way too many to try to list here by name; but all of you, please know that I think of you all the time, and that those thoughts usually end with a big smile. I miss you all dearly, and that’s the main reason why I’m homesick today.

In a way, I’m truly thankful to be homesick.

Please, have a wonderful Thanksgiving, everyone.
Thank you for indulging me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday. This is the first time in my 22 year existence on this Earth that I haven’t spent Thanksgiving with my extensive extended family. We usually spend time with my Dad’s side of the family, feasting and then playing our traditional Thanksgiving game of… floor hockey. A little strange, but an absolute blast.

Coincidentally (because the Islamic calendar is lunar and hops back about 11 days every year), Thanksgiving coincides this year with the Muslim holiday Eid al-Adha (عيد الأضحى‎), which is a holiday marking the pilgrimage to Mecca. To commemorate the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ismail as an act of obedience to God (copyright Wikipedia, ha), Muslim families all over the world sacrifice some sort of animal, usually a sheep – not that different from Thanksgiving, eh? We make pilgrimages to our families houses and sacrifices turkeys. But there is a big difference – the actual Eid is tomorrow, but today is a day where many Muslims will fast for the entire day. So this year, our day of feasting ironically coincides with their day of fasting.

Nothing reminds you more that you are an ex-pat than Thanksgiving. I was invited to 3 or 4 separate feasts, all from people trying to keep alive in their hearts the most genuine of our annual holidays, even if it would be with randos and not their families. I decided to celebrate right here on campus with the American faculty, and it looks like it’s going to be a gathering of a few dozen. We are all thankful of this nice calendar coincidence because we actually get a week long “Thanksgiving” vacation, just like we normally do.

Then, later tonight, I’m headed off to Istanbul, Turkey to meet up with one of my best friends from college, Sam Davies, and travel for a week. The flight was only $300 and will only take a little more than 2 hours – crazy! So to add to the irony and weirdness of this day living outside of the States, I’ll be ending my Turkey Day in Turkey. I’m thankful that I have this opportunity to live, teach and travel abroad, and I’m thankful for all my family and friends who won’t fade even though I’m 9,000 miles away.

Cheers, I’ll write again in a week…

Up and moving to a foreign country is like tiptoeing across a tightrope without a net. It takes balls (or ovaries, as we say on this side of the Straits), but can be stupid, reckless, and if all goes horribly wrong, detrimental to breathing.

When I landed in Cuba to live full time – without a net – in April 2002, I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for (see note 1). But imagining 6-hour blackouts and bucket showers is one thing. Cooking, eating, reading and lovemaking by candlelight followed by a military shower is something (uncomfortably, unsustainably) else.

Little by little, things improved. Gradually, I adjusted. I sprang for a $15 electric shower unit (known as widow makers in some countries) and we kept a list of debate topics on hand for the next blackout. Over time, I grew accustomed to my neighbors dropping by unannounced for coffee and a chat and I no longer started at the good-natured yelling Cubans indulge in. Poco a poco my wardrobe got shorter and tighter, I perfected the use of a pressure cooker, and grew used to the idea that gladiolas aren’t just for dead people (see note 2).

But clothing, cooking, even floral tendencies, are differences you expect in foreign countries. In Pakistan I had to cover my head. In Guatemala I (happily) forsook bread for tortillas. Here in Havana however, I was blindsided by something else entirely, something wholly unexpected: I’m surrounded by old people.

It’s not simply that Cubans have a longer life expectancy than you (see note 3) or that the country has 1,488 centenarians and counting. Sure, the island is a willing poster child for the 120 Club (see note 4), but the ubiquity of the elderly here has more to do with the culture of aging than health indicators.

In Cuba, great pains are taken to keep the ’senior zits’ and ‘blue hairs’ (as my mother calls them, even though – technically – she forms part of their ranks) actively involved in society. Active aging they call it. Every day, from Pinar del Río to Guantánamo, you’ll see seniors doing knee bends and loosening their rotator cuffs in free, outdoor exercise classes; raisin-like men mixing up the dominos at seniors’ centers; and great grandmothers wheeling their sweet potatoes and yucca away from the Tulipán vegetable market.

As end of days approach, it is the rare Cuban that gets parked in a nursing home. Here, people prefer to take care of their own, at home – even hospice happens at home, in your own bed. Up north, meanwhile, we tend to shutter people away once they reach a certain age. Where I’m from, growing old and dying at home is the rare exception. I get that nursing homes are handy. Who wants to change their mother’s diaper or go unrecognized by their own father as he battles demons known only to Alzheimer’s patients? But, the incontinent and impenetrable aside, I think the Cubans are on to something with their family-based aging in place.

Teresita was my first clue. Wide-hipped and curmudgeonly, with hair dyed the color of bread crusts, Teresita is my 86-year old neighbor. She’s the archetypical despotic Cuban matriarch, heading up four generations of females squeezed into a 2-bedroom apartment. Though able-bodied, Teresita never leaves the apartment. Despite her cranky, iron-fisted disposition, we call her “Terry” with affection.

Times are hard for Terry and her girls. She had to share her rubber-sheeted bed with her 56-year old daughter Lila until the latter emigrated to Tampa. It happened exactly like most leave-takings here in Cuba: here one day, gone the next. The space opened up in Terry’s bed couldn’t compensate for the sorrow it planted in her heart. With the high drama that grips so many Cuban women, Terry comes to me after Lila has left to say the only thing she has to look forward to now is the grave.

While her granddaughter is out earning her daily bread and her great granddaughter is at school learning her times tables, Terry is left alone. All day, every day. She’s locked in, but far from shut-in: perched at her window observing all the comings and goings, Terry is The Gossip. From her I learn a trio of young thugs are posing as public health inspectors, finessing their way into the homes of little old ladies, and robbing them blind. It’s Terry who tells me that Omara from upstairs in going to Spain and Yusi downstairs is dating a new guy.

“He’s black,” she whispers to me, passing a couple of fingers along her forearm – the classic Cuban sign for a person of color.

Like many white ladies of an age, Terry is a little bit racist, which is akin to being a little pregnant in my book, but I let it slide. She’s got over eight decades of memories and experience and I find myself heading across the hall to “talk story” as we say in Hawaii. I find reasons to knock on her door – bringing her the reading material she so desperately craves and dropping by for coffee and a turn in her broken cane rocker. Over tiny cups of sweet and musky bodega coffee (see note 5), she tells me about her brutal, pre-revolution childhood.

Rocking and sipping, she tells me how her father’s second wife, a wicked substitute for Terry’s dead mother, forced her to work beginning at an absurdly early age. There were the customary cooking and cleaning chores that every household has, but young Terry was also forced to take outside work, washing and ironing the neighbors’ guyaberas, slacks, and skirts. If she protested, she met the business end of a belt. She’s less forthcoming about her husband, who gave her one daughter and a whole lot of headaches. Of course, our conversation always detours to the terrain of her various ailments: stiff joints, failing eyes, and a chronic, inexplicable throbbing in her thigh. If I let her roam, we’ll get lost in the badlands of her aches and pains.

Then there’s Carmita, my 82-year old friend from Regla (see note 6). She’s more affectionate and sharp-witted than Teresita, but is a similarly iron-willed matriarch with a long gone husband. ‘Good riddance!’ she exclaims with a devlish smile. ‘That one was born unfaithful.’ Laying a liver-spotted hand on my leg she cracks jokes about macho men and criticizes complicit women in that spirited, pre-curve feminist way of hers.

Sipping the same sweet, musky coffee from the same teeny cups everyone has here, Carmita spins tales of teaching hicks from the sticks to read during the 1961 literacy campaign. With her eyes closed softly, she recreates the Bay of Pigs attack, reliving those tense days. Carmita can be mercurial, fluctuating between placcid and resigned, spunky and spent. Like Teresita – like everyone I’m realizing – her life has been peppered with profound pain and loss.

Carmita has her health problems too – arthritis forced her to abandon her sewing business some years ago and the diabetes is under control. For now. While she fries up some plantains for her handsome grandson, Carmita relates last night’s dream with that munificent smile of hers. In the dream, her recently deceased daughter has been revived, the cancer expunged, her lifeblood back.

“Give me a hug Mom.”

“It won’t hurt?”

“No, Mom. I’m good. I’m healthy.”

Her words hung in the small, dark kitchen.

“And then you woke up, though you never wanted to,” I say with finality.

“It was horrible muchacha.”

I can’t imagine.

Old Cuba likewise comes alive sitting on Evarina’s porch in Miramar. Homebound and 80-something, Evarina’s a bulldog of a dame. She’s from the Oriente originally, (which means something if you know the island), and once upon a time was a daily cigar smoker like myself. Her diabetes is having its way with her and there’s some concern she might lose her foot. While she tries to “resolve” a course of the Cuban wonder drug for diabetic foot, she passes her time burning up the phone lines gossiping about her sister’s new cleaning lady and the Braves’ acquisition of her favorite ball player.

Then there’s Mary and Esther. Debra and Julia. When I step back and look at the landscape of my life here in Havana, I’m shocked to realize that the people I like best, that are the most interesting and engaging, are, on average, 79 years old. Old women, the lot of them. Why, I ask myself, are there so many viejitas in my midst? Could this even happen in the States?

Gotta run. Carmita’s expecting me in Regla and has promised to tell me about when Hemingway was sweet on her, dropping by her work to flirt and conquer.

Notes

1. I had been here several times before, first as a volunteer in 1993 during the Special Period (which was very, very “special” according to the Cuban joke,) and most recently in 2000.

2. There are a couple of Cuban characteristics I will never get used to. Topping the list is the national penchant for spoiling movie endings. If you have Cuban friends, you know what I’m talking about. The other is eating pizza with a knife and fork.

3. Cubans’ life expectancy is 78.3 – just surpassing the US figure of 78. Meanwhile, 16% percent of the island’s population is over 60; this will shoot up to 25% by 2025. Cuba’s recently concluded national centenarian study is fascinating.

4. Fidel Castro is the Club’s most famous member.

5. The “bodega” is where Cubans receive their monthly rations – food and other staples provided almost free by the State. As I type this, the ration card is being phased out in one of the most radical departures for the Cuban government in recent memory (I’d hate to be the person who had to convince Fidel that cutting rations is a good idea). Last week, potatoes and dried peas were dropped from the ration card. Bread and coffee are next but won’t go as gently into that good night as papas and chicharro, I’m afraid. In Cuba, bread and coffee mean breakfast. Making people buy these staples is going to be tricky – especially coffee, which, like everywhere, is very expensive: we make one espresso pot a day, spending around $15 a month. Being that the average salary is $12 a month, we’ll soon be facing a national java jones unless other provisions are made.

6. Regla is known as the “Little Sierra Maestra” it’s that revolutionary. It’s also home to the Black Virgin of Regla (Havana Bay’s patron saint and closely linked with Yemayá) and many secrets great and small. You can drive to Regla in 10 minutes from downtown Havana, but cross the bay via ferry for a picturesque, enjoyable journey to what could be a small town in the island’s interior, with all the friendly faces and simple fun that implies.

1.How old are you, where are you from, where are you living now and what took you there?

Age 35, from the UK, currently living in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I decided to move to Malaysia in 2003 as I’d lived in Hong Kong for a year in 1996/97 and travelled around SE Asia and loved it! I fell in love with the heat, the energy, the food and the great lifestyle that is possible out here (not many places in the world where you can afford to eat out every night of the week).

2.How long have you lived there and how long will you stay? What keeps you there?

Moved to Kuala Lumpur in 2003, but spent some time away between then and now (8 months travelling in Latin America, 1 year working in Argentina, and 1 year working in London). Marrying a Malaysian next year, so we’re settling down here … so hopefully we’ll be in KL for a long time. (Not ready to move back to London after living through a British winter last year).

3.What do you do to make a living?

Market Research… Been in the same industry for the last 12 years… I’m lucky that it’s a job that is easy to travel with, and I’ve had a great experience working in Europe, Asia and Latin America.

4.Describe your average weekday and weekend day.

Average week day is probably about 12 hours in the office! Weekends involve catching up with friends, lying by our pool, or travelling. There are so many beautiful places close to KL to visit and the highways in Malaysia make everything very accessible. With the advent of cheap travel (Air Asia and other low cost airlines) we’re also lucky enough to be able to do short trips around Asia.

5.What skills have you learned while living abroad?

Languages (French, Spanish, and a smattering of Cantonese… I’ve been promising to start learning Malay soon)

6.What are you missing (professionally) by not being in your home country?

A better wage!

7.If you could live anywhere, where would that be and why?

Anywhere in the heat.

8.What is your favorite gadget that makes your work life abroad better?

I miss the Blackberry I had in London… No such gadgets for me here!

9.Do you have a favorite book that inspired you to travel or consider a different way of living?

Oh there are so many… I’ve always loved reading novels or biographies set in the country or region that I’m visiting, living in, or considering visiting… We were in Cambodia last week and reading some memoirs of people who grew up during the Civil War really gave me a greater understanding of the suffering the country and its’ people went through. In the same vein, I remember reading a photocopied version of the Quiet American in Vietnam in 1997. I also remember reading A Town Like Alice when I was a teenager, and then re-reading it when I was back in Malaysia… Again, enabling me to understand more about the history of the country I am living in. Isabel Allende is another of my favorite authors… Her autobiography (My Invented Country) really bought the Latin American lifestyle to life. Riding the Iron Rooster (Paul Theroux) was inspiring, but the descriptions of the freezing cold conditions he endured on his travels through China put me off travelling in North China in the winter!

Keffiyehs (كوفية) are extremely beautiful traditional Arab head wear found throughout the Middle East. They protect from the harsh desert sun and also do well in the bitter desert cold. They come in many colors, which often signify various groups and countries – the red ones are associated with Jordan. Most have a very distinct, stately checked pattern. They have come to really represent the region and are a symbol that is still a huge part of Arab life and a point of genuine, unassuming pride. Students at school wear them as scarves when it’s cold out, many older men wear them daily and they are found often in elements of design (like pink breast cancer ribbons here are designed like little keffiyehs!).

One great thing about keffiyehs is that they can be worn in literally hundreds of different ways. Often they are seen worn un-folded with a black rope-like thing circling the heard, though they can just be tied on the head, which is how I prefer to wear it. Now, some of you that knew me 3rd year in college, or that have done manual labor with me on an ASB trip or something know that I am a little bit enamored with bandannas. Naturally, I just as enamored with keffiyahs, which are big, pretty, glorified Arab bandannas. Awesome.

Here’s how I tie mine:

1. First, fold it in half to make a triangle and put the middle part of the big side of the triangle in the middle of your forehead right below your eyes.
2. Then, let the top of the triangle hang down behind your head and grab the other two corners.
3. Take each one and wrap it all the way around your head and tuck it into itself.
4. Then, take the part covering your eye and fold up around the parts that you wrapped around your head.
5. Tuck all the frillies into this fold, adjust and ENJOY!

My daughters laugh at my tendency to proselytize for less comfort.

“Having blankets on the couch is a sign of weakness.”

“No one needs to travel with a pillow– that is what backpacks are for.”

“Sleeping on the floor means you are exercising just getting out of bed”

“Getting used to sleeping in noisy locations will allow you to live anywhere.”

“La-Z-boy® recliners have done more to spur the decline of the U.S. than any other piece of furniture.”

Last week I found my people.

We stayed with a variety of expats in Uruguay, all of whom came from comfortable middle-class backgrounds in the US.

Uruguay’s winters  dip into the 30’s and 40’s.  That in itself is not so bad but coupled with high humidity and poor heating systems it makes for some long chilly months.

“You just heat up some water bottles and put them down your shirt when you are working.”

“I got a lot of reading done last winter spending 12 hours a day in bed because it was the warmest place in the house.”

“You simply wear all of your clothes at one time.”

And those are just comments related to heat.  Screens are few and mosquitoes many.  Hot water heaters are small and water pressure is weak.    Summer days can be scorching and with the high cost of electricity air conditioning is limited.

No one bitched.  No one moaned.  No one complained.

When I asked what people missed most from the U.S. the answers were:

Jalapenos.  Curry.  Sushi.  Thrift stores.

Nothing about comfort.

One American family of five (including two teenage girls) moved to a nice Uruguayan suburb and Mom and Dad immediately made the main house inhabitable by ripping off the roof and tearing up the floors beginning a year-long remodel.  The family lived in the small thatched roof shack in the backyard until Mom decided to have it flea-bombed and the family slept outside for a week.  Complaints?   A few.   But all said it was the most memorable year of their lives.  Now they have moved into the big house and everyone has their own rooms–they say it is pretty lonely.

A  couple hosted us on their  50 acre farm 10 kilometers from the nearest town.  Their farmhouse is 100 years old and very simple.  Hot water?  A dribble.  Heat?  From a central fireplace.  Insulation?  Not in Uruguay!   Only last week did they switch from cooking on a wood-fired stove to a new gas stove.

This couple spent the last 20 years in Manhattan with every comfort known to man.  They told me they have never been happier since moving to the farm and miss nothing about their former NYC lifestyle.

It is astounding to me how many standard creature comforts these expats gave up, and yet they never felt the loss.  In fact, it appeared that their lives are fuller since they have less insulation from the wonderful world in which we live.

I feel a little guilty for complaining that it took 3 months to get our internet installed.

Bonjour tout la monde! (hello everyone!)

J’espere que vous va bien! C’est la premier fois que j’ecris en français. J’ai voulu a l’essai mon français, et je pense qu’il être passe bien. Il y a plus beaucoup des choses qui ont passée depuis deux semaines.

(I hope you’re all well! this is the first time i am writing in French. I wanted to test my french, and i think that it is going well. There are so many things that have happened the last two weeks which i haven’t written about.)

Premier, J’ai visite a Dublin, Irlande! Il était fantastique! J’aime Dublin plus beaucoup. Il y a un beaucoup d’histoire et le ville est tres vieux (Il n’a pas les bâtiments haut, mais au lieu de cela, il y a trop petit bâtiments, ne plus que six étages.) Mon amie qui j’ai voyage avec est aussi Américaine et une fille au pair en Paris) Nous visite tout les places pour touristes comme St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Christ Church Cathedral, Trinity College, Guinness Brewery (quel est très intéressante et aussi, si vous visiterez, vous devez aller a la haut “Gravity Bar” Il est le plus belle place pour regarder la ville! et pour apprécier un frais Guinness

(First, I visited Dublin, Ireland! It was really fantastic? I love Dublin a lot, there is a lot of history and the town is really old (It doesn’t have sky scrapers, only small buildings no more than 6 stories or so) My friend that i went with is also an american au pair in Paris. We visited all the tourist spots like St. pattys, Christchurch Cathedral, Trinity College, and the Guinness Brewery (Which is really interesting, if you visit you must visit the Gravity Bar on the top floor, it has the best view in town, overlooking the city and you can look out while enjoying a delicious fresh Guinness)

Mon chose préférée a Dublin était aller a Howth Harbor et promenader a la maison légère, et puis, marcher sur les falaises. Il étais super et très beau!

(My favorite thing in Dublin was going to Howth Harbor and walking along the pier to the light house, then walking along the cliffs. It was incredibly awesome and beautiful!)

Alors, après la plus belle voyagé de trois jours a Dublin, j’ai rentre a mon maison et travailler pour le semaine. J’ai été un peu malade avec un toux. OH lala! et j’ai un toux pour deux semaines! Mais, je pense que je vais mieux maintenant. Malheureusment, il change a un petit rhume! J’ai pris ça des petite filles, je pense… TOUT les germes! eh, qu’est-ce qui vous faites?

(So, after a great trip to Dublin, i went back to my house and worked for the week. I have a little cough. Oh man! and i’ve had it for 2 weeks! But i think that i’m getting better now. Unfortunately though, it’s changed from a cough more into a cold! I think that i got it from the girls… ALL those germs!! eh, what are you going to do?)

Regaredez moi, je n’ai jamais prendre le mieux note dans la classe de Français – Il juste vous afficher que le ‘vrai vie experience’ est mieux. Vraiment, il est mieux! Cet experience a change mon vie, et il y a seulment trois moins depuis j’ai arrive!

(Well look at me! I never got very great grades in french classe, but it just goes to show you that real life experience is best. Really, it is best! This experience has changed my life, and i’ve only been here for 3 months!)

Pour maintenant, Il est tout. Je suis fini! Seulement vingt huit jours jusqu’à je venirai a mon maison pour Noel!

(for now, that is all. I am finished! Only 28 days until I come home for Christmas! woo hoo!!!)

A bientot (talk to you soon!)

Hannahrachel_ (sorry if some of the accents are missing, couldn’t figure out how to add them all!

(originally written on Oct 17 ) After one whole week in Yerukham, my life in this new place has amounted to small moments. These small moments have piled up and left me with bits of connection to a foreign community and environment. I have had a difficult time relating to community due to my lack of Hebrew and perpetual uncomfortability. I have found myself, a young, untraditional Jew with lots of tatoos, piercings and an unconventional Jewish background in a small, quaint, traditional town where kippahs and long skirts are the norm. I don’t know many people and in general have been drowning in my boredom and anxiety. After an entire day and several nights with no where to go and no money to spend, I found myself eagerly awaiting Shabbat. After an imprompt-do decision to stay in Yerukham, I quickly realized that my sanity was on the line if I did not leave my little bubble in my apartment. Shabbat would be the reason for me to leave and venture out of my comfort zone and break my world of boredom and internet t.v.
Melissa and I were invited to dinner at one of our six host families.  We went to the Synagogue we were instructed to wait in front of without knowing who was going to pick us up, their name, looks, etc…  All we hoped was that someone random person would see what looked like two American girls who were obviously speaking English and say ” Hello, you are supposed to come to my house…”  Hoop dreams I guess, cause that never happened.  We watched the shadows shift on the street and before long it was night, thirty minutes past the time we were “supposed” to meet our contact.  Desperately searching for a small bit of luck, we decided to walk to one of the two other Synagogues on the block.  No luck.

This is the moment when I thought to myself “Why am I in this God forsaken town!”  The streets were reminiscent of Jerusalem on Yom Kippur.  No one was out.  We could hear kiddush in the houses and smell the tasty meals we would not be enjoying.  We were in Yerukham, middle of the desert, closed for Shabbat, lonely and bored and stuck without a Shabbat meal.  At this point in the night the utter disappointment settled in and the last place we both wanted to be was back in our apartment.  So we walked….and walked….and walked….and walked….

We tried to get lost, but in Yerukham there is only one way to go until you literally hit the edge of town and the begining of the desert.  We walked the entire town and an hour passed and we gave up. Hungry, bored, disappointed and slightly frustrated, we went home. Our building was in sight, and we heard “Otzma! Otzma!” We looked across the street and saw a man and a lady walking towards us. “Shalom, I’m Debbie’s son. Do you still want to come for Shabbat?” “Hell ya!,” is what went through my head. We felt so bad. But it was a blessing that we crossed paths at the precise mment of time. 30 seconds later and we would have missed that opportunity. Apparently Debbie described where we lived and sent her son out to find us. Shabbat would not start at ther house without all the guests. Mel and I were grateful and dinner was tasty.

So it has officially been over a month since last post. A combination of crazy days, exhaustion and the untimely breakdown of my computer and camera, left me blog-free. For this I apologize. So it here it goes it a nutshell:
1. I am officially a master of the Public bus system in Israel. In the last month I have gotten lost at least once on a city bus Tel Aviv, Jerusalem and Beer Sheva,figured out how to buy a “kartis” per paid punch card for my travels and now have memorized the major bus lines and schedules to everywhere else Israel from Beer Sheva.
2. My Hebrew is improving at a slow rate. I feel little difference but the world tells me otherwise, especially Melissa, who relies on my broken understanding of things, although she can comprehend plenty on her own. I have a gift of speaking terrible broken phrases in Hebrew to people to get what I want while Melissa still does this in English. LOL, we both are beginning to study with our books and befriending cute Israelis to tutor us.
3. I have realized that my first month here was too much fun and I overspent myself. If budget what I have till June, I’m living off peanuts. So now I am looking for ways to make money and work in a small development town. I’m also checking out things in Beer Sheva. Problem is I need to find something that doesn’t need me to fill out papers or need good Hebrew. Kinda limits my options, but I am hopeful.
4. The kids are great. Everyday is a new challenge. I have developed some close relationships with kids and am constantly giving them a source of entertainment. I am always mispronouncing words and mistakenly saying something else. I also take out my notebook and write down the vocabulary with them. This is hilarious to them, but I explain that I too am learning a new language, and that I really want to know Hebrew. This usually leads to the creation of a test of some kind. They like to test me, especially spelling tests as most of them are amazed that I can write words close to perfect if I hear it clearly. I guess they don’t expect me to read or write at all.
5. There is less resistence to me in the class and now the “trouble” students are coming to me to ask. I have also gained the love and respect of the Ukrainian boys in the school and so now I have a steady crew of boys that follow me, work with me, flirt with me and attempt to get my number/Facebook, etc… I don’t mind, I clearly set the boundaries and they know, although they always push, the friendship is brewing. I think by the time year is over, I may have reached out and actually made an impact on some.
So add a plethora of really tasty Moroccan food and small town warmth and hospitality and that has been my month.
So far, things are good. The first month here was just preparation of the land, now I can plant the seeds and wait for them to grow.

How old are you, where are you from, where are you living now and what took you there?

35, UK, Buenos Aires, I got disillusioned with working for the company that I was working with in London, so I took a sabatical year, came here learnt some Spanish and then on my return decided I couldn’t face going back to the same or similar company so I decided to come up with something that I could do that I was interested in and could sustain me, so I came back to BsAs to set up enbuenosaires.com

2. How long have you lived there and how long will you stay?  What keeps you there?

4 years, 3 weeks (my Japanese girlfriend is pregnant so I’m off to Japan soon, where she’s going to have the baby)

3. What do you do to make a living?

I’m a programmer and have a real estate Multiple Listings Site called enbuenosaires.com

4. Describe your average weekday and weekend day.

During the week, Get up at 8, start work at 8.30 – 9am the actual works varies quite a lot although the main things that I do are: Programming, Business Development (we recently started a new commercial site with a group of real estate agents), Optimizing the site, Optimizing the processes for the site, Meeting with real estate people.

I try to have one day off a week, but the other day I’ll be working on the site.

5. What skills have you learned while living abroad?

I speak a little Spanish, my programming is much better than it used to be, also running a web site is a great teacher although I’m not sure if that’s really because I’m abroad, I guess that would be the same wherever I went or stayed at home

6. What are you missing (professionally) by not being in your home country?

I miss not working with other computer programmers, money wise I’ve taken a holiday, but I’m hoping to catch up in the next couple of years (fingers crossed)

7. If you could live anywhere, where would that be and why?

Perhaps turkey, I fancy a change

8. What is your favorite gadget that makes your work life abroad better?

A laptop.

9. Do you have a favorite book that inspired you to travel or consider a different way of living?

The Blank Slate – Stephen Pinker, brought it home to me how privileged I am (just to be alive) and how I shouldn’t just stay in my safety zone, but should strive to scare myself a little – hence the site and being in BsAs, I don’t regret that at all, best decision I ever made, regardless of how the site turns out.

I also liked Atlas Shrugged (what can I say I’m a libertarian) which was inspiring although I read that when I was over here

10. Other than yours, do you have a favorite expat blog?

I don’t have a blog, but I do read: http://meganmcardle.theatlantic.com most days

How to get TESOL certified

Have you thought about studying in Costa Rica? With the economy so bad back home and the job market not getting any better this is the best time to ring in the New Year with a life changing adventure abroad. Whether you don’t like your current job or are struggling to find a job, teaching English abroad could be the answer you’re looking for.

Do you speak English fluently? Yes! Well then you qualify. There are currently 30,000 plus jobs overseas for native English speakers.

There’s no need to get yourself down over the current state of the economy when you can actually take advantage of it. Let this be the excuse to finally take that trip to Costa Rica you’ve always put off. Take a vacation and pay for it by teaching English. There are employers out there that will pay for your airfare, provide you accommodations, give you free foreign language lessons and pay you thousands of dollars a month to teach in a country where the cost of living is likely much lower than what you’re used to. Teaching English abroad is an incredible way to gain relevant experience and do something exciting at the same time.

Sometimes people have reservations about moving to a foreign country to teach English. These people believe they will be forced to make a drastic career change and will never return to their original career path. This is completely untrue. It’s now a fact that employers in the U.S. and other countries prefer hiring people who have experience working in foreign countries and can speak foreign languages. The skills one gains by living abroad are extremely valuable in today’s increasingly competitive job market. Employers know this and take it into consideration when hiring.

In an economic downturn it’s common for people who get laid off or can’t find work to rush back to school. But before you put yourself in major debt you should consider getting TESOL certified to teach English and take that much needed adventure abroad.

Accredited English teacher certification (TESOL) is cheap, easy and takes less than a month to attain. Most TESOL teachers can make back the money they invested in a TESOL certification course in as quickly as a month once they’ve found any one of the thousands of jobs out there in over 85 countries.

Just visit www.globaltesolcostarica.com and make your New Years resolution to teach English abroad and live this unforgettable experience!

We had an interesting week of meeting expats on the east coast of Uruguay between Colonia and Maldonado and all have unusual stories of how they ended up here.

However, some of the most fascinating people we met were the repats– Uruguayans who have lived abroad for several years before coming back to the Uruguay.

Uruguay is a lovely place.  It is safe and beautiful with ample water and food.  The economy is fairly stable and overall the standard of living is comfortable for most.  However, many Uruguayans, like so many other people around the world, dream of living in the US.

The US culture is alive and well in Uruguay on television, radio and internet.  It is no secret that the US is the pro “lifestyle marketer” of the world.  American marketing companies know how to get into the mind of anyone who is looking to be richer, stronger, prettier and more successful–so it is not surprising that many people outside the US yearn to live there.

I expected the repats to be completely happy to be back in Uruguay since they chose to come back and, in general, they came back to a better lifestyle than they had left because they came back richer.  What I found was that they were neither satisfied nor dissatisfied.

Repats are living between cultures, not flipping back and forth but morphing into their own third culture of their own.  Their observations are fresh and logical, sometimes negative, sometimes positive but they make total sense (to me at least).  They have been released from the conventional wisdom of both cultures and are thinking in a totally original way.  They have abandoned the blind nationalism that we all have for our home countries.

All expats go through a process of adjustment when first living abroad.  Many find their new cultures new and exciting while others find them confusing and frustrating.  Repats, or at least the ones I have had the pleasure to meet on this trip, use their cultures as building blocks to a more profound level of thought.

Man, I have a long, long way to go.

My four-year-old said the wrong thing again to me today.  No, he didn’t swear or forget to say please or call  me ‘Egyptian Mummy’  (which is his favourite nickname for me at the moment).  He just said: ‘Can I use blue to colour this in?’  But what upset me was that he said it in English.   Although I was the only other person in the room.  And he knew all of the words above in Romanian.

Since the birth of my older son we have tried to be consistent:  I speak Romanian to the children, my husband speaks Greek and, even when we are all having dinner together, there are three languages going on around the table at any time.  (My husband and I speak English to each other and if the children share a story with both of us simultaneously, they will say it in English too).  On the whole, the strategy has worked well, and the children speak all three languages reasonably fluently.  Recently, however, they have taken to speaking English not only among themselves (which was to be expected), but also to us the parents.

I grew up in a trilingual environment myself, so I thought I had it sussed, but I find myself surprisingly unrelaxed about the whole thing.  I don’t want the children or us to get lazy and revert back to English, because it will be so hard for them to communicate with their relatives and grandparents in Greece and Romania.  I also want them to have the flexibility to live and work in these countries should they choose to do so at some point in the future.  I want them to be able to engage with other cultures at a deeper level, as you can do when you speak other languages.

But at the same time, I fear I may be doing them a disservice.  That, by insisting so much on speaking Romanian, I am actually putting them off using this language.  That, by refusing to speak English except for the purposes of homework, I am putting my son at a disadvantage, not building his vocabulary, not conveying all the tricky nuances of the English language, and – saddest of all – not sharing with him my love of the English language.

Because, if I am honest, it is English that is the language of my heart, even if it is not officially my mother tongue.  I live, dream and write in English;  I clothe my thoughts and feelings in English words.  I have taught English to hundreds of other children… but am not teaching it to mine.  My head tells me it is the sensible choice.  While they are living here in the UK, English will be their dominant language anyway, and I can always explain the mysteries of punctuation and grammar to them.

But my heart is always a little torn when they say something in English and I reply to them: ‘Speak to me in Romanian, please…’

Every once in a while I see a scene like this that reminds me that we are living in the Middle East.

It’s kind of nice being good at swimming here because it’s something that I can say I’m better at than a vast, vast majority of Jordanians. I should try out for the Olympic team or something. It’s not very surprising considering that Jordan is the 4th driest country in the world and has about the same amount of coastline as my home state New Hampshire (like 20 km). They do have quite a bit of shore front property on the Dead Sea, but unfortunately, more than a third of that “sea” is actually salt, so “swimming” is non-existent (but Jordanians sure get good at bobbing in the salty saltwater instead). Needless to say, swimming is not an integral part of childhood here.

I’ve had two great experiences with swimming with the students so far:

1. Puking at the Swim Meet. The swim coach jetted off to India for a week a while back and I was left with the rag-tag bunch of King’s students that calls themselves the swim team. Conveniently enough, this was also the week of the first swim meet, so I had the pleasure of coaching the crew in the first meet. I was nervous we would embarrass ourselves because there are very few swimmers who can dive, do flip turns and do all four strokes, or even do two of those. The swim meet day came along and the competition strolled in – eight feisty 8-12 year olds to take on our high school swim team. Why did they bring little kids? I have no clue, but we had to make do with what we had. At first I was a little relieved – at least we can beat little kids! And then, I realized, well… perhaps not. A few of the races went well, but the little people ended up beating out swimmers more than once, which was incredibly embarrassing for our high schoolers (some of the kids were so little they had to be lifted out of the pool). To top things off, one of the swimmers pushed himself so hard to try to beat the little kids that he puked all over the deck after his race, then tried to run to the bathroom but didn’t make it, puking and falling in his own vomit. After he did make it into the bathroom, he eventually puked what was left all over the bathroom. A successful start to an illustrious swim coaching career.

2. Swimming for the First Time - On Friday, my weekend duty was to supervise free swim. Three kids strolled in and one of them said “I’ve never swam before – it’s easy, right?” Well, I took that as a cue that I wouldn’t be watching from the sidelines, so immediately disrobed and hopped in the pool right away. Glad I did too. Even though he was tall enough to stand in the shallow end (though not by much, puny little 5 ft tall, 90 pound freshman), he immediately started sinking and drowning the second he got in the pool. I lifted him up while he squirmed and freaked out, calmed him down, and eventually set him on his feet. No, buddy, it’s not easy. It was fascinating watching him be in water for the first time – I had never seen someone so old experience swimming for the first time, and it kind of blows my mind that it’s not an intuitive thing for humans. He definitely didn’t get the hang of it, but maybe I’ll be able to teach him some skills throughout the year.

Wish me luck as I continue my quest to be one of the best swimmers in the country.

I am soon coming up on my six month mark of being in Japan. I’ve done a lot of things since I’ve been here: traveled across half the country, been in a major earthquake, been in a major typhoon, moved apartments, had a bike/car accident, ended my engagement, met someone else, broke up with them, got harassed by them, went to Tokyo Disneyland, went to a hot spring, rode the bullet train, stayed in a capsule hotel, ate raw chicken (as sashimi), got my first gray hair… it’s been a whirlwind experience. Sometimes I get lost on trains and can’t get back on track–no pun intended–for at least another 2 hours. That can be extremely frustrating when you can’t read or speak the language. Sometimes I buy a pastry at the bakery thinking it would make a nice dessert and it turns out to be savory. Sometimes I buy a shirt that’s a size L and it turns out to fit like a size S. These instances usually make me smirk a little because that’s the experience of a gaijin living in Japan. These are the things that will make me strut though life not letting the petty stuff bother me.

I just got my ticket yesterday to go back home to California and I’m looking forward to going home. I don’t necessarily feel homesick, per se, but I do welcome the opportunity to see my family (and what a great family it is), and maybe eat some real Mexican food. I also welcome the break from all things unfamiliar. Like driving on the other side of the road, or sleeping on an actual mattress as opposed to a futon. Baking something in an oven will be amazing because, quite frankly, who doesn’t like to bake cookies around the holidays? Most homes (apartments) in Japan don’t even have an oven. It will also be nice to fall into a pile of warm clothes that have just come out of the dryer. I don’t think anyone in Japan has a dryer. (I’m sure someone does, but that’s not the point). The thing is, home is home. It will always be that. I feel lucky as hell that I have a home too… I know some don’t. So I like to keep myself feeling lucky and grateful. I know a lot of people who love the town they grew up in and they’d never want to leave. Those people might say I’m ungrateful for wanting to leave my hometown. But I say leaving my hometown makes me even more grateful.

I’ve lived in three different cities around the world since leaving my hometown and now that I’m in a foreign country, I feel more at home than ever. I’m certainly not Japanese and in no way do I fit in around here. I was never really a Japan-o-phile but I always had an interest in the exotic and the world outside America, and Japan falls into those categories. It’s been a struggle to adjust to life here and there are a lot of things I wouldn’t be able to do without relying on someone who can speak Japanese and English. Strangely, though, I feel more independent and at home–with myself– than ever before. I do not feel that I have reached the pinnacle of self-discovery or self-realization by any means, but I do feel like I’m heading in the right direction. My future plans include living in one or two more foreign countries, possibly for an extended period of time. Depends on the country.

There is so much you can learn about yourself, your hometown, your home country just by learning about other people and their towns and their countries. My passion for communication and bridging the gaps between people and cultures has only been cemented by my experience living and working in Japan. As a teacher, I get to have some of the most amazing 50-minute conversations with my students. These stimulating talks are the mere tip of the cultural exchange iceberg. It’s times like these that make me want to stay in Japan another year. But I also feel the pull toward other countries. Like I said, I’m no Japan-o-phile. I find value in all kinds of cultures. The more experiences I can have, the better. There is so much I want to do, you have no idea. The best part about it all, though, is that I feel like there’s no rush. I certainly don’t feel as though I’m wasting any time, either. I’m going at exactly the pace I should be going.

I can only hope that others get to experience or have experienced what I’m experiencing now. I’m not talking about living and working in another country, specifically, but more the metaphysical and transcendental experience of realizing one’s own and the world’s potential. For me, it’s an overall satisfying experience. I wish I could share it with you, but this blog just won’t do it justice. I’ll still give it a shot, though.

We writers love towers. They are removed and lofty, closer to the divine. Maybe we believe writing in a tower opens our thoughts to the heavens, to the muses. Maybe we need to look away from our work—the tedium of language, the marks on the page, these attempts to quantify a life, life itself, and one’s thoughts—into distances, to see the bigger, wider view. Maybe we seek quiet and solitude to be alone with our thoughts, to focus on the words. Maybe we need to hide to create. The tower’s symbolism and uses—power, protection, lookout, communication, storage—draw us up the stairs, toward the sky. The words housed in this stone structure—the words themselves a structure—contain, and maybe disguise or secret something, maybe imprison, maybe let us watch for something else.

At the first of November, Susan and I and the children move up to our home for duration of our stay in a village in France, the château’s tower apartment. It is a proper private space about 50×25 feet with a fully equipped kitchen, living room, dining area, bath and toilet, two bedrooms, and laundry, and a huge loft opening onto a covered balcony overlooking the countryside to the east, north and south. A wood stove stands in the open hearth, supplementing the under-floor heating, and we are fully connected to the rest of the modern world with satellite television, DVD, and Wi-fi. On the other hand, the square holes for the beams of the catwalk ramparts that once ringed the roof attest to the tower’s former importance as a lookout post for the monastery that owned and built it and the surrounding residents. Since the 11^th century, when the stones were worked and laid and stacked up in a tower of more than 60 feet on top of a tall hill, Christian Crusaders regularly crossed this part of southern France on their way to Spain and the Holy Lands. Invaders frequently made incursions from the south—where lies Spain beyond the Pyrénées, about three hours drive from here—and the east—where the Mediterranean Sea opens to Rome and Greece, North Africa and the Middle East. Pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostella passed nearby. In the tower, we are the tallest thing for miles around. We inhabit both old and new worlds. We climb the thousand-year-old stairs, hang our laundry where the monks kept an eye out for Saracen raiders, sleep restlessly while the winds from the Atlantic and the white Pyrénées howl like ghosts, and wake to write at dawn for an audience to whom I am connected by satellites and radio waves. Weird.

In the Tarot, the Tower is a symbol of destruction, the collapse of the systems and structures we erect in our lives to make us feel safe, to keep us secure, to hide away our secrets, our vulnerabilities. The pictures from the most ancient decks show a stone tower struck by lightening, the people within escaping from the flames and stones in the nick of time, often naked to the storm. This is a mythology that explains those times in life when everything falls apart. When what we had counted on suddenly no longer is. Jung liked this symbolism, of course. He even built a tower himself, by hand. Our tower seems strong, even when the wind blows. We tell ourselves that it has been here for a thousand years. This is unlikely to be the storm that brings it down.

I have always been a weather-watcher, but in the tower, I find myself both obsessed and mystified by the weather. Up here, the winds blow almost all the time. The winds in France have names—Autan, Mistral, Tramotane, Cers. The winds that blow in this part of the Haute Garonne are not the Mistral of Provence, but they can be just as fierce, just as damaging. The winds that blow in from the south and west—from the Atlantic Ocean and across the Pyrenees—in the fall and winter can be very cold, very wet. In the first week of November, our first week in the tower, a series of storms blow in from that direction, sideways sheets of rain, sycamore leaves sweeping past our windows. The wind is loud outside, like waves at the beach or the blood through the heart and veins of someone under great stress, intense. In legend, these winds can make a person go mad, tumble the walls of self that holds the mind together. But isn’t that always the legend of great winds? The tower stands rock solid, cutting the yowling winds. We feel safe but unnerved.

Lightening does strike, on occasion, we’re told. It has hit this very tower, the tallest thing for miles. It strikes the chimney and travels straight to ground. It hits the satellite dish and, like an evil sprite, dances through all of the electrics in the whole château, blowing out the television, the d.v.d. player, towel warmers, computers, washing machines, an oven. We protect ourselves as much as possible, keep everything important unplugged unless we’re using it. Unless we see and hear a thunder storm approaching. We watch for lightening like those sentinels of old watched for marauders. I think of the Tarot card image, everything tumbling to the ground.

We find that the weather on the ground floor may be very different from that up in the tower. Some days we hike down all those flights of crooked wooden steps from the howl of wind outside into warmth. The wind from the east feels dry, though the clouds may lower and darken the day early. The clouds may part suddenly, blue skies opening up. Rainbows spring up from the brown plowed hills and disappear into lavender clouds. The snows creep down the Pyrénées as the storms pass, day by day, week by week. And then the weather turns warm again. We pick more of the tomatoes from the garden. My spinach and arugula sprout in the garden. We run in shorts one day and dress the children in winter coats for school the next. Who are we inside this tower? Something different each day. Something unpredictable as the weather swirling around us. But also something solid and unchanging within—is this the self? We come down to earth some days, and find it a strange place.

I move my chair and work table so that I am able to see the sunrise, pinks and oranges and purples and reds. I sit on the swing on the balcony on warm afternoons and look through binoculars. I point the telescope toward Jupiter so that we can look for the giant red spot, a mammoth storm that has been swirling up there 400 million miles away for thousands of years. Since the time this tower was built and monks in robes tended the fields and slept on boards without blankets and watched the horizon for danger coming. They sat, perhaps, just about here and watched these same stars. We look up and out for God, but isn’t that spirit also contained within these walls, permeating the very stones of this tower? The light I see tonight left that star when that lonely monk sat in my place now. When this tower falls, what secret minotaur will be revealed?

In this tower, though, I am not alone. James and Izzy and Susan are all here, and soon we’ll be joined by the dogs in our care. It’s a busy tower, full of life. My heart swells with it. The structure is sound. It holds our joyful noise and points it to the heavens. It draws the heavens down in bolts that illuminate and warm, transformed into dancing sprites. Change—even destruction—can open the heart to magic, to the divine within.

I rise at 5, as is my custom, to be alone in the loft with my words, my writing, my stories, watching the sunrise, watching for invaders, storing away the harvest for another, colder day. I don’t know all that is hidden in the heart of this structure. It has not yet been revealed to me. The tower has not yet fallen away. Change will come though. I know it. And it may be the change of a tower falling, some structure tumbling, a rug pulled from under my feet. It has happened to me before: my coming out, my brother’s death, my father’s silence, even falling in love with Susan and the birth of the twins, the total demolition of my former life. I have learned that the tower falling can bring new light. We can rise to the challenges, embrace the changes, move into a new world.

Sometimes the words build the tower up. Sometimes they protect the secrets. Sometimes they reveal them and the tower crumbles. I seem to land on my feet, naked perhaps, vulnerable. But clean. Illuminated. The words are just a tower. The life within the walls is ordinary and divine in the same breath, the same light of heaven. Stones may crumble, but the light warms, a kind of magic. We must trust—not fear—the process of change. I signal the world miles away. We are safe up here together, even when the walls come down.

Dear Blog,

Believe it or not (I certainly don’t), my time in Costa Rica is up. I have my bus ticket that will leave at 5:30 in the morning tomorrow, taking me from Tamarindo to the airport in Alajuela. I won’t get home until around 11:00 pm tomorrow (if I am lucky), so I have a full day of travel in front of me, without a doubt — and that is only with the help of my two wonderful parents coming to pick me up from DIA (hopefully bringing with them a sweater).

I think the snow that will be on the ground is the least of my concerns with coming back home. I’m going have to see how the broad culture shock effects me. It might strike in strange ways. For instance, I was thinking the other day about dishwashers and my thought was, ‘Wait — machines exist that wash all of your dirty dishes for you? And everyone in the United States has one?’ If something as mundane as dishwashers can blow my mind, I don’t know what else will be in store for me.

Overall, though, I am looking forward to it. The thought of being back in my home with my family and friends warms me up inside (unnecessary given the current temperature in Tamarindo). But what really warms me up inside is the thought of a little Chipotle burrito in my stomach…

Mmmm…. fajita veggies….

Sorry — I was briefly distracted there. I suppose there is a part of me that feels like I need to make this blog somehow more epic and comprehensive than the standard fare. After all, it is my last blog from this corner of the globe. But, the truth is that I would be better off spending my last hours here saying goodbye to the beach, rather than writing about it. All of you can expect a more conclusive blog about my experiences soon (though my next few weeks will certainly be busy ones, they will also give me a chance to take a step back from my experiences here and put them in perspective).

Brief update of what I have been up to:

I went surfing again, by myself this time, and while the waves definitely spent more time riding me than the other way around, it was a lot of fun and definitely something I will try again the next time  I have a chance.

Adrianna gave me a really amazing first yoga lesson. I’m not ready to say that I am a believer just yet, but my eyes were opened by an experience that challenged me both physically and spiritually.

Mostly, I have just been taking it easy here. There’s been lots of time on the beach, either walking, swimming or reading. I have been taking in some culture, eating at various restuarants and speaking with various people. I went to watch the Broncos game on Monday night in a sports bar and a man brought a gigantic, beautiful parrot into the bar with him. He ended up joining Michele and I at our table and was quite the character. I also ran into a new species of monkey last week, around town. I have also been pleasantly surprised by the reaction of people who I have spoken with in Spanish, many of whom have complimented my ability to speak more than I think that I deserve.

Overall, it has been a darn good last two weeks to a darn good little adventure. Like I said before, I will need some time to put everything in perspective, but I am sure that when all is said and done and I look back on my time in Costa Rica, I will have no regrets.

Now I’m off to swim in the Pacific one last time…

Love,

–NicoTico