Ithakas Teachings

Throwing Away the Tissue Box

2010-07-27T12:28:00.000-07:00

I guess there comes a time in every writers life where they just can't seem to make their writing work. Although I only recently started to take my writing a bit more seriously, the past month or two has been that time for me. Like a doozy of a cold, I felt the first inklings of it coming on right before I left Ecuador. As my A1 students shared their incredible written life stories I realized, once again, how fortunate I was to meet and know them. Being the teacher that I am I promised them my own story, in Spanish, yet I just couldn't get past the first page. As with any cold, my focus was the first to go. I wanted to write down everything, not miss one iota of my experiences in Ecuador. Even more so I wanted to remember the people; my close friends, taxi drivers, students, the children of the streets, the boy killed by a bus, the Colombian empanada lady, Piedad and Andrea, and fellow volunteers in their truest form rather than a nostalgic memory reconstructed from my desk in the US. This posed a problem as there was just too much to do as I closed out my year, so I kept notes-sides of pages, backs of books. Anytime I had a thought I wrote it down and many a bar napkin was filled to the brim. Yet every time I sat down to put these notes together my words would sneeze all over the page.

So I did as any new writer does and set a goal for myself. In my last few blog posts I wanted to move away from the seemingly narcissistic musings of my blogs past and develop a common theme that would connect the vignettes I wanted to tell. It was at this point that I wrote and published the introduction to this venture. In all reality I was doing what I normally do with a cold, ignoring the overarching problem, that of writers block. Who knows what it was, the end of my time in Quito or the integration back into the Bay Area lifestyle but the words were most definitely not dripping out of my nose as mucus does in the middle of a bad cold.

After many false remedies and pages of beginnings with no ends and ends with no beginnings, I awoke last night in the wee hours of the morning and felt the urge to put ink to paper, actually fingers to keyboard. Maybe it was the quiet hours of the morning and the anticipation of the first glimpses of the morning sun or maybe it was the familiarity of returning to a ritual long since past that let the words flow and connect. It was invigorating to finally be able to breath words again.

Not wanting to relapse I am going to take recovery slow. With my original challenge still in tact I am going to delve even deeper into the stories I want to tell. Actually do my background research and maybe even write second and third drafts. I want to tell, not only the story of the Ecuador that I came to know, but the stories of people that can give us all hope. Seeing as this California girl has what looks like a few months of unemployment to tackle, nothing could be better for a writer recovering from her first cold.

The Happiness of Success

2010-05-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

I recently read two things that intrigued me. One was an article about Denmark. Apparently they are the happiest people in the world. The second was Malcolm Gladwell's most recent book, Outliers. He outlines the sociological factors that create a successful person, such as the Beatles or Bill Gates. Both of these concepts, happiness and success have always intrigued me. In fact I even wrote a personal narrative, with the same title as this, in my high school creative writing class. It is the only writing I have kept from my junior high and high school days (this was before I had a personal computer of course). I wrote it at a time when I was not very happy nor was I on a traditional path to success. I've come a long way.

I consider myself to be a happy person. Although they may be extremely different than me, I have a strong and healthy family. My closest friends span the world, from Italy to Ecuador to the Bay Area. I also have been given and created multiple opportunities, all of which allow me to follow my personal dreams on a daily basis. In terms of success, I'd say I've had some of that as well. I've spent the years post high school educating myself; obtaining two bachelors and a masters. I've worked for a national nonprofit where I was the youngest person to receive an award in management. More recently I was honored with a Congressional recognition for my teaching. In short, I've made my loved ones proud.

But this is not about me nor is it about the type of happiness and success that the developed world clings so tightly too. Rather, I want to discuss these ideas from my understanding (biased as it may be) of the developing world, and specifically Ecuador. I plan to take the discussion across a couple of posts (if my computer, who is dying a slow death, can handle it) and interject personal examples from the people I have had the privilege of knowing here. This will serve to conclude my time here, reflect my opinions on my experiences, good and bad, and thank those that have supported me from near and far. I hope to intrigue you even more than the Denmark article and Gladwell's book,coupled with my experiences in Ecuador, have intrigued me.

The past and future of Ecuador.

Making it Count

2010-05-06T14:58:00.000-07:00

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

-excerpted from Frost

Sometimes I worry about my experiences here. I wonder if I am pushing myself enough, speaking enough Spanish, and putting myself in situations that are, at first uncomfortable, yet later allow me to learn more about the culture and language of Ecuador. I worry that my experiences in urban Quito are not authentic enough and I dream of being out in the campo and being forced to speak Spanish because there is no other option. These thoughts have been exacerbated lately by the fact that I will be returning to the US in less than two months and I still have a football field size list of things I want to do, experience and accomplish. That being said I would not trade the past nine months of my life for anything else in the world; I had a dream and I have milked every last ounce out of living it.

However my thought process begs me to ask the question, what is an authentic experience? Some may say that an authentic experience means being hours away from the nearest phone, speaking Spanish only to find that the local Kichwan dialect is more prevalent, that your literacy program for women falls flat on its face because the men of the town believe the women belong at home, that you are taken in and made a permanent member of a large local family, that you need to play futbol everyday to fit in, and that you teach English to people who actually need it. These are all experiences that fellow volunteers have had and some wear as badges of honor and all ones that I have not as well as ones I expected to have. I can call people via Skype from my bedroom, I speak English more than I do Spanish and of course more than Kichwan (although I do know a few key phrases), I've not started any programs to only see them fail, my family consists of more Americanos than it does Ecuatorianos, I can count the number of times I've played soccer on my right hand, and I teach English to people that are interested in learning it not ones that necessarily need it. Does this mean I have not had an authentic experience? Of course not. In the past week alone I was invited to and attended a high school prom in the extreme south of Quito where I danced with not only young drunk students but one drunk headmaster as well. I've been taken suddenly, along with my 3 compañeros, to the most famous street food vendors in all of Quito by a former student who drives one extremely cool 1970's refurbished van and then traded off singing English and Spanish songs at karaoke for the rest of the night. And my eight dedicated morning students performed a play of epic proportions (there was a duel with machete's and ketchup) in front of some fifty plus people; I've never been prouder. Authentic, yes, as I never could have dreamed any one of them. To say no discounts too many peoples lives.

Señora Romo. A very authentic woman and one that I learned much from.

The know everyone and their grandmother pueblo versus the isolating big city. A life of excess versus a life of minimal possessions. A commitment to serve others over a commitment to serve yourself. An education at Oxford or an education in the fields. A life of companionship over understanding every part of your individual self. Being a restless traveler over a proud one-city dweller. All choices and authentic experiences. To compare, to be envious, to desire is to take an obvious path. I, after many long years, have parted ways with my favorite Frost poem and will, in my last couple of weeks in Ecuador and upon returning to the US, continue to pave my own path and will not worry about any of it.

A Budding Romance

2010-04-26T13:18:00.000-07:00

I met someone the other day. A most unlikely of meetings as I was not in the best of moods. You see my school's administration had just decided to move me from a very nice classroom to one in the old building. A classroom that contains the stench of sewage, most likely because it is next to the dumpster, and three missing windows. A much better classroom than the other they said. I of course smelled a rat, literally and figuratively.

Upon storming across the courtyard and into the new room there he was. I had no time to be upset as the grin and puppy dog eyes on this particular boy put a smile on my face like no other, something my students promptly made fun of me for. At this first meeting I asked him his name, Mateo he said, and with a shy grin he reluctantly left.

A day passed and then another without any Mateo sightings. I thought I would never see this handsome fellow again and started to put the dreams of playing soccer together in the courtyard out of my head. Suddenly he appeared bright eyed and grinning in my classroom once again. While my students were working he hummed me a song while I drew him a card with his name on it. We were getting to know each other in the most strangest of circumstances. Yet once again he just up and left with no promises of a return. Although this time I thought I heard someone calling his name.

The next day I tried not to show my disappointment when Mateo was not in the classroom, I mean who hangs out in an empty classroom anyway. Acting, or trying to act, aloof is not one of my best traits and my students took the opportunity to make fun of me once again, this time asking me where my boooooyfriend was.

A couple of days later Mateo was back wearing a crisp uniform that most Ecuadorians are accustomed to wearing. This day he walked proudly into the room, looked my students up and down and then placed a candy on my desk. With a quick bow of the head he left once again, this boy was after my heart. My students quickly proclaimed that I officially had an Ecua novio, or boyfriend. No, I said, it can't be so, we hardly know each other, with a sly smile on my face.

That same night as I was strolling across the courtyard to meet my fellow teachers, who weren't asked to move classrooms I might add, I was blind sided by one of the strongest hugs I've ever received. It will come as no surprise to any of you that the person giving the hug was, of course, Mateo. I bent down and reciprocated and asked when I would see him next. Tomorrow he said. Bring the soccer ball I replied.

Mateo, the son of the Tienda owner.

Mis Alumnos Son Mis Maestros

2010-04-15T19:20:00.000-07:00

After six years I seem to know how to do this thing called teaching decent enough, yet my nerves still drench me on the first day of any class with a chilly sweat, the continual fixing of my clothes, a persistent check of my notes, and nasty thoughts of incompetence. During year one of my teaching career these nerves dilapidated my teaching and stayed well beyond their welcome. Now they start to disappear upon the first glimpse of just one student’s genuine smile, something that typically takes a week, sometimes two. This year, teaching in a new country, in a different setting, with a new subject, a few things have changed. The nerves are still there but my experience has taught me how to accept them and move on. I try to start to connect with my students and set up the structures of a hard working classroom the moment the clock strikes the hour. Wait, who am I kidding, the moment the clock strikes twenty after; we are on what my students call Ecua time you know.

The first day of my third teaching cycle, this past week in Quito, started as any other, a crazy, yet nervous, teacher in the front of the room trying to get her students to know one another and how the class was going to work. Usually there is an abundance of blank stares and glances from one student to another stating the obvious, boy, we are in for a long ride in this class. You all know the glance as we’ve all had “that” teacher. It takes about a week, sometimes two, before I have the students on board with the operations of a lively discussion based, curriculum driven, and community building course. This time around it took less than a half hour. What I did different in those first thirty minutes I’m not even sure of but in both my classes, two very different entities, somehow I had them hooked. They were laughing as if they were the oldest of friends, a phenomenon at best. Then I started to get questions, not the, “teacher, when do we have break or may I go to the bathroom” questions but ones about the subject matter, things you can tell they have been wondering about since the last time they took an English course. I realize that they feel safe, already, and I wonder what it is that I have done to make these first moments so magical for both my students and myself. I’d like to say it was my charismatic attitude but I think the drive of my students outweigh any teaching abilities I may have.

In my morning class most of us know each other but even the newbie’s are not playing the timid game this day, with questions flying faster than a cheetah can run. The class is comprised of the old and young, the language gifted and the struggling learner yet somehow we are instantly a group. They hang on to every word I mutter and work together better than the 1992 Olympic basketball Dream Team. I believe chance has played a card in this classroom, as personalities do not clash and the craving for knowledge is insatiable in everyone. This teacher knows what she has in front of her and begins to exploit it almost immediately. Six months ago most of these students were beginners and on this first day eight English language learners deconstructed quotes by Nietzsche (an Ecua favorite), Plato and Darwin (an Ecua hero). I’m in absolute amazement as I watch them listen, respect, perform, and question. They take care of each other, knowing full well that they are only as strong as their weakest link, which is Joseph a gentleman in his early 70’s who takes these classes to “keep his brain alive”, as he states.

My night class is different, the closest to a California suburban school as you can get here in Ecuador. There are four students that would be written off by some teachers I know within seconds. One young man wearing a permanent beanie and earphones, another larger man with a demeanor that would scare anyone walking down a street at night, a teenager with the letters PUNK tattooed on the fingers of his right hand, and a middle aged woman with the spit fire of a dragon. Experience tells me not to write any of them off; that the beanie wearing music lover most likely is an amazing poet, the large menacing man really is a gentle teddy bear, and the punk rocker just wants to be heard. And the spit fire? Well I know her needs the best as she reminds me of myself, all she wants is to be respected for what she is, an intelligent independent woman, so you boost her up and make her the classroom president (a must in any Ecuadorian classroom). Although this class does not have the ability, yet, to deconstruct philosophers nor do they have the collective curiosity for information like the other class, they do want to learn English. And, on this first day they show you the lengths they will go to do just that, by working together and performing short plays that have us all rolling on the floor laughing.

I look forward to the next ten weeks and know they will not all be as invigorating as the first. Challenges are ahead. In the morning I will push the limits to see how far the students can go in their learning, this will frustrate some. At night we will all battle the exhaustion of adding on a 2 hour English class to a full days work. I’ll pull out all the stops; work every trick up my sleeve and even so we still may get tired, frustrated or bored. But we won’t stop, not after the potential was set by smiles, laughter and questions within thirty of meeting each other on the first day of class.

Epilogue: Perdido en la Amazonia

2010-03-10T13:56:00.000-08:00

And now my personal stories of the Amazon are finished. Some of you may have gotten a giggle from the thought of me trying to talk to a drunk skinny Spanish speaking tall man, others a reminder about an important life lesson taught by monkeys, and still others recalling the confusing times of having two roads in front of you. These stories were all personal and contained life lessons that everyone must encounter, but I think there is something even more important and more pressing than the personal life stories of a girl such as me. I originally stated that I was writing to convince not to entertain or educate and that is what I intend to do directly now.

You all know that as an individual, I am personally committed to the field of education and limiting the effects of poverty worldwide but as part of the human race I can not ignore what has happened and what is happening to the Amazon. This place is not only a metaphor for life, for innovation, for progress but also a reality of life and of death. Every choice that a person who lives in the developed world makes has an effect on the Amazon, a place that encompasses only 3% of the planets land mass but houses over 50% of its species.The gas in the car you drive now or the 30 minute hot steaming shower you just took may well have been from the 5 hectares in the Amazon that was just cleared of its trees to install a new oil pump. When trees are removed from the Amazon people, very poor people, are displaced, as are animals, types of animals that you can't even begin to imagine, not to mention the ecosystems that die. These are irreplaceable effects that we can control.

Don’t get me wrong, I have and do enjoy certain comforts of life. In fact the last car I bought was a CRV, I am more than guilty of staying in hot showers for a very, very long time, and if given $100 to spend on anything I wanted I would most definitely buy things that I don't particularly need. However, now that I've been to the Amazon and I've seen its power and its grace I realize how connected all of our decisions are to the rest of the world. I see how very small this very large world is. Now, I ask myself a single question every time I find myself consuming or wanting to consume. It's a big thinking question, one that doesn't necessarily have just one good answer. I'll write that question down here if you like but if you read it you might not like the answer you come up with. Are you sure you are ready?. Are you sure you can handle it, trying to find and actually sticking to your answer is not an easy task?

Okay, here goes:

Do I really need this?

For me the answer lies in a concept I will borrow from economics, that of opportunity-cost. When you choose to do or buy something that will make your life simpler yes, you may be gaining time, but time for what? How many of you actually use that time for good rather than fill it with more things to do? Not to mention the opportunity-cost of those that are in the "other" world, those that are supporting your actions through their low-paying and strenuous jobs and that you rarely think about. I’m not saying conserving the Amazon is the only answer, although it plays a big part, but I am saying it is a symbol of something much bigger, a symbol that we are all connected, every single one of us. You, of course, need to answer such a question on your own.

I of course have a couple of suggestions to help you along:

You could perhaps watch a new movie, although biased, about the indigenous people of the Ecuadorian Amazon and the oil companies...I hear it even won some awards at Sun Dance last year.

Much rather read, check out these cool suggestions from a guy called No Impact Man.

Or you could spend your summer months getting involved like my friend and coworker did this past summer in the Brazilian Amazon.

Want to spend some money? You could get yourself some rainforest trees. How cool is that? "Yeah, I own some property. It's in a rainforest." Great opener, I'd continue to talk to you.

And, If you can get yourself to Quito, one of the cheapest South American cities to fly into, you'll only have to shell out $200 for a 4 day all inclusive trip into the Amazon to see for yourself what I keep jabbering on about.

The answers really are endless. What it really comes down to is choices. Everyday you are handed a million choices, most of which are designed to make your life easier. Today I challenge you to make a harder one. I promise you it is worth, if not for you than for those that have less than you and those that will come after you.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Another detour…A Pinch of Prevention

2010-03-02T12:34:00.000-08:00

After my last post on the earthquake in Haiti I've decided to bring the conversation here as a compliment to the conversation I've had in both the classes I teach.

Starting in 2000 I began volunteering at the Red Cross, first as an intern in the Butte County branch, then as disaster preparedness and first aid instructor at the Palo Alto and Santa Clara Valley chapters. Eventually my volunteering led to a job which eventually led to my first management position in a large international organization. Since switching gears and moving into the education sector, something I would not have known to do without my experiences at the Red Cross, I have kept abreast of the field through brief volunteering stints but mostly through the media and conversations with old colleagues.

From this I have come to believe in two things that guide my actions and thoughts when responding to natural disasters such as the Chilean and Haitian earthquakes, the floods in Peru, the hurricanes that will hit the Caribbean and east of the American continent soon and any other natural disaster that may come in one day or twenty years from now. First and foremost, natural disasters are the biggest threat to the stability of any countries people, economically and socially, no matter the current economic and social status of said country at the time of the disaster. And number two, prevention and preparedness efforts can and will reduce those effects.

Our current outlook on prevention must change. Right now there is no ownership over prevention and preparedness. Much like the US's current health care system, we prefer to pay for things after the fact even when we know it would be cheaper to prevent it, especially with disasters. That being said there are many individual and innovative programs out there in all fields, engineering, business, education, design. Who will step up to coordinate these projects, small businesses/nonprofits, and individual ventures? If they operate alone they will not gain the impact that is needed. If they become a part of a larger organization they risk getting lost in a bureaucracy (which I have seen too many a time).

Now is the time for a shift in priorities especially with two of the most devastating earthquakes in recent time still on our collective minds. Whose responsibility is it to lead such an effort? The government, NGO's, the free-market? Any bright ideas or organizations you know of already working on this?

Round 3: A Touch of Mariposas At The End of The Journey

2010-02-23T19:33:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up before the sun, a teacher’s habit really. This particular day I am lucky because I have company. For about an hour I listened as the monkey’s howled and the birds sang their morning songs until those same sounds woke up my traveling friends and the day was forced to start. Today is the last full day before we are supposed to leave. Right now I am watching my friends as they paddle up the river for one last canoe trip. A part of me wants to see and be apart of the river one last time, to feel my muscles tense while paddling against the stream. But a little voice is telling me to stay behind. It’s that damn cricket, Jiminy, telling me to record the Amazon in the only way I know how, to write it down. So many times I’ve ignored that voice and my memories have been lost to the creative happenings of my imagination or wiped away completely. So I sit at the top of the wooden planked stairs and I give one last wave to my friends before I let the pen meet paper and I disappear into a different world completely.

In the past three days we’ve taken multiple four hour trips up and down the river, learned to make pan de yucca in a small river banked village, raced each other in the ultimate of swimming contests across the widest span of the Cuyabeno, played Marco Polo with a few of the local indigenous kids, searched for pink river dolphins only to find a breathtaking sun set between the vines and trees, fished, unsuccessfully, for piranhas, found the red eyes of crocodiles by flashlight, canoed over and under fallen tree trunks, and took a night hike that had us acting like scared little seven year olds. The week, as promised, was packed with small Amazonian adventures that not one of us took for granted.

And last night as we laid on the patio, under the brilliant night stars, listening to Mariana sing Quichuan songs from her childhood and sipping our cold Pilsners we reflected on all these small adventures and what they have meant to each of us. It was the type of setting that didn’t need a lot of words; most things were said through our thoughts, the words of Marianna’s songs or the night talk of the animals. As we sat I started to think about the future for the first time in a long time. I wondered what I would be doing this same time next year, not worrying about it, just thinking about it. Realizing that I most likely would be back in the daily grind and wondering if now, after experiencing the Amazon and Ecuador overall, I could actually and finally make it work. I wondered if the feeling of always waiting for something to happen could be dissipated by rereading the words I am writing now, gazing at framed pictures of my adventures, or examining the knick knacks I have picked up along the way. I wondered and I wondered until the clouds covered all the millions of stars above us and it was time to retire to our netted beds.

As I’ve been writing this, two butterflies have been intently circling me and the book that I have been reading. One is a bright orange butterfly with perfectly symmetrical purple dots at the ends of its wings the other a small brown, gray and yellow one. They flirt with me for a bit, coming close then fluttering away. As I return to writing they also return, with one landing on my shoulder and the other on my foot. At first I sit still so as not to scare them away but as they get used to my body I am able to continue to write without them leaving. This is what I wanted in staying back from the final canoe trip. The silence of being the only person in the jungle, sitting on the edge of one of the most powerful rivers I’ve known, watching fish jump and birds fly with butterflies accepting me into their world. And then I start to wonder again, only this time I’m thinking of a different life, one of service, one of not returning to what was my home and of taking on the challenge of making a real and meaningful impact. I think of the things I would be giving up and I realize that the mindset of sacrifice is wrong when the return is a contentedness that may not be obtainable in the other option. It's a life few I know have chosen, I imagine a little lonely at times, but filled with the knowledge that you are giving to something that is far greater than yourself. A life where you wouldn't need to reread your written words or gaze at framed pictures of the Amazon because you are experiencing those things almost every day.

And suddenly, just as my friends return from their trip, I have two very different lives set in front of me. The only thing that can be done is stay another day, in this most magical of places. And I do exactly that.

Round Two: “I am sorry, but I got us lost” also known as, A Bit of Monkey Business

2010-02-04T12:15:00.000-08:00

“Stop!” Mariana says and makes a motion much like an Army sergeant would to look out for the bad guys. But this is no Army patrol, this is a stroll through the Amazon jungle and it’s time to look up because they, those rambunctious animals that are our closest neighbors, are there. Ten, twenty maybe even thirty of them jumping, no flying, from tree to tree. Talking to each other; no doubt announcing the presence of the humans so far below. The three and a half hour quest, including a brief unplanned trip off the beaten path finally gave this girl a glimpse of something she has always wanted, monkeys, real, out in the wild, monkeys, not to mention a reminder of a lesson of life that she learned a couple years ago.

As the trek started I didn’t know where to look; up, down, left, right, diagonal even. Missing anything was not an option for me as we delved, with our goulashes on, into the jungle for the first time. As with any group hike there were only two good places to be. In the front with Mariana, our guide, and her knowledge, not to mention machete (you have to worry about those killer frogs) or in the back of the group where you can take it all in on your own time. Again, I didn’t want to miss a thing so I glued myself to the side of Mariana as if my life depended on it. The deeper we went the more we saw. There were thousands of trees, short ones, tall ones, walking ones, crying ones; 12,000 species of them to be exact. Some are familiar, others, like the Walking Palma and the Bamba, which could rival any California Sequoia, are not. I think I am seeing it all but I quickly realize that Mariana’s trained eye from a lifetime spent in the Amazon is much better than my own as she points out numerous camouflaged frogs, killer ants of all sizes, trees oozing with poisonous white sap, vines that grow from the ground up, freshly dead snake carcasses, termite nests disguised as massive rocks, bird after bird and that elusive blue butterfly that people pay millions to obtain.

As we progressed I felt a familiar tug inside. Something was missing, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I felt a little disappointed but I didn’t know why. I backed off from the front of the group and escaped to the back where I could disappear into my thoughts and figure out what exactly it was that was bothering me. I quickly realized this was a feeling from my past, a feeling that I’ve rarely felt since I started, several years ago now, to live my life the way I wanted not the way I thought others wanted. It was the feeling of always wanting more but never seeming to get it, a feeling of not being content, of waiting for things to happen, of being a little trapped.

And at this point in my journey I wanted more from the Amazon, I wanted monkeys. This wanting started to consume me. I stopped looking at the other things and spent my time searching the trees for any sign of the little rascals. I day dreamed of making one my pet, of it becoming my best friend; you know creating all those anthropomorphic Disney like fantasies in my head. I was obsessed with seeing the monkeys and moved back up to the front of the group to let Mariana know, using a whiny voice that would make any Ecuadorian lady proud. And just as I was whining away the two of us heard something and I saw a large gray ball of fur scurry through the brush. A monkey I proudly declared and looked to her for confirmation. She nodded her head no but lead us off the path to follow whatever it was. A few minutes go by and there is nothing. My mind starts to wander back to the day dreams of monkeys, disregarding everything else around me. Five or ten minutes pass and I am forced to realize that my surroundings had changed, the brush had started to get thicker and the path seemed to have gotten smaller.. My instincts as an avid hiker told me we shouldn’t have left the path in search of the monkeys but my love of adventure, and those monkeys, kept me from saying anything. And then, of course, Mariana declares, in a sort of dejected tone, that we are officially lost.

It was at this point that I realized how narrow minded and selfish I had been in my quest to see monkeys. It had gotten us lost, in the Amazon, a stretch of land that goes through nine countries. I felt bad and forced my thoughts back onto the other wondrous things the Amazon had to offer, as Mariana cut through the thicket and found our way back to the trail. And, just as my mind started to fully take in all those other things again and the monkeys were forgotten, I saw Mariana’s arm motion to look up, and there they were. I was ecstatic but, as I looked around at my travelling companions and Mariana, I realized I was even happier at the smiles they had on their tired faces.

I think the Stones say the lesson learned much better than I could:

“You can’t always get what you want.

But if you try sometimes well you might just find you get what you need.”

A monkey, not in the Amazon but in a tienda a couple hours out of the Amazon.

A Detour: Teaching, Earthquakes and Haiti

2010-01-14T09:50:00.000-08:00

I have been to Haiti. Just for a day, but what I saw solidified my belief in helping others.
I have been in and have been rescued from a 7.2 earthquake. It created an empathy inside of me for those that must depend on others.
I have worked and volunteered for the Red Cross for 10 years. There I have seen first hand what people, rich and poor, go through during a disaster. I wish it on no one.

I am also a teacher, one that has decided to lead rather than follow.

As a teacher you carefully pick and choose what and how to bring in topics to your classroom. Some teachers will always stick to their plan, teach the Pythagorean theorem or the Civil war because that is what they know how to do. Others will preach everyday, essentially using the classroom as their pulpit to spread the ideals they think are right. Both work, but both leave little room for the development of a person, as a human being, in the interconnected world we live in today. What happens in the classroom when Johnny's parents get divorced or Sally's house burns down? Or a new student arrives from New Orleans after a flood or the world watches as 3 million people are affected by 60 seconds of the ground shaking? In some classrooms, actually in most classrooms, nothing. And it is at that exact moment of nothing that one of the greatest learning opportunities is missed.

Like it or not we are a connected people. I sit here writing this in Ecuador, about 4,000 miles from where you will read it. I just watched a TED video from India. Tomorrow I will Skype with my friend in Italy. My world is big, and it is in the classroom that I have learned to make that big world into something small, something that I can handle and be a part of. It is in the classroom that I have learned what humanity is. Where listening and compassion have closed the gaps between the rich and the poor, where action has spurred opportunities. These things only happen when you teach, children and adults alike, to have conversations.

These conversations have to be steeped in the lessons of the Civil war and they need to have the rational of the Pythagorean theorem behind them to be successful, thus plans are good. But they also need passion based on personal opinions and solidified beliefs, thus the pulpit is good too. And both need a purpose. When our big world is rocked by an earthquake that has close to 3 million of our poorest people suffering bring it to the classroom. Discuss the implications, have a conversation about responsibility, about poverty, connect yourself to the world by connecting to each other. Don't be afraid of differing opinions, of hurting someones feelings or hitting a raw emotion, those are what bring life to the room. If you are in a math class, calculate the cost of recovery, if you are in government class discuss the responsibility of the varying governments, in English, read the poetry of the country, in science examine the geographical data of the quake and its aftershocks. Show each other how to respond, how to be human and be a part of a world that values each other equally, that believes in the progress of the human spirit. These conversations are like newly planted seeds. They breed ideas and solutions but most of all they bring life to an otherwise dull drum of an existence. The implications of not doing so surround us every day.

Not sure where to start? Check out these ideas from the NYT Learning Network or send me an email, I obviously like to have meaningful conversations.

Round 1: Dear Saint Anthony, Nicole is Lost and Must Be Found, It's Been About a Month Since I Last Saw Her

2009-12-30T02:58:00.000-08:00

Living in Quito is hard for me, with the issue of safety topping the list. It’s not that Quito is any more dangerous than other large cities it’s the fact that every time I am about to do something some Quiteñan is bound to say, “Cuidadate, es muy peligroso”. It’s limiting, literally and figuratively. I stop doing the things that make me happiest, like running, volunteering and writing and more of the things that make me lazy, like drinking and perusing the internet. I lose myself in the dull drums of the daily routine, a waiting game really. In turn, my mind turns to a big mushy bowl of oatmeal and alas any focus I had of my goals is lost. So when I have the opportunity to dawn my adventure braids and get out of dodge, I do so, without thinking twice as I know the trip, lasting from one hour to a couple of weeks, will help me gain back the personal clarity and drive that were lost on the so-called dangerous streets of Quito.

You can only imagine what a simple five days in the Amazon did for my psyche, would do for anyone’s psyche. If you are at all like me, and I’ll willingly admit it I am one in a million, your imagination will go into overdrive the second the scenery starts to change and old Andean men, in fedora like hats, and barefoot women, carrying machetes as if it were the norm, greatly outnumber those in suits and high heels. And when you are greeted at the edge of an Amazonian river by a tall, skinny drunk man whose Spanish sounds more like that of a drowning sailor you know you are finally in for the type of adventure you have longed for in the past month, if not your entire life. Then, as you are waiting for the canoe to pick you up, the sun starts to dip behind the droopy trees and the buzz of the mosquitoes becomes loud enough for you to actually consider the fact that they might be able to eat you alive if not infect you with ten strains of malaria. It is here that you take in a deep breath, one that would make any yoga teacher proud, and let a permanent smile creep across your face. One that is so big your travelling companions ask if you have taken some drug that they don’t know about. You try to explain but you can’t find the right words and you are not sure they would listen anyway as they are, hopefully, starting their own adventures. By the time the long blue wooden canoe arrives the sun has officially disappeared and you embark down the pitch black river, encountering bats and the red glowing eyes of crocodiles. For thirty minutes you are forced to rely on your senses of hearing and touch than that of sight. You feel the humidity and are reminded of your summer in Pennsylvania, hear the river rushing and think of all the camping trips you went on as a child. Memories, that you thought had been erased, appear so clearly, as if they had happened yesterday. You are flooded with them, it’s as if you are dying and your life is flashing in front of you, most likely because you have to admit, you are a little afraid of those things you can not see. And suddenly, just as you arrive at the small, 10 thatched hut lodge your mind stops on one. The first time you watched Swiss Family Robinson, also being the first time you imagined yourself getting lost in a foreign place, happening upon monkeys and toucans that would become part of your family. The first time you realized that being lost, truly lost, may finally stop your prayers of being found.

Round Two: “I am sorry, I don’t know where we are” says Mariana, our guide will be out in the new year.

Prologue: Perdido en la Amazonia

2009-12-21T19:22:00.000-08:00

Part of every South American travelers experience includes riding on buses for extended amounts of time. Some people can't stand the lengthy, often times cramped and smelly, rides. I love them, so much so that I often take the seven hour ride from San Jose to Santa Barbara when visiting my family back in the United States. These rides offer a few things that one is hard pressed to get in a car of your own or even on a plane; uninterrupted time to get lost in your thoughts along with new landscapes to ponder over, not to mention time to read that book you've been putting off for a month or so (Mountains Beyond Mountains turned out to be perfect for the occasion). Two eleven hour bus rides through waterfall laden rainforests and a week in the Amazon provided me the opportunity to write quite a bit of those thoughts down. Typically I write to inform, sometimes to even entertain, this time the words that made it here are designed to convince. You see, I was lucky enough to see and experience the circle of life that takes place on the edges of the Amazon and the experience helped me to see how far away humans have stepped from that circle and in turn remind me that our natural resources can not continue to be taken advantage of. It is my goal to convince you to experience the Amazon for yourself or to, at the very least, help to conserve it from the encroaching modern world.

The Amazon, originally created in my head by my schooling and the Discovery channel was made up of dangerous animals and indigenous tribes that would attempt to shrink your head upon first sight, more like a plot in a Roald Dahl book than anything else. I knew it was an important place but never thought I would ever have the opportunity to go there so did not put much thought into its actual importance in this world. As I traveled along the highway and into the lush green landscape circumvented by small farming pueblos and waterfalls that put those in Yosemite to shame I realized how much of my world I was truly leaving behind. My experiences were not all good, it broke my heart to see a map of the Ecuadorian part of the Amazon with less than a 5th of the land preserved from human contact, about a third used for tourism and the rest owned by Texaco and Chevron. This was most evidenced by the oil line that followed the highway to the edge of the Cuyabeno river and the oil towns that would randomly pop up between the small farming ones secured by atypical chain link fences, keeping them safe from I don't know what. What was even more disheartening were the small towns that chose not to accept oil money but instead, cut or burnt down the surrounding forest for farming or raising cattle, in an attempt, I can only imagine, to survive.

Fundraising for nonprofits and selling history to teenagers has taught me that making people feel guilty will not convince them to do anything for you. Instead I will embark here on a quest to engage you in my brief story of the Amazon, to paint a picture well beyond what you can watch on any HDTV. I will intersperse my words with pictures but you must remember that my award winning sister is the photographer in my family and I, I am just a girl with a pen that only recently started to take writing even remotely seriously. I hope I will do the Amazon the justice it deserves.

Chapter One titled, Dear St. Anthony Nicole is Lost and Must Be Found, It's Been About a Month Since I Last Saw Her will be out in a few days, maybe.

Inspriration

2009-12-10T11:41:00.000-08:00

Joseph, one of my morning students, is one of the reasons I will never give up on my life-long and extremely difficult quest to learn Spanish. He is a retired engineer, and a widow with three grown sons. He continues to study English for the sole purpose of holding a conversation with his grandson who lives in Miami. Joseph started in the Advanced II class but was quickly moved down into my Intermediate II course because, although he knew many, many English words, he could not formulate a sentence. Here, after many hours of hard work, you can hear his beautiful prose accentuated by his obvious love for his hometown, Riobamba.

PS - This is supposed to be a video...it's not working...spent way too long trying to make it work. If you are one of my silicon valley peeps or any computer geek and you know how to compress .mov files and then get them uploaded using an extremely slow connection please let me know. I have about 30 movies/letters I want to send out to those that wrote to my students about their favorite places. UPDATE...got it compressed to a .wmv file and even got the file uploaded but then it sat in processing mode for hours...help me please.

Reality

2009-11-30T10:40:00.000-08:00

I fear I have been painting the roses a bit too red of late. In fact I think I may have led a few of you to believe that Ecuador is nothing but roses (yes, roses are their 3^rd largest export and cost only $2.50 for 2 dozen here, but that is beside the point). My point is, that you, my friends, have failed by allowing me to get away with the past two sugary blogs without at least one sarcastic jibe towards the silliness of the whole matter. I wrote about my love for a movie theater for god’s sake. Are you not American? Have you lost the ability to make fun of someone? The fact is

Ecuador

is far from being all roses.

I have been here for three months, chump change in the grand scheme of things, but enough time to set up a daily routine, start acclimating to my new surroundings and develop opinions about what I see. Now we all know I am an optimist. I dream big, live passionately and find the good in all people, sometimes to my own detriment. What you all don’t know is that I am also a realist. The realist in me is purely introverted and keeps me humble as well as serves to gently and continuously remind me that, although I might be having a good day, there are many people who are not. In the past I felt guilty about this and poured all my energy, fruitlessly, into trying to fix as many problems as I could. As I have learned more and more about the world, myself and human nature in general I have realized that I don’t have what it takes to change the world. What I do have is a gift for facilitating learning in those that I meet. So, although my calling may not be to change the world, I live everyday having faith in the fact that I have many opportunities to awaken the calling in someone who will, and that is enough for me.

That being said I have created a list of the top three realities that will most likely wilt the roses I have previously made blossom for some of you. DO NOT misconstrue any of this to think that I am having a hard time or doubts about coming, I am not. This is the reality of Ecuador and it would be extremely selfish of me to continue sharing stories of my own personal gains without including what underlies daily living here.

Number 1) Asi es la vida is not necessarily a good thing. Yes, at one point I said I liked that people don’t complain but then I realized why they don’t complain and have changed my mind. As of last week Ecuador was rated the third most corrupt country in all of the Americas, behind Venezuela and Paraguay. Although the measure itself may be questionable, corruption IS rampant here. Corruption can be as small as nepotism in the government to large debt inducing oil contracts. There is too much money in too few hands and the working people are the ones that suffer to a point of learned helplessness, i.e. not complaining. History tells us, especially the history of

Ecuador

who has had no president, except for the current one, last longer than two years, that this type of living by the masses leads to revolt. The signs of revolt are starting to show again with a few groups continuously protesting issues such as water privatization, the general lack of social services, and the influence of large drug and oil companies on the lands natural resources.

Number 2) Mucha gente...The urban cities are over populated and the rural areas are ignored. Transportation is horrendous, poverty is more than obvious and the average person struggles everyday to pay rent with most people working two to three jobs to survive. Yet somehow there is still a large portion of people that own iphones and Blackberries…interesting to say the least. Rules are written to maintain a certain level of living standards yet no one follows them nor is there a governing body large enough or void of corruption to enforce them.

Number 3) Muy Peligroso. Corruption plus poverty plus over population=dangerous situations. Simple Maslows Hierarchy of Needs here…if you don’t have what you need to live (food, clothing, water, shelter) you will find a way to get it. I have found out that when the Tienda lady closes shop early and Piedad has me lock myself into the house during the day something violent has happened in the neighborhood. Daily stories involving taxi drivers, robbers, ATM machines and guns are commonplace amongst my students and to ignore these, as some volunteers do, would be a grim mistake. You do not need be scared at a conscious level at all times but you sure as hell better have that stress in your unconscious or something is bound to happen to you. Learning to live with this has been one of the hardest things for me and has made me appreciate the

United States

even more.

So next time I write about falling in love with an Andean blackberry or how wonderful my life is, remember this list. And know that I purposefully did not write about each item in the detailed capacity that I am capable of as I didn’t want to put a damper on anyone's otherwise good day.

Do not stop thinking of life as an adventure. You have no security unless you can live bravely, excitingly, imaginatively, unless you can choose a challenge instead of a competence. --Eleanor Roosevelt

Upon Falling In Love

2009-11-22T18:10:00.000-08:00

There have been times in the past three months where I have found myself in situations that I do not want to be in, where I have been thrust into the throngs of a lifestyle that is not me. Most of these situations stem from my saying yes, as I should be doing, to most invitations from the few Quiteños that I know. The following is not one of those situations; in fact it is quite the opposite. I said yes to a last minute invitation that, at nights end, had me feeling tinglies in a silly place...

An Ecuatoriana friend asked me to accompany her to watch her Tango teacher perform at a small theater. The theater is one of my favorites. Walking in the atmosphere is that of a local coffee-shop with solitary candles on top of teak tables, hip waitresses running around serving mocha’s and wine, and posters of classic actresses headlining the movies of their haydays. Downstairs is one of two modern movie theaters that also doubles as a small concert venue. It was here that I spent the evening falling in love.

As I drank a glass of Argentinean wine and listened to the wonderful non-traditional Tango music in the small theater that sat no more than 40, I watched people all around me be in love. There was the new couple whispering sweet nothings and gently holding and caressing each others hands. The older couple, obviously still as much in love as the day they married. The wife of the guitarist knowing every movement of her husbands hands as he set the tone of the concert. The two German girls dreaming of the life they would have with the young, hip, long-haired Cellist. The Tango dancers, partners of nine years, that knew every curve and every movement of each others bodies. The singer, so in love with his craft that you couldn’t help but lean forward to hear every sing-song word that came out of his mouth.

And then there was me and I was in love as well.

Not with a person, nor a fantasy, or finally having a good glass of wine. It was the moment, the unexpected and new nature of my surroundings, the life and energy in the small theater. The realization that I did not want to be anywhere else in the world than watching the song and dance of passion take hold of the hearts of the rooms occupants. And I was happy and most likely glowing, as my friends back home would probably point out. But I was also content with the fact that the night would inevitably end, as it did, and I would return to the normal day-to-day routine of city living the following morning. Because, after having the realization that I did, I knew the next morning would be better, brighter and maybe even safer than the ones that had preceded it. That my insights into the hearts of others would keep me saying yes to invitations that may otherwise put me in situations that I would rather not be in.

An Ode to Dad...

2009-11-18T10:26:00.000-08:00

For those of you that know my Pops you probably know that every morning he wakes up and repeatedly says to himself, “I feel great today”. Growing up he would come into the room that I shared with my sister and have us exclaim the same mantra at the top of our young lungs until we collapsed into giggles or screamed for him to let us stop. As I moved into my tumultuous teenage years and developed a monstrous chip on my shoulder I refused to partake in what I deemed a pointless and corny ritual. Now, as an adult, I find myself returning to my Dad’s optimistic philosophies and muttering “I feel great today”, at the very least, twice a week. I attribute my many good days of late solely to this and even more so to the days that are not just good but absolutely and unequivocally great. These types of days are ones where I feel life rushing through my blood, where possibilities and opportunities are endless. I just so happened to have one of these great days last week..

On my way to work, I realized something was off, different if you will, as I stepped onto the TroleBus. Key word being stepped, as there was actually room to step into the Trole, as in there was not 100 people packed liked sardines in this particular bus and no one around to stare at my body parts, what was I to do? This was strange but I took it as a good sign for the day to come and left it at that.

Upon entering SECAP I realized the electricity was out again (here's an article about the current Ecua energy crisis) and I would have to walk up five flights of stairs. It’s here that some may say I’m crazy, might question my sanity but I must beg to differ. The thing is I’m enjoying teaching with limited resources, including not having lights. It has sparked a creative and spontaneous flair in me that I did not know I had and I look forward to the daily challenge. It also helps that not one of my students, or any Ecuatoriano that I know, has complained about the looming few months of rolling blackouts. They may have a whining type of tone of voice but they rarely complain, as complaining gets them no where. Asi es la vida. I like this.

After class I head down to Plaza Foch, Quito’s Time Square, for what is supposed to be a quick meeting with my Field Director, Kate. Instead her, myself and a 2^nd year WT volunteer visiting from Ambato end up having 8 quite fantastic mochachino’s between the three of us while talking as if we have been friends for life. We have the kind of conversation you can only have once every couple months, it’s deep and real. Over the three hours questions are asked, advice is thrown, pasts are shared, and futures are pondered. We realize how lucky we are and although all three of us may have taken different and more difficult paths than our parents or friends or both, we are happy and we all agree, quite egotistically, that we are better people for it.

From there I grab a quick bite to eat before heading to my two hour Spanish class. Here Carla, my teacher, pushes me hard. I’m writing, I’m reading, I’m asking and answering questions for two hours straight, all in Spanish. She pushes me well past my comfort zone and trust me every last bit of teaching karma comes back to bite me in my behind but it’s good and I am learning, a lot.

Then I head over to the South American Explorers Club where I meet one of my night students, and now a friend for a few hours of tutoring (English for her, Spanish for me). I first realized that I wanted to be friends with Isabel when she told my night class about her families’ tradition of playing chess. I’ve always been intrigued by chess and asked her to teach me how to play. We have been meeting every weekday since then, although we haven’t gotten to playing Chess just yet. Isabel is one of the two Ecua friends I have and she represents one side of me that not many people recognize nor appreciate. She is intelligent, educated, independent (especially for an Ecua woman) and mostly curious. She is my link to Latin America culture, sharing books and movies, inviting me to the Indi movie theater and her Tango classes. It is good to have a friend like this. It is on this particular day that she tells me she has received a scholarship to get her MBA in Italy and will be leaving in late December. I know what this type of decision takes and I am more than happy for her, not to mention the fact that I will now have a friend in Italy (riding bikes through a small Tuscan village here I come). As the hour of our night class approaches we hop on the bus together and it is here that the best part of the day happens. After five minutes of talking I realize that I have just had my first real conversation in Spanish. I didn’t have to think about what to say next, it just came. Of course it disappeared the second I realized what was going on but something I never thought would happen did and I was so excited that I almost made us miss our bus stop.

As is the norm in my night class, I put my students right to work. While they were working and I strolling through the room helping I was able to catch glimpses of the yellow, orange and pink rays of the sun setting over Pichincha and briefly casting a glow into my classroom. Only in one other place has a sunset and landscape such as this created a calming, reflective happiness in me and I hope that when I leave Quito I will be able to find that place on the coast of California again.

If this were an average day, my writing would end here. But you must remember this was a great day and great days rarely end after work. I meet up with Kate again and we head to the Mariscal, where the lights are frighteningly out but the restaurants and bars are lit by candle light, quite the romantic feel. We grab some sushi and some mojitos as we celebrate another friends birthday and I once again find myself deep in conversation. As the small group heads to Salsa I decide to return home as I haven't seen Piedad in a couple of days and I want to savor the day rather than drink it away.

While I'm getting comfy in my wool blankets I think about my Pops and how happy he would be to hear about my day. And if he were to ask me right at this moment how I feel, as he did when we were little, I would have no reservations in screaming back at him, "I FEEL GREAT TODAY, Daddy-O!"

Who are you? Who, who, who, who?

2009-11-08T13:36:00.000-08:00

Decided to share, what I hope, is a funny one with you as I’ve got a few long rants coming up on the brewing debate on the US education system and I thought I’d entertain you at least one last time before I got all serious and philosophical.***

As I race to finish up my Friday night class I pause for a moment to give myself a quick pep talk about the coming roar of reggaton, drinking and general debauchery that my young friends Tara, Sarah and Tara will no doubt have us partaking in.

The typical night out starts with me tackling the streets of the Mariscal toting my teaching backpack and ignoring men, if you can call them that, that shout statements I would not dare repeat here. I meet up with the ladies at some side bar where they have either brought along some of their students (strange I know, but their students are the same age as them) or have already met “new” friends for the night. We have a round of Pilsners along with some nachos, also known as a plane old plate of tortilla chips and share the weeks stories with each other. At moments, I am thoroughly engrossed by the things these girls seem to get themselves involved in on a daily basis, at others I find myself daydreaming about home, wanting a nice glass of California wine, the company of my friends and the humm of a small restaurant. As my normal bed time of eleven o’clock approaches I think about at least five excuses, all admittedly lame, to get out of the impending storm that is about to erupt in front of me and will have me questioning just who I am. I pick the best one, voice it to them and am immediately shot down -they know me to well already, I will almost always stay.

Moving from the bar to a dance club usually involves a loud discussion between one of the three girls, one of their “new” local friends or students and the bouncer, always ending with our group being ushered in as celebrities. With the Tara’s and Sarah you become the party, people flock to you, drinks are bought for you; new “friends” are made as “old” ones are thrown out. This type of attention I am not used to and I’m not sure I will ever get used to nor want to..

I make it through the night by dancing and hopefully finding at least one normal soul to talk with. The first of which is the norm and the later extremely rare but preferred. Let me preface by saying that I am not a dancer, I sometimes pretend to be but I am not. I get uncharacteristically self-conscious with my body, even more so when dancing with someone that I like or am attracted to. So I typically only dance when I’ve had a couple of shots of liquid courage and with strangers that I hold no attraction to. That being said there are two types of people that will dance with you here. One is the local who feels sorry for you and will make you their dancing cause of the night the other is the local who wants to sleep with the gringa disguised as the local who feels sorry for you and will make you their dancing cause of the night. To differentiate between the two is, luckily, fairly simple. Clue number one, you are repeatedly and insistently told you are a good dancer rather than being taught the steps to the song. Clue number two, somehow you are no longer doing salsa or Machala moves and all the other men in the club (again not sure if the label of man works here, especially since it seems as if there is an age LIMIT of 20 to be at these Clubs), are staring at the two of you with their jealous mouths gaping. It takes about one point fives seconds of seeing gaping mouths before excusing myself to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror I do a quick rendition of MJ’s Man in the Mirror just for kicks, wipe the sweat from brow and start to plan my escape home. It will take convincing the girls to switch clubs and in route, exactly as we are passing a hot dog stand, strategically mentioning the fact that we have not eaten yet. As we are eating our hot dogs with pineapple sauce, potato chips and pickled onions (another guard against unwanted moves) we will discuss the happenings of the night thus far. If I am lucky I can convince one of them to go grab a cab with me, if not, I am stuck out until one of them remembers they have a boyfriend and wants to go home to pull the late night US drunk dial. Either way I have to wait until I can convince someone to walk with me to the taxi’s, as walking through the Mariscal by yourself, after 9:00, is equivalent to walking through a lions den that has 10 new baby cubs in it. You just don’t do it.

Eventually I get home and race the suns rays to bed as I try to answer The Who’s question, just who am I right now? The answer doesn’t take long and I'm happy with it. I’m a soon to be 32 year old, living it up in Ecuador, putting myself in situations that I otherwise wouldn’t put myself in at home, doing what I am meant to do, teaching, exploring and learning, and loving every minute of the challenges that those things bring.

P.S. Comments on age, especially regarding extremely young dance partners and soon to be 32 year olds, will not be tolerated! I know, trust me I know...

Pobrecito

2009-10-28T14:01:00.000-07:00

As I was sitting in the back of a car with one of the worst colds I've had in years and two chain smokers sitting in front of me this past Sunday I started to do something that I rarely do, pool the poor me card. Not just one poor me card but a couple of them. The cards went something like this,

Poor me...Spanish is hard. Not just normal hard but the really challenging, makes me feel incredibly stupid, hard. I can't even remember the freakin' verb Hacer for god's sake. And I fully know that every time someone says I speak Spanish well they are lying, LYING. I can't do this, especially whenever I try to say something beyond Como te fue or Que pasa and people respond in English because they want to practice their English. Bullshit, pure and utter bullshit.

Which leads into one of the other poor me cards...

Poor me...what the hell am I doing in a big city like Quito? I should be in the middle of the country with pigs and chickens running around in my front AND backyard. I guess I am not such a big city girl after all nor am I a girl that does very well in the rain. And speaking of rain, why did not one single person tell me that it pours, not cats and dogs, but rhinos and elephants e-v-e-r-y s-i-n-g-l-e day here. It doesn't help that I only have one pair of closed toe shoes and no money to buy another. Don't even get me started on how expensive everything is in the big city and the politics that make it this way. Nor get me started on the black soot that has started to make a permanent home on my ankles from all the exhaust or the constant city noises that last until the dark hours of the night or the fact that my students tell me that I live in one of the most dangerous sectors of the city.

Oh poor f*&^#$ me...

As my car ride progressed my thoughts got worse and worse as I racked up complaint upon complaint about my current situation. Typically, during these rare occurrences, I give myself a swift kick in the ass but the optimism and creative problem solver in me must have gone on hiatus because I just could not kick the poor me cards out of my head. I almost cried and I carried my bad thoughts all the way into Monday along with the cold that was still haunting me.

Monday morning class was uneventful and as almuerzo time approached the black cloud was still following me. After lunch I headed to my extra afternoon class at Colegio Nuestra Madre de la Merced. This was to be my last class with the teachers and that had me even more down. I taught painstakingly slow because I didn't want it to end. This school, these people feel like home to me and at that point the only solution that I could find to my problem was finding a piece of home. Eventually the end of class approached and it was time to hand out certificates. As I called up the first teacher she threw herself on me and gave me a hug like I have never had before. I do cry. They cry. They take pictures with their cell phones. Each one hugs me like they were my mom. They thank me for being their teacher, for making class funny (which was really me just being self-deprecating), for being patient with them. They invite me to all their school festivals, they offer me a job, they wipe my tears. As I start to pack up one of the teachers brings me back to the front of the room, she says they have something to give me. She starts by apologizing to me that she won't be speaking in English and then proceeds to tell me how much it has meant to them to have a fellow teacher in their school. I understand it all and magically my response comes out in real, full Spanish sentences and they understand it and we hug again. She then hands me an envelope filled with money, a gift from them all for new shoes (or a bikini as one of them shouts out). I hand it back, there is no way I can accept it, teachers here make less than I do teaching summer school. They refuse and shove it back into my hands. I know I can not win against this bunch. As I head out the door they make me promise to come back and I promise I will. And of course I will, how could I not, they gave me my smile back. They kicked my ass for me.

And oh yes, I did get new shoes but not from the money they gave me. That money will end up in the hands of another soul who actually has real problems, not ones made up by a self-absorbed emotional chick stuck behind chain smokers, with a cold, in the back of a car for four hours.

A Hair Tingling Experience

2009-10-21T10:43:00.000-07:00

Originally I was invited by the Orellanas (Clara’s family – the Branham High exchange student from last year) to meet a Shaman this weekend. I was overly excited and obnoxiously telling everyone that would listen about my plans. In true Ecuadorian fashion plans fell through (it will be another month before I get to meet her) and I had to eat a little bit of crow. With my new found free time I knew I wanted to do two things, get out of the hustle and bustle of the city and be outside. The perfect opportunity arose when two of my friends said they were ready to tackle Rucu Pichincha, the same 15,500 foot mountain I climbed about a month ago. Now these two girls are not the hiking type nor are they the resourceful type and I was a bit worried about them taking on the mountain by themselves so I offered to show them the way. Armed with layers, lots of water and some sandwiches we head up the Teleferiqo and start our ascent up the mountain. At the start the weather was warm, sometimes even sweatingly hot, a welcome respite from the torrential rain Quito’s been having of late.

From PichinchaTakeTwo

As we slowly progress up the trail, taking care to recognize any signs of altitude sickness or major change in the weather, we get to the point where the formal trail ends and the hard part begins. I take the lead trying to remember how I had gotten across and up the rocks and sand the previous time. Of course I take us up the harder route and, as we are struggling to climb up sand, a local Ecuatoriana motions for us to cut across and follow her as she knows an easier way. The local and I chat (in Spanish mind you) as she waits for her boyfriend and I wait for my friends to catch up. I instantly feel a connection to her and realize that she would be a great friend to have in Quito. She shows me the best route up and the girls and I start the last and most dangerous part of the journey to the top.

We traverse a couple of sketchy rocks and reach the top, this time being more magical for me as I actually (thought) I had time to take in the view and ponder the magnitude of such a volcanic mountain. Here is where the story shifts from a normal everyday hike to one of danger, adventure and fear.

As I am off pondering the meaning of life, both Sarah and Tara exclaim that they are feeling a tingling in their hair. I think nothing of this as both have had tinglings, weird feelings, pains and aches all day long. In the matter of a few seconds of them proclaiming this several things happen. One, the Ecuatoriana and her boyfriend arrive at the top. Next, thunder rattles the entire mountain, lightning strikes inches from us (the source of the tingling) and it starts to snow. Now I know last time I said it hailed, and it did, but only for fifteen minutes and the hail melted the second it touched the ground. This snow was different. It was an instant flurry of not snow flakes but snow balls, the size of grapes, okay an exaggeration, more like the size of luscious blueberries. The boyfriend immediately says “VAMOS!” and, as all five of us look into each others scared eyes, we realize the severity of the situation. The thunder is not stopping, it is bone rattling and after each rumble lightning strikes so close to us that we could probably reach out and touch it if not get struck by it. The Ecuatoriana and I make eye contact and we decide, without words, that I will lead the route down as she makes sure the girls and her guy keep the pace as fast as possible without slipping and subsequently tumbling to a 15,500 foot death.

I am scared but surprisingly not for myself. I’m more worried about my friends who don’t have gloves and could easily get frostbite. My gloved hands were instantly frozen when the snow started and these were gloves that kept me warm through the torrential downpours of Machu Picchu (the last time I was caught in the rath of mother nature only that time there were porters and guides leading us to dry areas and keeping us safe).

For some odd reason (probably because of all my Red Cross training or maybe because I was wearing my Red Cross t-shirt) I stay calm and at one point develop an on the spot emergency action plan if one of us happens to get struck by lightning or slips down the mountain. For a good five minutes I grappled with the notion of sheltering in place under an overhang of rocks because of the lightening but decided against it because there was no end to the clouds in sight and my friends did not have the clothes to withstand the cold. There were points where the thunder shook the mountain so hard that rocks were shaken from their long standing homes and tumbled down the mountain, one of which knicked Tara’s ear. Within fifteen minutes there was a good inch of snow on the ground and after thirty minutes about four. Luckily this made skiing down the sand portion of the mountain, now snow portion that much easier and under different circumstances might have even been a little fun. After an hour of slipping and sliding, lightning dodging and shoe skiing we make it to a point where we can slow our pace. My adrenaline is still pumping but it is not enough to realize that I have a shooting pain running from my right knee to my ankle amplified more and more by the freezing temperature. I have to dig deep, real deep to keep my pain under wraps as I know my friends, who have been doing surprisingly well considering the circumstances, will come unraveled if I say I can not go on. It is the Ecuatoriana, my angel, who realizes something is wrong with me and quietly makes her way to my side where she whispers the motivating words I need to hear to go on. Her boyfriend also needs these whispers and the two fall back a few minutes behind us.

After an hour and a half the three of us reach the Teleferiqo, soaked to the core. We jump on the first gondola and make our way down as Inca Rici, the Ecua sun god, ironically decides to break the clouds. We are in one piece, shaken, and wet but thankful for our lives and for the grand story we have to tell our family and friends. My one regret, I did not get the Ecuatoriana’s name or phone number, a true sign that I had an angel looking after me yesterday.

From Drop Box

As the seven o´clock bell tolls

2009-10-14T08:15:00.001-07:00

To awake at the early hour of five o’clock means that you will inevitably stumble into the bathroom in such a dreamy state that you will forget, time and time again what it means to work the shower in this country. Your dreams are instantly swept away when you realize how scalding hot the water is. This prompts you to turn the knob more than the millimeter needed to cool it down and once again you are shocked into awareness only this time by the frigid stream coming down upon you. It takes about a minute of the millimeter scramble to get to the perfect temperature although by this time only a dribble of water escapes from the shower head and it is easier to turn the water off and on as needed.

In racing out the door you mutter something about having a good day to Piedad and Andrea. Always a little awkwardly as it has been a very long time since other people have lived the early morning hours of a teacher with you, so much so that you do not remember quite how to navigate the social norms of a sleepy morning.
As you step out your gate the moon, in a sunny sky, is just about to disappear behind the mountain you have previously climbed serving as a reminder that no matter how challenging the day may be you have had harder and you have always made do with a smile on your face.

The walk you are about to take has two parts to it. The first takes on the purpose of personal and peaceful reflection, two things that are hard to find a time and a place for. You have six blocks of downward zig zags through, what seems to be, Quito’s only quiet neighborhood, the only thing breaking the silence being the clippity clop of your outrageously trendy, extremely uncomfortable but culturally necessary shoes. Of which, alert the attack Chihuahuas that you swear will one day squeeze through their abodes fences and bite you with the veracity of a hungry hyena. As you approach the park and hear the church bells toll 6:30 you pick up your pace and prepare yourself for the second part of your journey.

It is here that you reach the streets with a never ending sea of blue busses, whistling policeman and the general bustle of many people holding the same purpose as you, to get to work on time. It is also here that you encounter the first challenge of the day, tackling the broken, often wet, pavement in the aforementioned outrageously trendy, extremely uncomfortable but culturally necessary shoes. You swear that the quick side steps and painful ankle rolls will either replace your klutzy nature with the poise you always wished you had or land you in the hospital with two broken femurs. You also have to contend with the constant stream of black diesel exhaust and young men who apparently have nothing better to do at 6:30 in the morning than to cat call and pst pst you.

And as you finally reach El Trole, or metro line, you realize how painstakingly insignificant you actually are. Where a seemingly nice old lady shoves you with the force of a gorilla into the bus, a tall mans behind nestles itself oh so serendipitously into the curve of your back and your breasts somehow seem to be in direct proximity and view of a man that has no problem with it. As your muscles constrict and contract with every swaying stop you remind yourself of the mountain and grasp inwardly for the peace of the first part of your morning. Finally you reach La “Y” stop and practically run the two blocks to SECAP where you brave the elevator five floors and greet the smiling faces of your students as the seven church bells start to chime.

A Clearing Amongst the Clouds

2009-10-04T14:22:00.000-07:00

The whirlwind that is learning, adapting and assimilating to a new culture, a new place, calms a bit in the classroom. Not to say there are not minor rain showers here and there but in the classroom I know how to handle them, which is in stark contrast to the lightning that strikes in the streets of Quito. The classroom is my home, my comfort. I am baffled at the resilience of my compadres, who are, not only taking in this new place but learning to teach at the same time. I would get swept away in the winds of the hurricane if I had to juggle both.

Although the norms are different, the people, the conversations, the learning, the laughing are the same in any classroom. They create a calmness -an acceptance in the optimism of humanity- in me. It is here that I can shed my raincoat, figuratively and literally. No matter if I am teaching suburban high schoolers in the US, orphaned boys in Guatemala city, high school teachers and nuns at a catholic high school, or young adults seeking to advance themselves in a classicist society, I am safe in the storm shelter that is my classroom. I learn from my students, they learn from me. We work together to create a clearing in the clouds, to see glimpses of the sun. And although that sun might only show itself for a second here or a minute there it is enough to give me the strength to brave the storm that I must face when I close the classroom door for the night.

Buen Provencho!

2009-09-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

Imagine this, you wake up in the morning, clean yourself up and, as you are putting that last arm into your shirt, you are greeted by your house Mom asking how you slept and if you are ready for breakfast. Am I ready for breakfast?! Of course I am ready for breakfast and of course I slept well because I was dreaming of, not only breakfast but all the mouth watering foods I will encounter in the coming day. And if breakfast continues to have freshly squeezed juices from fruits with names I can not pronounce nor spell I may just have to give you repeated hugs in addition to the many “muy buenos” and “me gustos” I give you throughout the meal, even if that makes you think I am an even crazier American.

Then, as you are sitting through a training on no sé cuanto, you start to ponder your options for lunch, almuerzo de Indian, de Cubano, de Italiano, and most importantly de tipico all of which include a sumptuous sopa, meat, rice, and plantains, and all of which are generally under $3.00. This is heaven, pure unadulterated heaven. And if you want to go even cheaper than $3.00 you can get an Empanada de Argentina oozing with the creamiest of cheeses and slices of succulent jamon for just $1. One freaking dollar! And the restaurant is located just a hop skip and a jump from your afternoon Spanish class leaving you with a few minutes to catch up on some emails before being slammed with verb after verb after irregular verb.

As you wrap up your 10 hour day you realize that no matter if you go out with your fellow volunteers for drinks or you hop straight onto the Trans Planeta bus you will have a hot plate of food prepared for you the second you put the key in the lock of your new home. Not one day has gone by without a new dish to be had. From Muchines (fried yucca w/ cheese in the middle) to shrimp frittatas, or the most amazing ceviche, to a plain old plate of rice and lentils, you eat it all. Your favorites are the sopas. Personally you have barely mastered the making of one soup, Piedad, on the other hand, has at least ten under her belt. Man, the smells alone make your mouth water more than Marmaduke the dog.

And if by chance you are not home for weekend desayuno or almuerzo, you still know that this country will not let your foodie cravings down. It will surprise you with a fresh out of the oven creamy chocolate brownie, better than any you have ever had before. Then it will bring you a plate of ox tail that you can not eat fast enough. Oh the life, the life.

Now, this friends is what we call being food spoiled. There are no if’s and’s or but’s about it. To clear my conscious of any guilt associated with being food spoiled I offer to do the dishes every meal. It’s my hope that if I do enough of them that maybe just maybe I’ll be invited into Piedad’s kitchen and she will teach me how to make these foods that I know will haunt my taste buds for the rest of my life.

Once Upon Banos…

2009-09-15T12:06:00.001-07:00

Wake up. Eat. Miss the bus. Catch the next bus. Attend teacher training for three hours. Have lunch. Scramble to finish Spanish homework. Attend Spanish class. Attend second teacher training, this time only two hours. Take taxi home. Eat dinner. Prepare for the next day. Sleep. Rinse and repeat for two weeks.

Then comes four days in Banos. Four girls, with their weekend packs strapped securely to their backs run for the last day bus to Banos, a gem of a city about three hours south of Quito. Their first trip on their own. All the travel warnings and security talks of the past two weeks in the back of their minds but not holding them back from immersing themselves in a new place and new people.

The bus stops at every small town on the way. Picking up and dropping off people at places that make no sense to the girls but all the sense to those that do it on a regular basis. Then there are the sellers of goods that screech out, “Helado” “Cola y agua” “Mandarins” “Pollo Caliente” “Empenadas” Up and down the bus they go, back and forth, the notion of the girls catching up on sleep hindered by their persistent voices and the smells of freshly made goodies.

Flat town upon flat town blend together into fields of fruits and vegetables that eventually turn into mountains filled with the same fields of fruits and vegetables climbing up their sides. Then, as they turn a sharp corner, they come upon it. A valley amidst mountains that touch the clouds. A dream come true. A loss of breath. Banos.

As the bus arrives in the 7, or so, blocks of a city the girls immediately feel a peace about them. The constant crashing sounds and ever present pollution of Quito will not be missed on this long weekend. Replaced instead by a terrace on the rooftop of their hostal that gives them a view of the mountains they will climb, the waterfalls they will ponder over and a place to drink beers with new friends from around as far away as Australia and as close as Banos itself.

The clouds start to pour over the railing of the terrace and the possibility of rain is now a fact the four girls make plans for the next four days: horseback riding, hiking, jumping off bridges, eating, dancing, singing, staying out late, pushing limits that they did not know were ever set. Plain and simple exploring at its finest and cheapest. And they do it all. Not slowing down for a second until they return to the bus terminal on the fourth day.

And as they return to a new and busier schedule - wake up, eat, try to workout, catch the bus, attend teacher training, eat lunch, finish Spanish homework, attend Spanish class, attend teacher training, teach two hour English class, take taxi home, eat dinner, plan lesson for next day, prepare for next day, sleep, rinse and repeat - they now have a place to escape to when the big city gets too much.

Upon committing the ultimate sin in Ecuador, maybe even all of Latin America.

2009-09-07T11:35:00.000-07:00

The day started early, we grabbed a bus up to Papallachta, a small tourist town, about two hours out of Quito. About a half hour in the scenery changed from the most extremes of urban settings to the greenest of rural mountains. Mountains within mountains with eucalyptus trees flowing back and forth with the wind. The standard brick house turning into the sparse thatched house within minutes.

As we reach Papallachta and turn down a dirt road, we pass a small town, the actual town of Papallachta, then an out of place hotel that will come into play later and into a parking lot for the hot springs the town is known for. Almost immediately a group of us head straight back down to the town, where one of the three restaurants is serving almuerzo de trucha (trout). I imagine that most of you would turn right back around once you entered the shack of a restaurant but, as I am learning, the shabbier the building and the more kids running around the better the food. I opted for the grilled trout rather than the fried most others chose. The fish mesmerizing me by its ability to melt in my mouth and the only thought going through my mind is that it could only be better if I had caught it, hook line and sinker, myself. No sin but eating too much was committed on this part of the journey.

From there we head out on a hike through a small farming valley with llamas and cows as our companions. California poppies, bright green plants and small subsistence farms along with small puddles on the driven road are our setting for the initial hike up. Upon a few missed turns we realize we have missed the actual hiking path and back track to the path down. It is here we understand the true beauty of where we were. A fast running river with waterfalls pouring into it accompanied by a group of new friends and ton’s of places to stop and take pictures made this my favorite part of the day. There was no way any sins could be committed amongst this type of beauty (minus the oil pipes running along one of the mountains and the two llamas who were getting a little too cozy with each other).

By now we were all tired and ready to join the group who had gone straight to the hot springs. In the States hot springs consist of pools of water that you can barely stand because of the sulphor smell. Not true here. The pool we were at was surrounded by rocks with small amounts of warm clean smelling water flowing in at several places. In addition the aforementioned river flowed along one side of the pool and served as a challenge to many, including myself, who wanted to test their limits of jumping from calm and warm to shocking and ice cold. Many “hace frios” plus some additional choice words were screamed out by all who attempted the challenge yet still no known sin was committed as a soft mist started to come down on us.

Here we return to the out of place hotel that charges way too much for Ecuadorean standards but would be considered a find in the United States. Said hotel has a bar, at which many of us have plopped down to watch our first in-country futbol game of Ecuador versus Columbia on the flat screen television. As the game progresses the bar seems to bulge with more and more people. The American tourists, the rich Ecuadorean families on vacation, the locals that work at the hotel all vying for Ecuador’s win over Columbia, as a win would put Ecuador in a qualifying position for the World Cup. If you haven’t figured it out the place was packed. Couches were pushed up against the walls and the bar to fit us all in. People were sitting on each others laps, the cook leaning over the bar to see the T.V. and I am sitting at the very front of this mess of people. With ten minutes left in the game I can’t hold it any more I must go to the bathroom. I have to navigate my way through several people and then shrink myself to about three inches to get through the small space between the couch and bar. I think I’ve got it down until all of a sudden I hear click and the crowd lets out a load sigh. What has happened? Did Columbia score again? Did another Ecuadorian get a red card? Why is the entire room looking at me? It seems I and my klutzy nature, amplified by a few beers, has managed to turn the power of the TV off with my rear end. Shit! There is no dodging this one, I have committed the ultimate of sins and there is no amount of Our Fathers or Hail Mary’s that can get me out of this one. Luckily it only takes a few minutes for the TV to power up again, during which time I swear the cook put a hex on me and numerous Spanish expletives were thrown my way, possibly even some food. I am certain as Ecuador’s 2-0 loss seems immanent the entire room blames me and I keep my head low until we board the bus back home.

As the bus jumps along the highway and the sun sets on what has been a good day I say mea culpa Ecuador. Mea culpa for all known and unknown sins I have committed and will most likely commit during my year long stay in this most beautiful of countries.

Upon meeting Piedad

2009-08-31T11:49:00.000-07:00

Upon meeting Piedad, my house mother, the doubts that had been implanted into my brain throughout the day, immediately subsided. She was the first of the house parents to arrive at the hotel and I was happy about this as some of the younger volunteers where starting to try my patience after a day of adding “P.S.” to the end of all their sentences (I’ve gathered that the use of the “ P.S.” statement is used to signify a spoken sentence that is supposed to be an afterthought from the initial statement . I considered it funny at first, then plain out annoying once all of them started to say it, then thought about trying it out to so I could sound early 20 something cool,, only to realize once again how lame it sounded).

Piedad had an instant smile for me and I for her as Pete, the WT Field Director, took a picture of us. Smiles and a hug, really are all that one needs to bring one back to a level of comfort that makes you feel as if everything (including being annoyed by “P.S.” statements) is going to be okay for the next year. As we were departing with my two bags, which I am sure flabbergasted Piedad, one of the volunteers, Kieth, graciously offered to carry one of them to the taxi. Piedad tried to explain to the two of us that we were going to have to walk a couple blocks for a taxi because some of the streets were closed for a marathon so I refused the help.
Off we go, Piedad and Nicole, madre y hija, with Nicole lugging a large pack on her shoulders and a large suitcase behind her and Piedad carrying, refusing to wear, Nicole’s small backpack and binder. We go a few blocks through Mariscal, which is also called GringoTown, to one of the main streets, with Piedad grabbing my hand and saying “Cuidado” every time we cross an intersection. The first street we try for taxis proves to be fruitless, the taxis are either packed or going the opposite direction. Piedad decides we need to walk back towards the hotel and up a few more blocks to another busy intersection; notice the word up, put emphasis on it and then remember the luggage as well as the fact that Quito sits at 10,000 feet. Let me take a moment to describe the setting a bit more. Quito’s weather is much like San Francisco’s during the day with a tad bit of humidity added to it. This means you always need to have a jacket handy and once the sun goes down you’ll probably be wearing it, which I was, upon Piedad’s insistence that I must not catch a cold. However, let me note that when you are carrying two large bags the jacket only serves to seal in the humidity surrounding your body and heating it like a hot bath would. By the time we get to the next large intersection both of us are winded and I am sweating like I just ran the marathon that has us walking the streets of Quito like this in the first place and I am wishing I could have taken Keith up on his offer. There are traffic jams everywhere, we have exited Mariscal and entered into a poorer neighborhood where I have to navigate the suitcase past the families trying to sell fruits and day old newspapers on the sidewalks. Piedad is determined to get us a taxi yet every time we stop at what she thinks will be “the” intersection the same thing happens, the taxis are full or they are stuck in traffic going the opposite way. We have now been walking about 45 minutes at an angle of about 35 degrees. I’m learning a lot on this walk, mostly about Piedad. Even though are communication is minimal I can tell she is a strong woman with a lot of love in her heart. She smiles a lot yet I can see a sad story on her face of about 40.
We finally get to a point where we can no longer go up and it is here that our luck changes. A taxi stops and we both struggle to get the larger suitcase into the trunk, jump in and immediately start to laugh at the situation. We laugh even more as we realize that the taxi ride only lasts five minutes and we should have just finished out few blocks home. A tranquil small home filled with love and trinkets, lots of trinkets.

There is more than a feeling in my stomach telling me that this first walk home will be turning into a metaphor for the challenges I will face this year. At the very least I now have the comfort of knowing where home is and have Piedad to laugh with once I get there.

“We know the future will outlast all of us, but I believe that all of us will live on in the future we make.” -Ted Kennedy

2009-08-27T22:48:00.000-07:00

By the time anyone reads this I'll be flying over the Pichincha volcano of the Andes mountains and landing in Quito, Ecuador. The past few months have been, what can best be described as an El Niño hitting my life. I've packed up shop, said my goodbyes, and am officially following one of my many dreams.

This is the perfect opportunity for me to come clean on a few things. I'll be off the grid for a couple of days and by the time you talk to me next you'll have forgotten what I'm about to say. First and foremost, I am not a saint as evidenced by the extremely excessive partying I partook in over the past two months. Next, I have about as much courage as the Cowardly Lion when he first met Dorothy. Lastly, any talk of my being noble is absolutely out of the question. I bring up these traits now because they are all things that were said to me in the last week or so and all three of which made me feel uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Although I may be taking a different path than some I really am no different than any of you.

Which leads me to my next task, creating a manifesto of sorts: (note the fancy name for what will essentially be a list)
1) I am a detrimental dreamer. If I am not careful I will end up pulling a Gatsby and killing the dream instead of living in it. Luckily, I've read the book enough and experienced the not so glamorous end of a few dreams that I have finally found ways to live in the moment each and every day. So as I move into this next year I hope to take the detriment out of detrimental dreamer and live the dream while creating new ones.
2) I am also an idealist. Hence, one of my favorite websites and procrastination tools is idealist.org. Don't confuse idealism with being a dreamer. They are different. These are the ideas that I believe in and will guide all (well most) of my actions for the next 365 days, if not more:

Rousseau's concept that all people are good people when they are born. It's a matter of perspective really. It's much like the concept innocent until proven guilty.
Lock's natural rights: life, liberty and property. Included in this is the right for every person to have access to an education, especially young girls.
The sociological notion that humans are social beings. If you take humans out of their societies or their cultures you take away their humanity and return them to their animalistic roots (this is also closely associated with Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs). Remember, "It takes a village..."

I'll stop there and let you mull those over for now. If you haven't figured it out yet these are the underlying reasons for my move to Ecuador. I know better than to say that I'll be saving the world on this trip, that is not what I ascribe to. Rather I'll be meeting new "good" people, providing a few with some knowledge of the English language, and taking part in a society and culture different than my own.

And you better darn well believe that I'll be bringing thoughts and memories of all my family and friends along with me for the ride.

The Best Of... A(nother) List by Nicole

2009-08-11T08:09:00.000-07:00

I awoke this morning contemplating a question a friend asked last night, "What will you miss the most?". A single, short answer is really quite impossible to give as I have been spoiled by the Bay Areas many treasures over the past 26 years of my life.

So in true lazy summertime form I spent the better part of this morning compiling the following "Best of The Bay Area" list for all two of my followers (shout out to Mom and Kacie) in the hopes that you continue to take advantage of everything this place has to offer.

Starting with food:
#1 Best burger and shake: Peninsula Creamery in Palo Alto, hands down no exceptions
#2 Best breakfast place & item: Hobbees Blueberry Coffeecake
#3 Best pizza: I'd be committing heresy if I didn't say Pizza My Heart (although I do have another list ranging from high class to a greasy mess if you are interested)
#4 Best sushi: A tie between Minatos in Japantown and the place in Capitola above the ice cream shop.
#5 Best frozen treats: Another tie between Jon & Bons Frozen Yogurt in Chico & Micheals Gelato in Palo Alto
#6 Best sandwich: Alotta's in Los Altos
#7 Best pasta place to take your married girlfriends so they can drool over the Italian waiters: Pasta! in Palo Alto & Mountain View
#8 Best farmers market: Campbell's on Sunday morning's

On to outdoorsy stuff (since we have to work off all the food we just ate):
#1 Best place to volunteer: Village Harvest and Urban Sprouts - JUST DO IT!
#2 Best daily run (ok you caught me, daily walk): The Dish in Palo Alto & Rancho San Antonio in Los Altos & Crystal Springs in San Mateo & the UC Santa Cruz track at sunset & Bidwell Park in Chico
#3 Best hike w/ a view: Point Reyes or really any hike in Marin County
#4 Best kick my ass and call me Sally day hike: Purisma Creek off Skyline -down Harkins Trail to the redwood forest and then up (and I mean UP) Whittmore Gulch trail.
#5 Best climbing gym & yoga classes: Planet Granite in Belmont
#6 Best beach: hmmm...I was quite fond of that one secluded beach Erica and I found off Highway 1 until we were run off by that old, really tan naked guy

Drinking and Dancing Establishments:
#1 Best day drinking: Zietgiest in SF (#1 they have Great White ON TAP, #2 Good, and I mean good, Bloody Mary's) and possibly Half Moon Bay Brewery when there is a band playing.
#2 Best place to see any band: The Little Fox and maybe even the Big Fox in Redwood City
#3 Best dancing: Yes, I have to do it and say Santana Row. Oh that actually kinda hurt, I must also say I much prefer the impromptu living room dance party with friends to the 60 year old overweight guy your "friend" claims wants to dance with you @ Rosies (can we say awkward and completely inappropriate on said friends part although we still say thank you to said friend for trying to help a sista' out).
#4 Best local winery: Ridge (take a lunch and enjoy the view) & Savanah-Chanelle (blueberry wine baby, blueberry wine)
#5 Best BBQ: Any friends backyard

***Oh man, I just realized how long this is and how many list making rules I broke in writing it (seriously you can't have two, even four, items under one number, c'mon Nicole you know better). In a nod to the readers time I cut out the following categories: Best Places to Live (remember the 19 skunks), Best Day Outings (which included the Tactdial Dome in the Exploratorium) and Best Local Shops (Keplers Books being #1). I will close this out with a little secret, I kept the original title of the list until the end of this blog as I knew the common reader would read no further purely by the precedent it was setting with its length:
"The Places I've Spent my Time and Money and Created Many Nostalgic Memories With Friends Since Graduating College".

P.S. Yes I did really just write Best 19 times, I was going for a new writing style called obsessive repetition.

Lost in the Hills of Santa Barbara

2009-07-21T11:23:00.000-07:00

There is something to be said about getting lost in the hills of Santa Barbara with nothing but your brand new running shoes and an ipod spitting out your friends Brett Dennen, Jack Johnson, and some international music most would not recognize.
You start out thinking about the run and what you'd like to accomplish- how can I get a couple miles in without getting lost, it sure is hot out, good god these new shoes are amazing I could run for hours in them.

As you really get under way your thoughts change from the task at hand to your surroundings. First you notice the flowers in bloom, mostly blood orange colored hibiscus that could rival the ones you have admired in Hawaii and a few last minute roses hanging on for dear life. You consider picking a few to take back to your sisters house but you're not sure how long you'll be running and the heat would surely wilt away their beauty.

At this point you are about a mile in and you allow yourself to notice the houses. You've purposefully kept your thoughts from the houses because you know, as a teacher, house dreaming is futile to your well being. Their charm is the reason you could never live in Santa Barbara. The Spanish flair and stone laden courtyards would haunt your dreams while you were stuck in some 70's era apartment complex next to a 90 year old woman that hoarded cats. But you allow yourself the pleasure of day dreaming, just this once, as you know this will be one of your last visits to this picturesque town in a long while.

House upon house go by and their unique flair allow you to create a story behind every one. Then you see it. You stumble as your feet catch up with your eyes. The one with an oversized window that opens up to the entire house, where you gaze at a mom singing to her child as she dances from the living room to the kitchen and back to the living room again. You feel as if you are being visited from the Ghost of Christmas Future and allow yourself to slow to a snails pace so you don't miss a second of what that happy future holds. At this point your stumbling turns into a full fledged fall that knocks you out of your stupor and, as you regain your composure, you realize YOU ARE LOST. Here you have a choice, turn around and try to find your way back or continue forward to see what else is out there. You choose the latter.

The adventure is what you seek. To be lost takes you back to the recognizable feelings of your childhood where you created adventure upon adventure in the backyard of a small house on Blaney Avenue. Adventures filled with Indians and Cowboys (attributed to your never ending reading of Ingalls), time travel (A Wrinkle in Time, of course) and not to mention strange short men who always had answers to your questions (classic Dahl). You realize that although this feeling is familiar it has been way too long since you have felt it. The repetitious rut created by time and too many cement walls has been shielding you from any notion of adventure for quite some time. You want to stay lost and allow yourself a few more memories but the suns glow is about to give way to dark. You pocket the feelings and the memories for another day.

You follow the last glimmers of the suns rays back to your sisters home where she and your niece are waiting for you. As you bound up the stairs you see through the window an exhausted new mom taking in the rare moment of her baby sleeping and you realize it was not the Ghost of Christmas Future you saw earlier rather it was the Ghost of Christmas Present and you smile at the lesson you have just relearned- live in the present Nicole, live in the present. You smile once more knowing that the next year, possibly more, will be filled with days of being lost with nothing but your new shoes,your old friends crooning from your ipod, and a long awaited return to the familiar adventures of your childhood.

Making a list and checking it twice

2009-07-08T21:31:00.000-07:00

If you spend more than five minutes with me you know that I am a list maker, there are even days when I make lists about the lists I need to make. It may seem obsessive to some but these lists free my brain from many mundane details allowing me to have clearer more creative thoughts and daydreams which are essential to my generally spirited nature. As such this blog will be in list form and include various thoughts about Ecuador that have been popping up between the mundane details the past week or so.
#1 What and how much do I need to pack? (which is highly contingent on #2)
#2 Exactly what city will I be placed in and when am I going to find this out?!
#3 Practice Spanish!!!
#4 Spend as much time with friends & family as possible, you are going to miss them.
#5 Practice Spanish!!! I mean it this time.
#6 Where will I live and work when I return?
#7 Don't worry about #6, that will work itself out. Practice your Spanish instead.
#8 Will my students get my humor? Will I fit in with my house family? I'm going to stick out like a sore thumb aren't I? Ahh, the potential for some new self-deprecating stories is invigorating.
#9 Seriously stop thinking about #6 and study your freakin' Spanish already.
#10 When do I leave again? Tomorrow would be ideal, then I could stop worrying about #6 and start focusing on the goals I have set for the next year of my life rather than playing the waiting/worrying game.
#11 Do I really know what I've gotten myself into? Do I care if I don't? Isn't that supposed to be one of the best parts of the experience?
#12 Stop making lists Nicole and STUDY YOUR SPANISH!

And with that I start the official countdown of t-minus 50 days.

Easy Silence

2009-06-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

Just sent my beautiful niece and sister off, the last of the various visitors to leave this weekend. It seems ironic to me that after 8 months of living in Palo Alto my family and friends have finally started to realize the beauty and privilege the town provides and now seek out visiting rather than my begging them to. I will miss this place, especially since this is the longest I have stayed in one spot in quite some time. From the easy walk downtown that provides me with some of the best food I've ever had, to the bookstores and the farmers markets with the most amazing peaches around, not to mention my favorite Gelato place where the owner now knows my name and has the warmest smile when I walk in, I've had it all. To be able to share these things that provide peace and happiness to me with my sister, my niece, Momma Fowle, Sister Fowle, and my good friends over the past couple of weekends has made it that much more of a home to me.

Now there is silence, and it is an easy silence, one that is welcome. The tornadoes of the past couple of weeks have finally gone away. I sit here silently in my Uncle's home, one that he has allowed me to make my own and I, I have never been happier.

A temporary solution

2009-06-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

"A gift is pure when it is given from the heart to the right person at the right time and at the right place." --Bhagavad Gita

Over the past two weeks I've received more from those that surround me than at any other point in my life. From the surprise pair of TOMS shoes my 1st period Honors class got me, to the many heartfelt tears of thanks from my Seniors on their last day of school and, most notably, the financial support of my friends, coworkers and family, I have never felt so loved in my short life.

Naturally I feel the need to thank each and every person that has given me something but time has not been my friend as of late (I'm even multi-tasking as I type this) and I have not been able to properly do so. So please bear with me as I close out this school year, start my summer of learning Spanish, and spend as much time with my loved ones as I can. Don't you worry I will get to you all before I leave.

For now just know that every night for the past two weeks I have fallen asleep and woken up with a smile on my face because of you, for that I thank you.

"You are the women that will build the world as it should be"

2009-05-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

Just watched this incredible speech by Michelle Obama before bed tonight. In addition to her thoughts on education she surprisingly detailed the ideas and values that I strive to create every day of my life. Thank you Mrs. Obama for being a role model to me.

My favorite song

2009-05-26T23:37:00.000-07:00

is Taking the Long Way by the Dixie Chicks.
Don't judge, just accept it.
Everyone has an anthem and right now this song is mine.

Thought I'd share as I don't really have anything else to post...yet.