June Travels 2015

The last several weeks have been quite eventful. Lots of fun traveling a meandering route with my dad through Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky and Tennessee. We visited a small zoo in Missouri, where we were caught in a sudden downpour, causing epic rivers of blue to roll from my newly dyed hair downward. My Buffy t-shirt will never be the same.

We wandered through a couple small towns in Kentucky, visiting antique stores and one amazing, memorable hat shot where I found several fantastic, vintage additions to my hat collection. Finally, we ended our travels in Nashville, where we visited my uncle Marvin in the hospital, where he was recovering from surgery and I attended the always-amazing UtopYA conference. My dad hung out in the hotel while I attended panels for writers and readers.

After a fantastic weekend, my dad flew home to Kansas City and I began the last leg of my journey, driving to Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA, to attend my final residency there.  I survived my thesis reading from my YA fantasy, Sehmah's Truth, and ended the week graduating with my M.F.A. in Writing Popular Fiction.

I will miss being part of the amazing community that is the SHU-WPF program, but look forward to new adventures and am certain I will stay in contact with my many fellow Secret-Keepers.

The drive home was long, but I enjoyed the journey, pondering characters and plotlines in my head. We'll see how the writing comes along, now that I have no more deadlines looming before me.

Road Trip Travels

Happy belated father's day to all those dads out there.  I spent this year's Father's Day on the road with my awesome dad, road trippin' to Tennessee to visit my aunt and uncle there.  As usual, we listened to Janet Evanovich on CD and laughed a bunch along the way.

As promised to some friends, I took some road hat selfies along the way (these are not your normal road hats, by the way). They come from the vast collection of hats that I often forget to wear. Looking for any opportunity (read: excuse) to wear them, I packed a bunch into the car and had some fun along the way.

Here are just a couple from the journey (my dad gets into the fun a little later on - go, dad!)

Traveled with my Aunt Judy and Uncle Marvin across Tennessee to Gatlinburg, we had an awesome time. Perhaps the best moment was during the pre-show Lumberjack Feud, when on the board my dad was suddenly featured as the "Star of Duck Dynasty". For those who know my dad, this was an awesome moment in his life and mine. I nearly fell over laughing.

After our adventures in Gatlinburg, we returned to Murfreesboro, where I left the family to travel to Ohio to meet up with a friend, then on to Pennsylvania for our writers' residency at Seton Hill University.  As usual, fun times were had by all. I returned home inspired and ready to leap back into the writing.

The road trip home from Tennessee was fun as well.  My dad and I took an unexpected detour to the Round Table at Hopkinsville Community College.  It's funny because I'd just heard about this place from my friend Carrie and literally a week later, I'm driving home with my dad and see a sign for it.  Of course, I had to stop.  Who knew this kind of fun could be had in Kentucky?

It was great visiting here with my dad and I'm looking forward to the fall when a group of writing friends and I are planning a trip here for a Writers of the Round Table mini writing retreat.  In the meantime, my friend Kathleen doctored a photo in anticipation of the grand event:

Week 3: Tucuman, Jujuy and Salta - Posted from Buenos Aires

4 July 2007
10:15 p.m.

Happy 4^th of July!

I spent the morning of the fourth of July traveling by plane from Salta to Buenos Aires, but that's really the beginning of week four. Week three we spent traveling in some very rural areas of northern Argentina.

We left Villa Maria on Tuesday, June 26th and traveled overnight from the Cordoba province to the Tucuman province. We spent Wednesday traveling through Tucuman. We visited the Quilmes ruins, climbing the most amazing cliff to look out across miles of mountains and the ruins of an ancient civilization.

Thursday was an even more amazing day. We began the day in Cafayete at a local winery, where we taste tested a variety of wines, an experience I am certain others would have found much more enjoyable. Personally, I was more interested in the cat that kept wrapping itself around my legs than the wine everyone else thought was wonderfully light and smooth (whatever the hell that means). I'm sure this does not surprise those of you reading to know that I was more interested in the animals than in the wine. I am assured however, by the wine connoisseurs of our group that this was a most amazing experience (personally, I would have been happier with a giant vat of salsa and a book!)


After happily tasting as many wines as possible, we then proceeded to tour the countryside where we waded through streams and climbed a variety of mountains (all quite drunkenly I am sure). First, we stopped by a riverbed, where we had the amazing idea to remove our shoes and socks and wade through the ice cold water, just to see what the experience would be like. I suppose it wasn't any different than any other time you would wade through a river in wintertime, but somehow to us, it was amazingly creative and fun. Like all spontaneously stupid ideas, we neglected to consider the consequences of having muddy feet upon exiting the river. As a result, we spent a good ten minutes attempting to remove mud from between our toes and attempting to dry our feet without getting our socks dirty. This was an exercise in futility. Ultimately, we boarded the bus, much muddier yet somehow extremely content. Those who were party-poopers and chose not to participate have no idea how much fun they missed.

We then traveled through the Quebrada de Cafayate. This was a very large canyon system with multi-colored mountains and ridges to climb. First, we visited “El Obelisco” or the obelisk. This was exactly what it sounds like: a giant obelisk that of course we had to climb. It was steep and ended at a point. We climbed and settled ourselves at various points along the way, creating one of those perfect Kodak moments.

After sliding down the obelisk of death, we ventured further into the Quebrada and visited “El Anfiteatro” a point at which the mountains loomed so close together, they created a natural cavern. The result was an amphitheatre with natural-occurring acoustics. We had the opportunity to sit and listen to some local musicians perform a spontaneous concert at the center of this cavern. The sound was incredible.

Finally, we ventured to the “garganta del diablo” or devil's throat. This was the first time I almost died in Argentina. (For those of you who are unaware, the first time I almost died in Latin America occurred four years ago in Brazil, while river rafting. This was mild in comparison, but the fact remains: I ALMOST DIED.)

Due to the fact that I refuse to allow my lack of athletic ability and coordination to dictate the activities I will participate in, I decided that I would attempt to climb devil's throat just like all those other crazy people, who actually had athletic ability and coordination. This was a mistake. Everyone knew it, but this did not deter me.

With reckless abandon, I attacked the 75 degree angled slope headed upwards. Amy and up should never be used in the same sentence, especially when rocks are involved, nevertheless, I forged ahead without regard for my own personal safety. I also failed to consider the nerves of steel required by my companions while witnesses to my impending rock-climbing disaster.

I should insert here that this is in fact Latin America, which meant of course that the rock-climbing we were participating in did not involve any form of safety nets or harnesses or special equipment. Rather, the only equipment necessary was a hard head and an unlimited supply of stupidity.

And so I climbed. I will have you know that I did not fall on this climb. Nor did I get stuck. However, I did make use of Sammy getting stuck to delay my eventual climb downwards. Yes, our fearless leader climbed even higher than the dumbest of us would go and promptly got stuck. In his words, “it was a lot easier getting up here.” Thirty minutes later, he had finally climbed down to the point the rest of us had climbed up.

Unbeknownst to me, at the bottom of Devil's Throat, the majority of the party waited, not worried about Sammy, who had been stuck for thirty minutes, but rather, obsessing about the fact that I had not yet fallen to my death. They waited, with bated breath, cameras perched, searching in vain for that first glimpse of my graceless arrival at the bottom of Devil's Throat.

Once Sammy was down, this of course meant that the attention was now fully focused upon me and I was of course now required to venture downward. And so, I flung myself forward and slid on my ass straight down that mountain, like the ass-sliding pro I was.

The second time I nearly died in Argentina occurred on the following Monday. The days between my Devil's Throat experience and the Death Slide experience were relatively uneventful. We attended various outdoor markets, took a couple tours of local towns in Salta and of course took endless pictures of the gorgeous mountain scenery surrounding us everywhere we went.

Then, on Monday, we had what I can only refer to as hell day. We arrived in the small town of Iruya on Sunday night. We had traveled lightly, leaving the majority of our luggage in the town of Salta, as Iruya was a mountain town and we were required to walk from the outskirts of town to our hotel where it perched at the very top of the town. This was a straight walk upwards and was not exactly enjoyable, but it was worth it. The hotel was gorgeous and the view from our rooms was absolutely stunning. Monday morning, we got up early and set out for the small town of San Isidro, another small mountain town, set high in the mountains. The only way to arrive at this town was to walk, which is exactly what we did.

We began the walk at the base of the town of Iruya next to a small park. We waited there for the entire group to arrive, and while waiting, became quite enchanted by a slide which appeared to be straight out of a cartoon. It stretched high into the sky, seeming to rival the tallest of mountains, and was a straight shot down. The slide ended with a slight tilt up, set for launching some unsuspecting victim into the atmosphere. Miriam, one of our fearless leaders, decided to climb this slide, but not being the venturous sort, she slid down the slide at approximately 1.2 miles per hour, clinging to the sides and slowly pedaling her way downwards. I of course had to show her the correct way to utilize this marvelous invention.

And so, I climbed the 4000 steps into the sky (okay, it was more like 40, but it seemed terribly high) and after perching at the top of the slide for that perfect Kodak moment, launched myself downwards. I was quite surprised at the speed with which I hurtled downward. I felt like I was in a wind tunnel, I moved so quickly. The ground hurtled toward me at alarming speed, necessitating a shriek of girlish fear.

The best part was my landing. I am told it was

worthy of record books. The way it happened was that I landed on my feet. It was absolutely unbelievable that I would land on my feet when moving so quickly, but land on my feet I did. I am told that I literally shot from a sitting position to a standing position and that my entire upper body ricocheted slightly backward from the force of my landing, but that gravity then pulled me forward. For one split second in time, my entire lower body was still, while my upper body swayed backward then forward. Sadly, gravity was a powerful force that jerked my body forward and down, so that approximately 3 seconds after landing on my feet, I landed on my knees with a horrendous thud.

I did end up with a scraped up knee for the adventure, but also with a series of Amy photos that are worthy of awards. I am particularly fond of the shot of me on my knees laughing hysterically.

The third and final time that I nearly died in Argentina was on the hike from hell. As I mentioned, we were staying in the small mountain town of Iruya and were planning to hike to the “nearby” town of San Isidro to visit an elementary school there.

Two and a half hours later we finally arrived in San Isidro. Those hours can only be described as non-stop torture. Two and a half hours hiking up the mountain, following the rocky riverbed of death - whose great idea was this? We crossed the same river at least twelve times (NOT an exaggeration), rock-hopping across the rapids, which of course filled me with memories of flying down a Brazilian waterfall for my very own special rapids experience. Luckily on this trip, my only close encounter with the rapids involved a misplaced foot that landed in two feet of rushing (and freezing cold) water.

The trip up the mountain was nothing less than torture, a test of our endurance, and it was only sheer stubbornness which kept me pressing forward, especially when the group had a tendency to spread out a bit too much, leaving a couple of us alone at key points of the walk. Good hiking rules were not being followed!

Eventually we arrived within sight of the town. This meant that if we looked up, we could see the town sitting at the edge of a cliff, just waiting for us to climb the final 500 feet straight up.
I of course was more inclined to climb into the back of the ambulance sitting in the middle of the path and take a nap. You might be wondering (as I was) what on earth an ambulance was doing on the side of a mountain. Well, if you looked up in the opposite direction of the town, you could see men standing on the edge of the mountain, swinging picks at the mountain because they were building a road. Presumably the ambulance was there so that if one of these road-builders were to fall off the side of the mountain, first aid would be available on scene immediately.

Despite the pressing need to avail myself of first aid, particularly in the form of an oxygen mask, I pressed onward. We walked uphill quite a ways before arriving at “stairs” leading upwards. These stairs were more like a jagged ramp etched out of the edge of the mountain, headed straight upwards, with the steep drop of death at your right, and the side of the mountain stretching upward to the left. And so we inched along the very edge of the mountainside, bracing one hand against the side of the mountain in the hopes that this tactile connection would prevent an unfortunate stumble across the threshold of death.

Finally, finally, we arrived at the town, visited the school, interacted with kids and promptly took a nap on their playground. This sounds as if we did not enjoy our visit in San Isidro. We did, we were simply so exhausted from our climb, we needed a small power nap to recover.

 I suppose I should mention that I left San Isidro and Iruya feeling quite amazed at the fortitude of the inhabitants of those towns and the neighboring mountains. Some of the children we met take walks similar to our hike up the mountain every single day in order to attend the school we visited (they of course make these walks in a fraction of the time it took us). Some children literally climb up and down the mountain several times a day, just to receive an education, or to tend crops or for some other mountain business. These people are strong and endure living conditions the likes of which I cannot even imagine. Many of the houses we saw were no more than four feet tall, with three walls and a tarp stretched across the roof for protection from the elements.

After walking two and a half hours to arrive at this school, witnessing these people's simple lives, then making the return journey (in more like three and a half hours), I am quite simply struck at how fortunate a life I lead and yet, how these people do not even seem to worry that their lives are not what mine are. They are happy, they are living a life upheld by centuries of tradition and they are certainly more entwined and connected to their roots than I will ever be.

Of all of my experiences during this trip, my visit to San Isidro was undoubtedly the most profound and enlightening of them all, the unending climb over rocky terrain included.

Week 2 in Argentina: Villa Maria and Cardoba

26 June 2007

8:15 p.m.

 

Hola!

Well, my time in Villa Maria has officially come to an end.  The first two and a half weeks of my stay in Argentina (minus four days in the hills of Cordoba) have been spent here in the small city of Villa Maria, which is located in the province of Cordoba.  Argentina has 23 provinces and Cordoba lies at the center of the country, much I have been told as Kansas lies at the center of our country.  In any case, this missive covers the past week and a half, which began with a short road trip.

This trip, which later became known as the trip from hell, began promisingly enough.  We all boarded a bus at 8 a.m. to travel to the city of Cordoba, about a three hour bus ride (not too long when compared to our previous 12-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires).  We went on a tour of the city, visited a shopping mall (why on earth when visiting a city in a foreign country these people would choose to visit a shopping mall, I have no idea, but that's where we ended up for lunch and to do some shopping  I couldn't even find a bookstore in this so-called mall, so I generally considered that trip to be a complete waste.)

Eventually we left the mall and found a bookstore, where I promptly bought a trashy romance novel in Spanish (hey, you never know when the words "sexy" and "biceps" might come in handy), and a children's novel I recognized (Artemis Fowl).  Trust me, if you had to settle for reading books in a foreign language, you wouldn’t buy Lord of the Rings either.  

After the bookstore, we headed for an artisan fair, where I promptly bought items that I have no idea how on earth I will be getting them home.  Really they were so far outside the realm of realistic, I don't know what I was thinking.  (No, I did not buy a dining room table.)  However, they might as well have been tables and chairs for the amount of difficulty I'll be having in transporting them.  Thank god I packed a suitcase inside a suitcase.  Basically, I bought artwork for my house and it's awesome but too big to be believed and too heavy for shipping and WHAT WAS I THINKING?  Why can't we have amazingly cool artists willing to sell their gorgeous artwork for a song in the United States, where I could just load my car and drive home?

Anyway, that pretty much sums up the extent of the trip that was reasonable or enjoyable.  We returned to our hotel room, by which point I was not feeling so great and promptly went to bed.  When I woke up the next morning, I had no voice.  And we had to travel.  And so I packed, loaded the FREEZING COLD bus and we hit the road.

We went to an Estancia (a Jesuit plantation) where we saw very cool things and beautiful scenery that I could not appreciate because I was too busy freezing my buttooockus off and hacking up a lung.  Eventually we got back into the freezing cold bus and headed to Ascochinga where we checked into the hotel from HELL.

The original plan was to visit a second estancia, go to dinner and check into the hotel later that night, but because I was obviously miserable, we went to the hotel first and everyone unloaded their luggage, took a restroom break then left me at the hotel while they headed off to visit some other estancia.
 
I feel it necessary to insert in here that I use the term "hotel" loosely.

Perhaps if I had been feeling better, I might rhapsodize here about the beautiful scenery surrounding the gorgeous cabin in the woods, the rustic feel to the cabin, the wonderfully authentic feel of it all.  

Unfortunately, I was so sick, I was unable to appreciate these aspects of our stay.  Instead, I could only focus on the following:

1. The temperature outside the cabin was approximately 2 degrees.  The temperature inside the cabin was approximately 20 below zero.  The management had failed to turn on the heat before we arrived and so the cabin was ice cold upon arrival.  After 24 hours of solid heating (and again, I use this vocabulary term loosely), the temperature in the cabin had not risen at all.  I would simply like it noted that central heating should in no way refer to scary-looking radiators that put off enough heat to burn you if you got too close but not enough heat to raise the temperature of the room more than 2.9 degrees.
2. The first time I attempted to use the toilet was a disaster.  First, finding the handle to flush a toilet in Latin America can often be an adventure.  Handles as we know them do not exist in Argentina.  Instead, there are usually buttons (very well-hidden) or occasionally a cord hanging above one's head.  It took me a while to find the cord, but find it I did.  Sadly, when I pulled it, the damn thing broke apart in my hand.  This necessitated standing upon the bedet to reach above my head to re-attach the damn thing.  After many excruciating moments of reaching above my head trying to tie the two pieces of the cord back together again so that I could flush the damn toilet, I finally met with success.  The stupid thing was back together.  Sadly, the damn toilet would not flush, so I had to climb back up on the bedet and manually flush the stupid thing, which was practically impossible to do without pitching headfirst into the toilet.  I promptly decided the next time I needed to use the toilet I would use one from someone else's room.  Sadly, upon exploration later in the day, I discovered everyone had locked their doors.  The closest restroom necessitated a hike. 
3. The first time I took a shower, the water sprayed me in the face with the sting of a thousand ice blades.  There were only two settings in the shower:  scalding hot and freezing cold.  I chose scalding hot because I froze the rest of the time.
4. It was freezing.
5. The damn toilet didn't work.
6. I had a headache and I couldn't breathe, I was hacking up two lungs, and it was FREEZING.
7. The damn toilet didn't work.

This was pretty much my life for the next two days, as everyone else went off to climb mountains of mammoth proportions, leaving me behind to fight the toilet and shiver under a mountain of covers (I raided other people's beds while they were out mountain climbing so that when they came home, they usually found a sheet and that was all).

Eventually after a day of misery, Samuel (the leader of our humble group) brought me some antibiotics he purchased over-the-counter (it's a different world down here) and I spent the next seven days downing pills the size of a horse.

My fellow teachers trooped in on the second night covered in mud and fairly exhausted.  They told tales of scaling mountains the size of Everest and falling down giant slopes into muddy water.  They scoffed at Sammy's leadership abilities, rolling their eyes at the stories of him "leading" them to a point of no return where they had to continue forward even when this would leave them wet and exhausted and ready to mutiny.

I suppose I should give my thanks for the convenience of an illness, but I endured my own form of hell, huddled under my covers, watching my breath swirl around the trashy romance novel I tried to read between each nerve-wracking shiver.  And I was assured by all the weary travelers trooping into our rooms that night that "dear god, it was a lot warmer outside than in this icebox!"

By our final night in this Argentine igloo, the majority of our group had dragged their "mattresses" (or what we might commonly refer to as giant flimsy pillows) into the hallway, where they huddled around various radiators, desperately seeking warmth.

Finally, it was time to move on, so, hacking and coughing, I packed up my things, dragged my weary body to the bus, and huddled under my blankets as we ventured down the road to the next town.  We visited another estancia (their third, my second, and I must admit, having already seen one, I sighed at the thought of enduring another).  However, despite not feeling well, I have to admit the scenery was quite beautiful.

We then went to Che Guevara's childhood home.  It was very interesting learning of his early life.  I had to wonder how a child who grew up so privileged managed to develop such a strong sense of injustice.  It's interesting because in some ways, though his methods for protesting injustice were vastly different from those of Martin Luther King, Che is as great a hero for many Latin American citizens as Martin Luther King is for North American ones.

Eventually we arrived back in Villa Maria, where we settled back in with our host families and continued our rounds to elementary and secondary schools.  We had a chance to observe the Argentine flag ceremony at various schools on June 20 and participate in a few folkloric dancing lessons (I don't think these people understand that I have no rhythm). 

I had a chance to observe in several elementary school classrooms on Friday, both by myself and with another teacher named Tom.  Tom's wife is pregnant and due in August, AND was accepted to participate in this program but chose not to come due to the pregnancy, so I'm thinking he was very brave to come on this program (I know if I were married and my husband abandoned me, he'd probably never survive the trip home, which would probably be one of the many reasons I never plan to marry!)  In any case, we had a lot of fun with the students, quizzing them in English and giving them prizes if they could answer appropriately (prizes were from Kansas like a bookmark, pencil, that sort of thing). 

The most bizarre thing I've seen in a school so far though has to be the video shown as part of a sixth grade presentation.  It involved very loud and ominous music, incomprehensible words (even if they had been in English, they still would have been incomprehensible), fleeting war-like images, etc.  They took us through the history of the man who created the Argentine flag (his name escapes me at the moment) and his very important role in history, but in such a bizarre, disturbing fashion I'm surprised the children didn't all have nightmares.  If I showed something like that to my students, I'd undoubtedly get fired (though this was presented by sixth graders, all primary students attended the presentation, so yes, there were 1^st and 2^nd graders there).

Our last Sunday in Villa Maria, we had a dinner / talent show for the families.  By talent show, I really mean a non-talent show.  My contribution was to put together a slide show of a collection of our photographs to share with the families.  I even inserted background music (all appropriate Spanish songs) and everything.  It was lovely, except for the whole non-working sound system which meant the Spanish songs I slaved over were barely audible.  Then, and don't ask me how this happened, I got roped into singing Yankee Doodle Dandy (like I even know the words) and Home on the Range.

THEN, as if things weren't already bad enough, we danced the Cha Cha Slide and the Chicken Dance, all to practically non-existent music, at which point, we decided we'd shown enough non-talent, and ended with a giant bonfire and S'Mores, which were a big hit (thank god - we needed something to redeem us from tripping over each other while doing the reverse during the cha-cha slide).  Overall, it went well, and hopefully those video tapes of me singing and dancing will meet some unfortunate and tragic end.

We ended our school visits in Villa Maria at Escuela Granja, a school that specializes in teaching boys who have been working in the streets of Villa Maria.  Each of us brought activities to do with these boys and we had a wonderful time, drawing, painting, sewing, playing dodgeball and cooking S'Mores.  The kids LOVED the activities, and the S'Mores were a big hit, once again, with both staff and students.  Note to self:  when traveling to a foreign country, ingredients for S'Mores are a must-have.  With these in hand, I am guaranteed to be loved and remembered for all the days of my long and graceless life.


One of the things I noticed the most in traveling from school to school is that it really didn't matter whether we were in a private school, public school or some combination of the two, heating was non-existent.  Students and teachers alike were bundled in layers, completing their work and teaching while draped in scarves, hats, gloves and heavy outerwear.  At some of the poorer schools, like La Granja and a school that served the children of migrant workers from Bolivia, children also came to school dressed in the same outfits day after day, and were often covered in dirt and sweat.  Many children worked at home or in the fields or at some other place of employment before arriving at school.  A number of boys were seen washing windows and completing other odd jobs around town, while still more were reported to work at a brickyard completing masonry work.  These boys ranged in age from 9 to 15.  Every last one of them broke my heart and filled me with a bittersweet hope for their future.  With so much going on in their lives, the fact that these children still make it to school on a fairly regular basis is an amazing accomplishment, and is a tribute to the teachers who work so hard to make sure these students know that they are missed when they do not show up for school.  The dedication of these teachers becomes even more apparent when one learns that an average teacher's salary here is typically 900 pesos (or 300 U.S. dollars) a month.

I suppose that sums up our Villa Maria experiences:  families, friends, schools, teachers, students and real moments filled with real teaching and real life.  Ultimately, we had a lot of fun and a lot of laughs, plus a few embarrassing moments as well (like when a fellow unnamed, and no it wasn't me, teacher mentioned at a school, in front of a number of teachers, the principal and 20 high school students, that the U.S. might actually beat Argentina in the soccer match since it was on our home turf and stranger things have happened, only instead of saying home turf which is "cancha" she said "concha" which is slang for pussy).  Yeah, things have definitely been interesting.

And it's time for me to wrap things up here for I'm leaving my host family's home in a few moments to catch a bus north.  We're heading into the foothills of the Andes next.  Life is definitely on fire right about now.  

More later!

Amy

Week 1 in Argentina

Buen di­a, amigos!

Well, I have survived my first week in Argentina and what a week it has been!  I feel like I have been here a month (or more) so much has happened.  First, the trip here was unbelievably long.  We were delayed leaving Kansas City by several hours (due to the threat of thunderstorms) and were concerned we were going to miss our flight to Buenos Aires as a result.  Luckily, the flight to Buenos Aires was also delayed (as we arrived in Atlanta, Georgia a full forty minutes AFTER our international flight was scheduled to depart).  Once we boarded the plane in Atlanta, we waited so long to take off we had to return to the terminal to be refueled.  Then we had the lovely overnight ten hour flight from hell.  Once we arrived in Buenos Aires, we were forced to circle the airport for almost an hour due to fog in the city.  We finally landed, gathered our luggage, went through customs, and immediately caught a bus for a twelve hour trip to the interior of the country.  To give you an idea of how long we had been traveling, I left my house in Kansas City at noon on Thursday afternoon.  We did not arrive in Villa Maria until 10:30 Friday night.  We were utterly and completely exhausted by then.

My host family greeted me at the bus stop.  They are a family of four - Leticia (or Leti) the mom, Eduardo (or Edu) the dad, Leila who is 12 and Elin who is 9.  I was so excited to be placed in a family with children again (children always make the experience so much more enjoyable) and they are truly a lovely family.  Leticia and Eduardo have gone out of their way to make the most wonderful vegetarian meals for me - they have made the most unbelievable vegetable tartas (the best I can compare them to is a vegetable pie, some like a pot pie and some more like a pizza).  And speaking of pizza, Eduardo has made some incredible vegetable pizzas.  Not to mention the salads and postres (desserts that are absolutely to die for).  I'm eating VERY well here, most definitely better than I eat at home.

The girls are thrilled with the gifts I brought for them - the three Sandra Boynton CD/book collections from Kohl's.  This is a very musical family, so the gift was very much appreciated.  Leila has already learned the words to one of the songs from Dog Train AND has learned to play it on the piano as well (as the music scores are included at the back of each book).

As for my experiences in Villa Maria, we have been on the go from the day we arrived, visiting schools, speaking with students and teachers, and attending lectures.  All of the schools have welcomed us with open arms, usually offering providing some form of refreshments and often giving us a gift as well.  Today we visited a vocational school (a lecheria where students participate in processing of dairy products) and were given a gift bag with a block of goat cheese and a jar of dulce de leche (a sweet caramel-like substance that is found in many of their desserts).

And what is Argentina like you might be asking (seeing as I'm rambling about food and schools, but am not really saying anything of particular interest).  Well, first and foremost, Argentina is currently very COLD.  It seems even colder due to the lack of central heating.  Some of you may be thinking that I'm probably exaggerating since I hate the cold, but trust me, when they said winter, they meant winter.  Luckily, Leticia had an extra winter coat she was able to loan me, because otherwise, I'd be utterly miserable.  Of course, my body is having a riot trying to understand why it went from summer to winter so quickly and I have a terrible cold to go with the wacky change in seasons.

What else can I tell you about my experiences here?  The people here in Villa Maria are by far some of the kindest people I have met anywhere.  When you enter their store or restaurant or business, they are thrilled to greet you.  They welcome you with a kindness that never feels artificial and are willing to spend as much time with you as needed, patiently wading through our sometimes limited Spanish.  I can also say most sincerely that all of the people here on this trip with me are wonderful.  Everyone is so concerned about everyone else, sharing medicine and ideas and clothing so that each person has what he or she needs.

Of course, things here are not perfect.  Life in Argentina moves along at its own pace.  No one is in a hurry; things happen when they happen.  I've visited a local travel agency every day for four days in a row, trying to arrange hostel stays in Buenos Aires and Foz do Iguacu, and each day, after a lovely, meandering conversation about everything we can possibly think of, all of it in Spanish; Mariana tells me that she is still waiting to hear from the hostel in Buenos Aires, is working on arrangements for Iguacu, and should have more information for me the next day.  And so I return the following day, to indulge in another lovely conversation and to receive the same information again.

It's impossible to become upset because Mariana is so kind and because she is doing the best she can, waiting on others to respond to her attempts to contact them, etc.  It is quite simply a different pace and in most aspects, it's very nice not to be rushed and stressed and watching the clock all the time.  On the other hand, when it's freezing out and all I want to do is buy a warmer pair of socks, but can't because all the shops are closed for siesta (which lasts four HOURS), I have to wonder which is better - the laidback, relaxed society where I can't buy a pair of socks to save my life, or the extremely time-conscious society that will have me popping pills for stress before the age of 40 but with a hundred pairs of socks all neatly arranged in my dresser drawers.

I've also had to get used to the whole no seatbelt thing again.  I honestly don't know which is worse -  sitting in the front seat of a remis, seatbelt securely fastened but with a birds eye view of the insanity of Argentine drivers or sitting in the backseat where no seatbelts can be found at all, but a little further away from the disaster of a cab driver.  Either way, your life typically flashes before your eyes while you hold on for dear life.

I have almost had a heart attack more than once as our remis barrels through an intersection at top speed (apparently the government of Argentina has decided that stop signs and stop lights are unnecessary expenses and instead chooses to rely on the fast reflexes of its insane citizens).  Indeed, there are very few stop lights to be found anywhere and I have yet to see a stop sign at all.  Most intersections are considered a free-for-all, so as cars approach the intersection, an interesting sort of dance occurs.  Whoever reaches the intersection first gets the dubious pleasure of barreling on through.  Whoever arrives in second place taps the brakes enough to skate through the intersection at a slightly slower speed than that of a rocket, narrowly missing the bumper of the first vehicle.  Individuals riding bikes and motorcycles tend to hurtle through these intersections as well, showing little regard for their own safety.  I have been disturbed on numerous occasions by the sight of a child sandwiched between its parents on the back of a motorcycle (I wouldn't take a child for a ride on a motorcycle in the middle of the country with only cows around to get in my way, let alone in the middle of an Argentine city populated by kindness and crazy driving).

And let's just say that pedestrians are taking their lives into their own hands when choosing to cross a street.  In Argentina it might be better to choose a particular turn to make and stick to it (i.e., when leaving the house, take a right and continue taking rights at every intersection, thus negating the necessity to ever cross a street.  Sure you'll probably end up walking in circles, but it beats getting hit by a car!)

I am certain there is much more to share about my first week in Argentina - like being interviewed by a local newspaper and quite innocently stating that we were here to have fun, and to learn about the culture and history of Argentina.  This seemed an honest statement to me, but divertirnos (to have fun) in Spanish apparently gave the impression that we were party chicas and only here for the quilmes (local beer).

In any case, it is time to wrap this up as I have a 7:30 a.m. bus to catch headed for Cordoba, and I need to get some sleep before then.  So let me just end by saying that:

Argentina es de lindo!

Culture Shock

Well, here I am, adjusting to life in the states again, experiencing a form of reverse culture shock (what’s up with those huge super-sized french fries and monster soda cups?)

I have received a number of emails from people wanting to know how Kitty is, how teaching is going, how the car hunt went, etc.  I thought I would post here to give everyone a quick update on my life and to apologize for not sending more personalized responses.  I promise to start replying to various emails soon.

For those of you who have not heard, I arrived home on Sunday, Aug. 10th and was met at the airport with the news that my grandmother had had a heart attack the day before and was in a coma.  She never woke up and in fact, passed away (the night before my first day of teaching) and her funeral was that Friday, my third day of school (which meant of course that I had to arrange for a substitute, and thus get my sub folder together at super-sonic speeds.)  For those of you who have taught in the past or are currently teaching, you can just imagine my general sense of panic at the time, which of course, made me feel even worse about my grandmother’s death — at a time when I should be grieving, I also had to focus on beginning-of-the-year duties!  Ultimately, the result was that my first two weeks back, in particular that first week of teaching, were extremely stressful and emotional for me.  Luckily for me, working for a Catholic school has its benefits — my principal was very supportive and insisted that I take that Friday to attend the funeral and to be with my family.
Of course, the fact that I missed the first Friday of school meant that I also missed the first all-school mass, which I have to say was simply a matter of delaying the task that I dreaded more than any other in the world — being responsible for 24 squirmy, wiggly, whiny, giggly first graders.  In church.  With my friend and classmate Michael (who also happens to be the priest of the church) watching from the pulpit as I grabbed a child by the nape of the neck and dragged him off that damn pillar.  With the other teachers in the building cringing in despair as my first graders dropped their kneelers to the floor with a loud, resounding bang, because I forgot to lower them before allowing them to enter the pews.  With one of my children bouncing forward and backward off the kneelers, despite our reviewing all the proper and appropriate behaviors for when we are in “God’s house.”  With another child hanging over the pew in front of him because “Miss Uley, I’m tired” (in a whiney voice, of course).  With a third child swinging his feet so that they connected with a massive thud against the pew in front of him.  With a fourth child trying to rip a fifth’s child’s ponytail from her head.  With a sixth child crawling on the floor for god knows what reason.  With a seventh, eight and ninth child sitting in dead silence, their eyes focused forward, their hands in their laps, their backs straight, their mouths closed, because someone in their life had obviously pounded into their heads the deadly consequences of misbehaving in church (they’ll go to hell, no doubt).  And I haven’t even reached the tenth child.  Let alone the 24th.

Suffice it to say, there is a reason so many religions invented such a thing as Sunday school.  Because their parents couldn’t take the pressure of dragging their children to church service week after week!

And that doesn’t even enter the realm of Amy, who is not Catholic and is not familiar with all the various rituals involved in this mass.  There were the hours spent in the privacy of my own home, practicing the sign of the cross, not to mention that whole genuflecting thing (I had to practice to be sure I wouldn’t fall flat on my face… it’s harder than it looks!)  There was the whole I’m moving my mouth trying to give the impression that I actually know the words to these songs, not to mention the rote responses (I have to get my hands on something called a missellette — okay I have no idea if that is how it’s spelled, but I went with the whole French spelling, since it sounds so very francais — I guess this little book spells out everything I will ever need to know about attending a Catholic mass and looking like a native.)

As for the actual teaching portion of the job, I believe I have the international poster child for ADD in my room, and I most certainly have several poster children for the ”we took naps all summer long and it doesn’t matter what you say, come 2:00 we’re going to be napping one way or the other” club.  I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve had to pull a child upright in their chair and be the mean teacher who makes them wake up from a sound sleep (which they arrived at in literally 2.9 seconds).

Ah, the joys of teaching.  The thing is the kids are great.  They’re fun and cute as anything and their level of bad just doesn’t even begin to reach the darkest levels of junior high bad.  So, I’m counting it all a plus, and hey, if I have to drag a couple kids down from pillars in church or wake up the nap brigade or even ring my bell 20,792 times in one day just to get their attention and maybe actually get a word in edgewise, well at least I’m not confiscating fart machines and sending kids to the office because they’re threatening physical violence and squaring off with kids who are a foot taller than me and a hundred pounds heavier and confiscating notes about doing the nasty (in truly vulgar terminology) re other 14-year olds.  Then again, junior high had its rewards too.  As a teacher anyway.

And that’s really all I have to say about the teaching right now.  I’m still getting into the swing of things and expect everything to continue along its merry, crazy path for quite some time before it begins to settle down.  But hey, as long as we’re having fun, who minds crazy?

As for Kitty, he’s doing okay.  I picked him up from the vet almost immediately after arriving in town.  I was given two prescriptions and a saline solution, all of which have to be administered twice a day.  If someone had told me, even three months ago, that I would be inserting a needle under Kitty’s skin every 12 hours, I would have told them they were fricking nuts, that I couldn’t possibly handle anything like that.  But the reality is we do what we have to when we care enough.  This treatment is really about maintenance as without it, he probably wouldn’t make it.  So, I will continue the treatment as long as he is able to enjoy life and is not in pain and hopefully my budget will continue to support that decision (given that the treatment costs around $200 a month).

I have had some minor difficulties in the process.  The first night I administered the saline solution, it took me 30 minutes to get up the courage to actually pierce his skin and by that time, he had almost finished eating and got quite irritated with me, resulting in him receiving less than the required amount that first time.  I also had technical difficulties with the line last night (I had just added a new bag to the line) and had to call my vet at her home (the emergency clinics were less than helpful — I actually called two before resorting to my vet).  Dr. Stuart was wonderful and walked me through all the various things I could do before we finally hit upon the solution.

Of course, by that time, Kitty had finished eating and was quite irritable with me when I followed through on the whole saline solution thing (I think he thought he might get out of it for once!)
In any case, Kitty and I are enjoying our time together, for however long it lasts, and of course, I haven’t yet given up hope and am still holding out for one more year.  We’re determined to beat Dr. Stuart’s “he may last a day, he may last a week, he may last a month” warning as we were leaving the clinic.  Though I know she doesn’t want to raise any false hopes, Kitty has surprised us before and may just do so again.

And lastly, my car hunt met with success.  I actually purchased my car the day after I got home and picked it up one day later. It’s a 2003 Honda Civic and basically has everything my other car did not.  Power windows.  CD player.  Working power locks.  Rearview mirror.  Working a/c unit.  Transmission.  Yes, indeed.  I’m living the good life.

Week 9 in Brazil, Take 2

Well, I’m afraid this update loses some of its impact now that I’ve returned to the states, but I didn’t exactly have time to write my final missive twice.  I literally used my last 20 minutes at the youth hostel in Rio to type the tale of my final week in Brazil and as a result, after hotmail ate my words of wisdom re week 9, I had no choice but to leave the tale for later reconstruction as I had a plane to catch.  By the way, many thanks to all those sarcastic words of wisdom (no I did not forget something, Nancy, hotmail just hates me and yes, my week was EXTREMELY exciting, thank you very much, Jed).

And so… I will attempt to reconstruct my final week for you, my patient loyal readers, and also for me, since I find it impossible to leave this tale unfinished!

Speaking of Jed, he would be so proud of me (I forgot to mention this in week 8), for I spent one of my final evenings with my family playing the Brazilian version of that game whose name escapes me, but you know the one — it’s a war game, involving lots of armies with the goal being to take over the world.  In any case, I had to keep reminding the apparent cheaters in the family (the father and the 14-year old son) that no, if they wanted to fight with x number of armies, then they had to actually move y number of armies when they won.  I constantly amazed the young boys in the house with my knowledge of “cool” games and (amazingly enough!) music.

But that has nothing to do with week 9.  Week 9 I spent in Rio (and what fun that was!)  For the first part of the week, I toured the city with the other Americans in our group.  We visited Cristo Redentor at the top of a mountain via train and an endless number of steps; trekked across two other mountains on our way to a third (Pao de Acucar) via rikkety, grindy, terrifying slow, cable cars (my mom would have freaked!); ate at a churrasco buffet (the Brazilian version of barbecue where every two minutes a waiter hovered over your shoulder wanting to drop giant slabs of meat on your plate – I kept them away with my newly acquired Brazilian finger – that would be a no-no-no shaking of the finger not whatever the hell else you guys are thinking); spent hours at the beach; visited several "hippy fairs"; trekked through a botanical garden; visited the soccer stadium (why I ask you); and attended a hideous, tacky, Las Vegas showgirl type show well-known among Rio tourists for its “realistic” portrayal of Brazilian culture and history [scoffs and rolls eyes].

My only regret is that I never did get the chance to leap off that mountain in Rio and hang-glide down to the beaches below.  They kept cancelling our reservation due to inclement weather.  Damn them.  Of course, in retrospect, I think that maybe the inclement weather was actually the universe shouting at us, “HEY!  Enough risk-taking already, you MORONS!!”

My final three days in Rio I spent at the beach, wandering through Copacabana, enjoying my room at the youth hostel that was so very different from the room of broken pipes, waterfall streaming across the electric control panel and telephone, sprinkling in my face at 4:00 in the morning, nearly electrocuting me as I attempted to turn on the lights and turn off the a/c via the same control panel, unable to see the water that was turning it into a hazardous danger zone… this was the room I stayed in at our “classier” and more expensive group hotel we stayed in for the first half of the week.  My youth hostel was much calmer and had lots more character with a hammock on the balcony, bunk beds in the rooms, hardwood floors, ceiling fans and older architecture.

In any case, that was my final week in Brazil.  For the most part, it was calm with a distinct lack of excitement (mainly because I wasn’t with the group that ended up getting in an argument with a taxi driver — well, I did get in some arguments myself, but I wasn’t there for this particular argument — and were forced to exit the cab in the middle of a bunch of favelas, or shantytowns, with no idea of where they were or how to get where they were going, and ended up getting picked up by mega-scary, machine gun toting military police… they were eventually given a ride to civilization after enduring a lecture about wandering where they didn’t belong and having to hear about the German tourist who was shot not two blocks from where they stood two weeks before… yeah, I’m thinking I was lucky to escape all that excitement!)

And so my experiences in Brazil ended with a 12-hour plane ride home, 4 hour layover in Texas, and a 2 hour flight to K.C.  All in all, it was a great trip, crazy family, river rafting near death experience, cable cars, excessive hours in class, military police and all.

But it’s good to be home too!

Week 8 in Brazil

E entao amigos, como vao? 

I'm wrapping up the academic portion of the program here — took my final exam this morning, what a pain in the butt, like we’re supposed to study while in paradise… de jeito nenhum!

Although I must admit that paradise is sometimes an exaggeration (somehow the stench of overworked sewage systems detracts from the idyllic setting), it still seems absurd to spend our afternoons studying… which is why many of us have perfected the art of studying at the beach (that is to say, we pretend to study until someone else from the group shows up to pretend study as well, which usually results in happy, sunny hours with not a book in sight).

And so my academic program endeth, on the beach with coco water and a smile.

I did of course get a lot of work done on my research project (despite the time at the beach) but there is still so much more to do.  I spent the past several weeks, making observations in an elementary /middle school in Vitoria, speaking with teachers and interviewing adults students (who attend at night).  Unfortunately, I had a limited amount of time to pursue my research (given the rigorous academic schedule) and things in Latin America tend to meander along at a very slow pace in any case, so… I think that if I truly want to use the results of my research to write my master’s thesis, I’m going to have to return to Brazil sometime over the next year (how very sad for me, I’m sure).
And so my research stops, with too many questions for it to truly be at an end.

My crazy Brazilian family is already asking when I will return, so they can welcome me with loud shrieks of joy.  I of course am counting down the seconds to when I get to leave their nut house, though I will truly, TRULY miss the children (yes, even the whiney shrieky one).  And so I leave the wacky Brazilian family behind, certain that my family has, in no way, ever approached their level of wackiness (and that’s really saying something!)

I completed Capoeira last night with a video camera attached to my face so that I got out of actually having to perform in front of the hordes of Brazilians our professors invited to watch our (or at least my) shameful lack of coordination.  Too bad I never thought to borrow the video camera from my family sooner, maybe I could have avoided all those crazy evenings of contortionist play.

And so my Capoeira days are over, leaving me covered in bruises, hobbling through the streets of Brazil with a videotape and berimbau clutched in hand.

Tonight I head for Rio de Janeiro on a bus.  I begged my fellow travelers to fork out the extra money for an omnibus semi-leito (partial sleeping bus), but there seems to be a communal crisis of money at the end of this trip – I really don’t understand how the crisis can be that great when even I can afford to pay the extra TEN DOLLARS to travel without another passenger reclining in my lap, but hey…  at least they all agreed to pay the extra two dollars to have three more inches of space.

And so my time in Vitoria comes to a close.  It’s been interesting and fun and messed up all at the same time.  I can’t wait to see what Rio brings the second time around!  One final excursion to end the trip in style.

Ate mais…

Week 7 in Brazil

First, I have to express my thanks to each and every one of you, for providing so much compassion and support in response to my latest email re Kitty.  He is holding his own at the vet’s office, charming them all I am certain with his feisty attitude and will to live.  He is not out of the woods by any means and may still not make it, but I am taking comfort in knowing that he is in very good hands and is being treated very well.

As for my experiences here in Brazil, I am trying to take to heart the advice I have received from so many different sources:  to continue enjoying my time here as best I can, and to trust all will be well.  It’s hard at times to stay focused and to not wish the hours away, which is the worst way of wasting precious hours of life, but I am doing my best.

It helps that I am living in a house filled with crazy people.  They allow me very little time to wallow and to pout.  The house has a total of 8 people living in it (that includes me) and it is, quite literally, a mad house.  Four of the people are children ranging from ages 5 to 14 and the other four are adults.

Conversations in this mad house are impossible.  You should just give up.  That’s what I’ve learned.  They should have a sign on the door that says “Communication within these walls is currently impossible.”  Although it should be in Portuguese obviously.  It really is an exercise in futility.  Because they all share their thoughts at the same time.  And the youngest child, poor thing, I don’t think she has a hope in hell of ever being heard, which is probably why every word I've heard her speak has been screamed at the top of her lungs. 

I just sit there listening to the chaos until I feel like my head is going to explode.  Then I quietly retire to my room, where I am able to listen to their entire conversation and repeat it verbatum from one floor up and three rooms over because they really are that loud.

In any case, despite the chaos and the noise, the kids are adorable and they’re all currently indulging in a race to see who can read Amy’s entire Harry Potter collection in Portuguese before she leaves.  I really love my HP books, but I am considering leaving them as a gift to the kids.  After all, kids’ books should really be enjoyed by kids, right?  And what’s the likelihood of some young Portuguese-speaking student in my class one day deciding to read them?  Not too great, I would say…

So, my host family’s great.  Capoeira, on the other hand, is killing me.  All I have to say is never ever take an exercise class in a foreign country.  It’s just not a good idea.  They believe that everyone is capable of everything, including crazy-ass cartwheels across a giant gymnasium and one-handed hand stands where your entire body moves in some weird-ass arc that defies gravity and the space-time continuum, but hey… it’s entirely possible if you just put your mind to it, right?  Right… I’ve never really felt my age until now, but I’m telling you, I now feel my age times 10.  I get home every night and I’m walking like a little old lady who just fell down a flight of stairs.

The students in my class can pretty much be divided into three groups:  the athletes, who attack Capoeira like it’s a game to be won (and thus somehow, end up accomplishing all manner of things that defy gravity), the dancers, who flow seemlessly through all the steps like they were born doing Capoeira, and me.  Yep, that would be me, the group of 1.  The non-athlete, non-dancer, ten years older than everyone else in the group me.  It’s really not a pretty sight…. Amy doing Capoeira.  I have a terrible fear that I resemble a giant lumbering gorilla trying to do the cancan.  Every time someone pulls out a camera, I try to hide, but I’m afraid I was unable to avoid being captured by some hidden, stealth-like spy cameras.  It’s unfortunate, but true.  Somewhere out there the sight of Amy lumbering through the steps of Capoeira is captured for posterity’s sake.  Coitadinho de posterity.  (How sad for posterity.)

Well, I do believe they want to close this internet cafe down.  I’m getting the evil eye, so I should go now.  Thanks to all of you for your support and don’t forget to say a prayer that Amy survives four more classes of Capoeira with the insane Brazilian instructors (who also happen to be truly hot, so you might also ad lib a couple prayers – I think you know the kind that I mean!)

The Middle Weeks

I realize I have not sent an update in a while, and this one is more in the nature of an update on my state of being, rather than on my Brazilian experiences, but I feel all of this is pertinent to providing an overall picture of my summer in Brazil.

I really can’t talk about the last few weeks and my experiences here without touching on some of the things happening in the States.  My uncle Jimmy (whom I must admit, I did not know very well, and who was sick for some time) died a couple weeks ago, leaving my grandmother devastated and my mom and aunts working over-time to make funeral arrangements.  In addition, my grandmother’s health has reached a point where my mom and Aunt Pat feel she would be better off in an assisted living arrangement rather than living alone, so they are trying to help her find a place that she likes.  It’s difficult being away from my family when such turmoil is unfolding in their lives.

In addition, and most devastating for me personally, is that almost overnight, Kitty’s health has deteriorated, reaching a critical point.  Luckily, Celeste recognized that something was wrong almost immediately and got him to my vet, who has been treating him since Monday.  The vet believes he has pancreatic cancer.  Kitty already suffered a bout with his pancreas about five years ago, and the vet was able to nurse him back to health, but there was always a risk that the illness would return.

When he reached the vet’s office on Monday, his body temperature was critically low, and he was severely dehydrated and anemic.  The doctors have been working to stabilize him and he seemed to be doing better yesterday, even sitting up and purring a little.  The bottom line, however, is that there are no guarantees, the vets are doing everything they can for him, but it just may not be enough. At this point, they can’t even treat his pancreas because the treatment is so aggressive, it would aggravate his other symptoms, i.e., the dehydration and anemia.

The worst part, of course, is that I am so far away, and am not able to be there with him as he struggles against this illness.  Feeling terribly helpless, I sat down on Tuesday night and recorded my voice on a cassette tape, rambling about my experiences here in Brazil.  I then Sedexed (the Brazilian form of FedExed) the tape to the vet’s office.  The fastest I could send it was 3-6 days (which still cost a fortune — the equivalent of around $16 US) but I am hoping it will provide him with some comfort.

For those of you who may not know Kitty, he is my 20-year old cat, who has been with me since my 12th birthday, and is most definitely, one of the best friends I could ever and will ever have.  My home has always been filled with his presence and without him would feel terribly empty, as would I.  I have, of course, known for several years that our time together has been getting more limited, and that every single day we have together is a gift.  Sitting here in Brazil, knowing that I have been away from him for a month, something which may have actually caused the illness to come back, makes me feel that I have squandered so many of those precious gifts.  When I heard that he was sick, my instinct was to jump on a plane and rush home.  I restrained myself for one reason.  I left him to do research here in Brazil and leaving without finishing that research would make all he has suffered almost pointless.  At the same time, I am cursing my credit card-less existence, for if I had one, I would certainly be charging a plane ticket home right now, just so that I could spend a long weekend visiting him at the vet’s office.

In any case, this update certainly has nothing to do with any of my Brazilian experiences, and yet, in many ways, it has everything to do with them.  For the past couple weeks, and in particular, this week, as I have attended my classes and conducted my interviews in schools, I have found it almost impossible to concentrate, as my thoughts have centered on my family and Kitty. The events back home have had a definite impact on my experiences here, as they should.  I certainly have more experience in Brazilian public restrooms as a result, given that I spent most of Monday as I went from class to class, finding quiet corners in them to sob and whisper prayers for my cat. I can only hope that things will continue to improve with Kitty and that I will have the opportunity to pet him and listen to his purr upon my return.

Week 3 in Brazil

Well, I'm actually in the middle of week 4, I'm getting a little behind in my updates here.  Oh, well…

First, I apologize if people's computers are having difficulty translating some of the weird keys I'm having to use on these Brazilian keyboards.  They don't really believe in using the apostrophe here, so I have to make do with accent marks, which may be interpreted kind of strangely by some computers.
I thought I would take a moment to reply to some generic questions I've received from some individuals (and I apologize to those of you who have taken the time to email me personally and to whom I have not yet responded… I tend to have limited online time, but really appreciate all the emails I've been getting — they make me smile!)  And so… on to the questions:

1.  Have you been able to find any Dr. Pepper there in Brazil?  Much to my great distress, I am living a dr. pepper free life here in the land of beautiful bronzed bodies.  Luckily for me, however, I am able to consume the occasional coke.  It's just not the same, of course, but in times of extreme paucity, one must make do with what one has.

2. Have you been able to consume your regular gallon of salsa and 5 bags of chips per week there?  Much to my even greater distress, the Brazilians do not believe in either chips or salsa.  Instead, they believe in the almighty Cat Chup (that would be ketchup for the less discerning eye), which they pour on everything from pasta to popcorn.  I have yet to see a single human being eat cat chup on their french fries.

3.  How easy is it to remain vegetarian?  Now that I have made it past my original misconception that the word “carne” (literally, meat) has the same connotation here as it does back home, I have a lot less difficulty maintaining my vegetarian status.  Originally, I would ask for dishes without carne and would be invariably directed to a variety of dishes that upon closer reflection included pork or chicken.  People here just don't understand what it means to be vegetarian.  I am constantly asked so you don't eat carne, right (which I originally replied yes to, but later discovered ONLY covers beef).  I have since learned to specify that I don't eat beef, pork, chicken OR fish, which usually garners me some very strange looks and invariably results in me eating a variety of salads and side items. But hey, at least it's not some pork pie masquerading as a vegetarian dish.

4.  What's the weather like in Brazil (I think this person was having trouble coming up with something exciting to ask, but hey…)  Well, it's winter here, which for Brazilians means that they walk around in jeans and short-sleeved shirts and come nightfall, shiver and complain that it's too cold.  Oh, and they limit their ocean swimming to the hottest hours of the day (mid-afternoon).  For me, it means that I walk around in shorts and tank tops all the time and stare in open-mouthed amazement when my 10-year old host brother (who lives in the Northeast, where it's “really hot”) comes downstairs every morning dressed in shorts and a giant winter coat (I didn't even know they HAD winter coats here!)  Imagine… an entire country colder than ME!!

5.  Is that your program at http://www.ku.edu/~brasilis/summer.html?  Yes, this is the website where you can read my itinerary and class schedule for the summer (no, there are no pictures posted, although I have it on good authority that the director of the program is planning to upload some photos to the website one of these days).  And yes, we are actually taking capoeira classes three times a week.  What is capoeira, you might ask?  Well, basically, it's the Brazilian form of martial arts that often looks like dancing, it's so seamless (when you do it right of course, which for me, is never).  In my case, it's more like 4 hours of torture every week, where I'm forced to make my body do things that it was never meant to do (under no circumstances should my legs EVER go over my head in that fashion!)

6.  Are you ever coming home?  Despite persistent rumours that I am having so much fun here fighting off the mosquitoes, rocketing down the rapids of Brazil, fishing giant bumblebees out of my yogurt, paying for slow internet connections, running for my life every time I cross the street due to crazy Brazilian drivers who do not believe in stopping (or even slowing down) for any reason whatsoever, watching all my favorite movies dubbed in Portuguese which means I don't get shivers down my back every time Sean Connery speaks, and spending endless hours three days a week in extremely BORING Portuguese classes where I am supposed to speak like Brazilians (not in that crazy Portuguese accent)… YES, I am coming home.  August 10th.