Last January, I spent a week Tegucigalpa, Honduras, translating for a group of American doctors that were running medical clinics in the outlying towns and villages. I have absolutely no medical knowledge and before that, considered myself to be squeamish around dental matters. After five days translating and assisting with extractions I conquered my fear of teeth and discovered a passion for missions.
In Lima, we are close friends with a family who came to Lima to provide medical care to the areas outside of the city. They work not only to provide well check ups to children through Compassion International, but also to host short term teams who come to Peru for week long medical campaigns. On several occasions, I have had the privilege to tag along, help with registration and translate as needed.
This past week, a team from California was here to run a campaign in a small town in the mountains. The further east you go, the more mountainous the area becomes. This treacherous geography comes with an array of difficulties, homes are often unstable, their only access to water is what is brought in by trucks, transportation is sparse, jobs are hard to find and the winters are cold. The sandy mountains are unable to sustain plant life, so the whole town blends into one dusty, brown background.
On the first day, we arranged for the medical and dental clinics to be held in separate buildings. This change of plans meant that we had to carry all of the dental equipment to the second building. I grabbed a dental tray, complete with tubes for suction, spray for water and space for instruments then I began my walk up the hill. As I walked, I took in the scenery around me and then I thought, "This is where I am right now." Never before could I have imagined walking up that rocky mountain. I could have never dreamed that I would be able to translate between a Peruvian dentist and American dental hygienist. I never thought about medical missions. I was hit with the overwhelming feeling that "This is my life, I have a dental tray slung over my shoulder and I am making my way up a mountain, getting lost in the fog."
I was startlingly aware of how small I am in comparison to the whole world. I was taking up just a small bit of land on the side of the mountain. I felt minuscule when compared to the size of the mountain, the size of Lima, the size of Peru, the size of the rest of the world that looks nothing like that dusty mountain.
That moment made me thankful for Peru. Thankful that this country has given me an opportunity to explore a part of the world and a part of me that I never would have found had I not settled here. I could have never imagined it, but it also couldn't be more perfect.
Showing posts with label Adjustments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adjustments. Show all posts
Flip Flopping
I have a love hate relationship with Peru. Last Sunday, 36 hours after arriving in Lima, I woke up a nervous wreck and burst into tears. It took three tries to get out the words, "I just miss you guys," when I called my family on Skype.
Fast forward to last night's commute home and I was in love with Lima. On my hour long, rush hour commute I felt like I can't give up on Peru. Even amidst the horns, the traffic and the crazy drivers, I saw all the good things that I love. Peru feels like a odd fitting dress- I try and try to make it work, but something always feels off. However, I can't bring myself to get rid of it. I surely hope this is some kind of strange expat syndrome because all this "I love Peru- I can't stand Peru-I love Peru" is making me feel like a crazy person.
In the middle of that limbo, I went to the bank to deposit American dollars. The teller told me that I couldn't deposit one $20 bill because it had a small rip in it, then she handed it back to me. I was furious. It's just $20, so it's not really important, but on the basic principle I was mad. I brought that bill from the States so I know's it's legitimate, just a little worn. Old Meghan would just take it and smile. American Meghan would apologize for the mistake. But somehow in all this, a new Meghan has emerged and I looked at her and said,
"Well, I know it's real. I brought it from the States last week."
I stopped myself there but so badly wanted to ask, "Would you like to see my plane ticket?"
I walked to the supermarket, still fuming but also thinking about how much more hardcore I have become since living here. I won't let Peru walk all over me. There's a love/hate moment for you.
Fast forward to last night's commute home and I was in love with Lima. On my hour long, rush hour commute I felt like I can't give up on Peru. Even amidst the horns, the traffic and the crazy drivers, I saw all the good things that I love. Peru feels like a odd fitting dress- I try and try to make it work, but something always feels off. However, I can't bring myself to get rid of it. I surely hope this is some kind of strange expat syndrome because all this "I love Peru- I can't stand Peru-I love Peru" is making me feel like a crazy person.
In the middle of that limbo, I went to the bank to deposit American dollars. The teller told me that I couldn't deposit one $20 bill because it had a small rip in it, then she handed it back to me. I was furious. It's just $20, so it's not really important, but on the basic principle I was mad. I brought that bill from the States so I know's it's legitimate, just a little worn. Old Meghan would just take it and smile. American Meghan would apologize for the mistake. But somehow in all this, a new Meghan has emerged and I looked at her and said,
"Well, I know it's real. I brought it from the States last week."
I stopped myself there but so badly wanted to ask, "Would you like to see my plane ticket?"
I walked to the supermarket, still fuming but also thinking about how much more hardcore I have become since living here. I won't let Peru walk all over me. There's a love/hate moment for you.
On Eavesdropping
Yesterday I was eating lunch in a local deli and catching up on my latest Kindle download. Halfway through my mac and cheese, two women sat down at a table near mine. Before taking her first bite, one woman began to tell her friend how all she wants is to have a few friends. She lamented that it's hard to make friends in a new city if you're not school, "Where do you find them?" she asked. Next she began explaining that her only social interaction consists of time with her boyfriend's grad school classmates. "All they talk about is school and gossip. Who sent this email, who responded and who didn't. Can you believe the professor did that? How could he?" She complained of being the only non-grad student and that she felt out of place in their academic circle.
Over the last eighteen months I have had the same exchange with Alvaro countless times: They all speak so fast. I don't know anything about law. You have all been friends for years, how can I be a part of that? It's been a long, slow process but I can now be a part of his group of friends without being a nervous wreck.
While eavesdropping, I realized that being in Lima has changed my view of social difficulties. If I were in the same situation as that woman, I would find one person to chat with and slowly build allies. I would try my hardest to be involved, because I no longer had language as a crutch. I would have to do it because I can already hear Alvaro saying to me, "You can do it! They all speak English!" And that thought scared me a little. Well thanks, Lima, you've just raised the bar.
Over the last eighteen months I have had the same exchange with Alvaro countless times: They all speak so fast. I don't know anything about law. You have all been friends for years, how can I be a part of that? It's been a long, slow process but I can now be a part of his group of friends without being a nervous wreck.
While eavesdropping, I realized that being in Lima has changed my view of social difficulties. If I were in the same situation as that woman, I would find one person to chat with and slowly build allies. I would try my hardest to be involved, because I no longer had language as a crutch. I would have to do it because I can already hear Alvaro saying to me, "You can do it! They all speak English!" And that thought scared me a little. Well thanks, Lima, you've just raised the bar.
Names
A few days ago as I was riding on a bus and I instinctively responded when addressed as "Señorita". Although I've lived in Lima well over twenty months, I'm still surprised at how easily I answer to my long list of new names. In the States I would simply be called "Meghan," "ma'am," or "miss". Don't get me wrong, my heart jumps for joy when a Southern gentleman calls me "ma'am" or "miss" but I think I prefer the endearing nature of my following new names:
Meghan (pronounced as a mix between "May-gone" or "May- gun")
Meghancita- little Meghan
Miss Meghan- all female teachers are addressed as "Miss"
Missita- little Miss Meghan
Señorita
Amiga- friend
Linda- cute
Mi hija- literally "my daughter" but sometimes used to speak to younger generations
Mi hijita- the same thing but diminutive
Flaquita- skinny
Mami- literally "mommy" but sometimes used to address women
Mamita- little mommy
Meghan (pronounced as a mix between "May-gone" or "May- gun")
Meghancita- little Meghan
Miss Meghan- all female teachers are addressed as "Miss"
Missita- little Miss Meghan
Señorita
Amiga- friend
Linda- cute
Mi hija- literally "my daughter" but sometimes used to speak to younger generations
Mi hijita- the same thing but diminutive
Flaquita- skinny
Mami- literally "mommy" but sometimes used to address women
Mamita- little mommy
Bridal Brunch
Over the course of the last year and a half, I have received a slow induction to Peruvian culture and today I crossed another milestone: Peruvian wedding festivities.
When I was invited to the brunch, I was flattered but slightly confused. I have been around the bride only a handful of times. I work with her mom and we also have a mutual friend, but I didn't feel like we were close enough to merit an invite. I was thrilled to be invited but also terrified when reality hit me: I know nothing about Peruvian weddings.
One day this week, on the way to school, the teacher I ride with gave me a full introduction to Peruvian wedding traditions. I asked her every question I could think of: What do I wear? Do I bring a gift? How long does this last? Do I show up on time or on "Peruvian time"?
Thankfully we had that conversation because otherwise I would have gone about this all wrong. I would have brought a present, not money which is expected. I would have called with an RSVP which isn't necessary. I would have showed up at 10am and probably been the only one there.
This was unlike the small, intimate bridal lunch I had imagined. We walked into the second floor of a restaurant and were greeted by over one hundred smiley, ecstatic women. A friend of mine came with me and we were seated at one of the two tables reserved for people from the school. As we looked around we noticed that we were the youngest ones, by at least two decades. But it didn't matter, we snacked on sandwiches and discussed the history of the school. The sweet, elderly religion teacher flagged down a waiter to order my first algarrobina- a cocktail made with pisco and the syrup of a Peruvian tree.
There was lots of hugging and smiles. Lots of chatting and excitement regarding the upcoming nuptials. When the groom arrived with a dozen roses, the whole room squealed in unison. I looked around and felt comfortable, the check kissing and the excitement feels natural. What once would have terrified me- a room full of 100 chatty Peruvian women- now feels like second nature. I now have one more milestone in my extensive training on how to be semi-Peruvian.
When I was invited to the brunch, I was flattered but slightly confused. I have been around the bride only a handful of times. I work with her mom and we also have a mutual friend, but I didn't feel like we were close enough to merit an invite. I was thrilled to be invited but also terrified when reality hit me: I know nothing about Peruvian weddings.
One day this week, on the way to school, the teacher I ride with gave me a full introduction to Peruvian wedding traditions. I asked her every question I could think of: What do I wear? Do I bring a gift? How long does this last? Do I show up on time or on "Peruvian time"?
Thankfully we had that conversation because otherwise I would have gone about this all wrong. I would have brought a present, not money which is expected. I would have called with an RSVP which isn't necessary. I would have showed up at 10am and probably been the only one there.
This was unlike the small, intimate bridal lunch I had imagined. We walked into the second floor of a restaurant and were greeted by over one hundred smiley, ecstatic women. A friend of mine came with me and we were seated at one of the two tables reserved for people from the school. As we looked around we noticed that we were the youngest ones, by at least two decades. But it didn't matter, we snacked on sandwiches and discussed the history of the school. The sweet, elderly religion teacher flagged down a waiter to order my first algarrobina- a cocktail made with pisco and the syrup of a Peruvian tree.
There was lots of hugging and smiles. Lots of chatting and excitement regarding the upcoming nuptials. When the groom arrived with a dozen roses, the whole room squealed in unison. I looked around and felt comfortable, the check kissing and the excitement feels natural. What once would have terrified me- a room full of 100 chatty Peruvian women- now feels like second nature. I now have one more milestone in my extensive training on how to be semi-Peruvian.
The Panic
After an emotionally draining two months, everything has finally settled.
In February, after I came back from my extended trip to the States, life in Peru was a whirlwind of emotions. Shortly after arriving home, my American roommate told me that she would be going back to the States much earlier than expected, but by no fault of her own. Unfortunately, the program she came to work for simply wasn't working out and for a multitude of emotional, personal, financial and sanity reasons, she chose to go home. If I were in her situation I would have done the same thing.
But this news installed sheer panic in me. For nearly 10 days I agonized over what to do.
Option #1: Stay in Peru and find a new apartment, struggle to make ends meet, move once again, be lonely, fight transportation and homesickness. But be close to Alvaro.
Option #2: Go back to the States and go to grad school, be close to my parents, be close to my friends, revel in Southern culture, speak English, save a bunch of money and beginning making steps to recreate my life in the States. Oh, and be away from Alvaro.
I cried and cried and fought and thought and cried some more. I had endless Skype conversations with my dad. One of those ended in me being very upset and screaming, "Just tell me what to do!!" To which he calmly replied, "Meghan, as a good father, I can not do that." Hmph, parental logic.
So I made the decision. I would leave Peru. I quit my job but that was the only step I took towards going home. I didn't buy a plane ticket. I didn't talk to my landlady. The only thing I did was blame a "complicated immigration process" on my obvious procrastination.
When I resigned, my boss requested that I come in for one week at the beginning of the school year until my replacement was hired. Ten days later I went back to work. Early Monday morning he said, "Good news! We found your replacement!" but for some reason all I could respond with was:
"I'm having second thoughts."
He told me that my job was already offered to someone else so morally, he had to give it to her. However, there might be another option. "Check back with me at the end of the day," he said.
Word began to spend among the teachers that I was going back to the States. Immediately I received numerous offers to help with finding an apartment. I was overwhelmed by the help and support my school community offered to me and before the end of the first day, I knew I wanted to stay.
On Tuesday, I met with my boss and he offered me another job. By Tuesday afternoon, another teacher had found a place for me to live. All of the pieces fell into place, it was the perfect sign that I needed to stay. On Monday at 11am, it was publicly announced that I would be going back to the States. On Tuesday at 3pm, I made the decision to stay.
As my decision settled, I realized that staying is what I wanted all along. I chose to leave based on rational decisions (finances, convenience, etc.) but didn't give any real thought to my emotions. When I told my dad that I had decided to stay he said, "I had a feeling that you would make the decision." Of course, my dad always knows best. It just took me a little longer to see it.
In February, after I came back from my extended trip to the States, life in Peru was a whirlwind of emotions. Shortly after arriving home, my American roommate told me that she would be going back to the States much earlier than expected, but by no fault of her own. Unfortunately, the program she came to work for simply wasn't working out and for a multitude of emotional, personal, financial and sanity reasons, she chose to go home. If I were in her situation I would have done the same thing.
But this news installed sheer panic in me. For nearly 10 days I agonized over what to do.
Option #1: Stay in Peru and find a new apartment, struggle to make ends meet, move once again, be lonely, fight transportation and homesickness. But be close to Alvaro.
Option #2: Go back to the States and go to grad school, be close to my parents, be close to my friends, revel in Southern culture, speak English, save a bunch of money and beginning making steps to recreate my life in the States. Oh, and be away from Alvaro.
I cried and cried and fought and thought and cried some more. I had endless Skype conversations with my dad. One of those ended in me being very upset and screaming, "Just tell me what to do!!" To which he calmly replied, "Meghan, as a good father, I can not do that." Hmph, parental logic.
So I made the decision. I would leave Peru. I quit my job but that was the only step I took towards going home. I didn't buy a plane ticket. I didn't talk to my landlady. The only thing I did was blame a "complicated immigration process" on my obvious procrastination.
When I resigned, my boss requested that I come in for one week at the beginning of the school year until my replacement was hired. Ten days later I went back to work. Early Monday morning he said, "Good news! We found your replacement!" but for some reason all I could respond with was:
"I'm having second thoughts."
He told me that my job was already offered to someone else so morally, he had to give it to her. However, there might be another option. "Check back with me at the end of the day," he said.
Word began to spend among the teachers that I was going back to the States. Immediately I received numerous offers to help with finding an apartment. I was overwhelmed by the help and support my school community offered to me and before the end of the first day, I knew I wanted to stay.
On Tuesday, I met with my boss and he offered me another job. By Tuesday afternoon, another teacher had found a place for me to live. All of the pieces fell into place, it was the perfect sign that I needed to stay. On Monday at 11am, it was publicly announced that I would be going back to the States. On Tuesday at 3pm, I made the decision to stay.
As my decision settled, I realized that staying is what I wanted all along. I chose to leave based on rational decisions (finances, convenience, etc.) but didn't give any real thought to my emotions. When I told my dad that I had decided to stay he said, "I had a feeling that you would make the decision." Of course, my dad always knows best. It just took me a little longer to see it.
Moving, moving.
Finally, the last box is unpacked. Who knew one could acquire so many things in one year? I came here with three suitcases and a cat. I moved with four suitcases, seven boxes and a cat. Everything is in its place. Now I need to finish off with the things I deem necessary but evidently my land lady doesn´t deem necessary for a furnished apartment. Like a paper towel holder and bathmats and a dish drying rack that is well designed. Oh yes, and the internet and cable.
The cable isn´t that crucial. But internet, that´s serious. I´ve been internet-less for one week now (hence the lack of productivity here on Lady in Lima). I have never been more thankful for my iPhone and its internet. That is until last Friday when my iPhone was flooded by a rouge water bottle and I saw the flashing white light of my phone heading off to the iCloud. On Friday, I was completely internet-less. No contact with the world wide web. With a last shred of hope, I used a blow dryer to dry it out and my phone spent the night in rice. The next morning, a saw a faint screen. I plugged it in and it was alive! An iPhone miracle! There was a small water mark on the screen that eventually dried out over the last few days and now it´s like nothing happened. Thank you, Apple & dear Steve Jobs, for your amazing technology.
My cable company came last Saturday to install the antennae. The guy tried to install it on the roof for thirty minutes and then left to "go get something from [his] car". Five minutes later, Alvaro got a phone call from the company saying that the techinican left because he can´t reach the place to put the antennae since it is "out of normal height range". They would be happy to send another technician to install the system once we found "a tall enough later for him to reach it". Hm. Forgive me for thinking that was his responsibilty.
Needless to say, I´m switching to digital cable which doesn´t require an antennae and thus an extra tall ladder.
We are settling in. Miss Emmaline loves all the extra space and I am constantly amazed at the enormity of my apartment. It´s only 90 square meters, but easily double the size of my last place. Walking from the kitchen to my bedroom takes an eternity! And the best part? For the first time since December 2008, I have laundry in my apartment. Cheers all around!
The cable isn´t that crucial. But internet, that´s serious. I´ve been internet-less for one week now (hence the lack of productivity here on Lady in Lima). I have never been more thankful for my iPhone and its internet. That is until last Friday when my iPhone was flooded by a rouge water bottle and I saw the flashing white light of my phone heading off to the iCloud. On Friday, I was completely internet-less. No contact with the world wide web. With a last shred of hope, I used a blow dryer to dry it out and my phone spent the night in rice. The next morning, a saw a faint screen. I plugged it in and it was alive! An iPhone miracle! There was a small water mark on the screen that eventually dried out over the last few days and now it´s like nothing happened. Thank you, Apple & dear Steve Jobs, for your amazing technology.
My cable company came last Saturday to install the antennae. The guy tried to install it on the roof for thirty minutes and then left to "go get something from [his] car". Five minutes later, Alvaro got a phone call from the company saying that the techinican left because he can´t reach the place to put the antennae since it is "out of normal height range". They would be happy to send another technician to install the system once we found "a tall enough later for him to reach it". Hm. Forgive me for thinking that was his responsibilty.
Needless to say, I´m switching to digital cable which doesn´t require an antennae and thus an extra tall ladder.
We are settling in. Miss Emmaline loves all the extra space and I am constantly amazed at the enormity of my apartment. It´s only 90 square meters, but easily double the size of my last place. Walking from the kitchen to my bedroom takes an eternity! And the best part? For the first time since December 2008, I have laundry in my apartment. Cheers all around!
Weekend Patterns
I have a love/hate relationship with my weekends in Lima.
I love them because for two full days I don't have to listen to twenty three children simultaneously yelling: "Miss! I need a pencil! How do you write cousin? Martin just said stupid!" A weekend is two days when I can feel like an adult and don't have to spend my day babysitting Lego Ninjas. I can read and cook and watch an obscene number of episodes of Friday Night Lights.
But, my Peruvian weekends are monotonous and predictable. I have fallen into a pattern of doing the same things, seeing the same people and going to the same places. Sometimes I want to do something new, adventurous and Peruvian, but it usually doesn't get very far.
When I studied in Germany, I felt invincible. There's really no other word for it. If I had a day to myself, I spent time reading in the park, or eating a sandwich by the river or taking a tram to some as-of-yet-unexplored part of Dresden. I reveled in my freedom and basked in my alone time. I was able to do a fair bit of traveling, most of which I did by myself. Embarking on long train rides, waiting in airports and making friends with my hostel roommates. Being alone was refreshing.
I am experiencing the complete opposite in Lima. About two weeks after I arrived in Lima, I walked by myself for the first time. I distinctly remember thinking, "There is not a single person in the whole world who knows where I am right now." It felt like a very small girl in a big, scary city. Never before had I felt such vulnerability.
My common sense is sending me contradictory messages.
1. You are over exaggerating all your fears.
2. For one thousand different reasons, Peru is not Germany.
I think there is truth in both of those statements and now my challenge is to find the middle. I might not be traveling alone or eating lunch by the river, but that doesn't mean I have to get stuck in a pattern simply because things are different. Peru isn't Germany and it's not the United States. So my life here will look different. I need to give myself a little push, just a nudge, and step a tad bit more out of my comfort zone.
I love them because for two full days I don't have to listen to twenty three children simultaneously yelling: "Miss! I need a pencil! How do you write cousin? Martin just said stupid!" A weekend is two days when I can feel like an adult and don't have to spend my day babysitting Lego Ninjas. I can read and cook and watch an obscene number of episodes of Friday Night Lights.
But, my Peruvian weekends are monotonous and predictable. I have fallen into a pattern of doing the same things, seeing the same people and going to the same places. Sometimes I want to do something new, adventurous and Peruvian, but it usually doesn't get very far.
When I studied in Germany, I felt invincible. There's really no other word for it. If I had a day to myself, I spent time reading in the park, or eating a sandwich by the river or taking a tram to some as-of-yet-unexplored part of Dresden. I reveled in my freedom and basked in my alone time. I was able to do a fair bit of traveling, most of which I did by myself. Embarking on long train rides, waiting in airports and making friends with my hostel roommates. Being alone was refreshing.
I am experiencing the complete opposite in Lima. About two weeks after I arrived in Lima, I walked by myself for the first time. I distinctly remember thinking, "There is not a single person in the whole world who knows where I am right now." It felt like a very small girl in a big, scary city. Never before had I felt such vulnerability.
My common sense is sending me contradictory messages.
1. You are over exaggerating all your fears.
2. For one thousand different reasons, Peru is not Germany.
I think there is truth in both of those statements and now my challenge is to find the middle. I might not be traveling alone or eating lunch by the river, but that doesn't mean I have to get stuck in a pattern simply because things are different. Peru isn't Germany and it's not the United States. So my life here will look different. I need to give myself a little push, just a nudge, and step a tad bit more out of my comfort zone.
The dreaded double "rr"
Today is the day I have been dreading for weeks.
My children are learning to read and write by working through every letter of the alphabet. When a new letter is introduced they listen to a small story that features an abundance of the the new letter. Such as,
I knew this day would come, I was simply waiting for the humiliation. One of the things I find most fascinating about languages, is the difficulties non-native speakers have when trying to pronounce difficult native sounds.
For example,
1. "th" in English is incredibly difficult for Spanish speakers because there is no such sound in Spanish
2. The German umlaut (ü) is one of the impassable barriers between my German and the German I would like to have. I once told a receptionist that I need to "push my paper" because I can't correctly pronounce the difference between "drücken" (to push) and "drucken" (to print).
3. Then there is the horrible rolling of the "r". This hinders me from distinguishing between words like "dog" & "but" and "car" & "expensive"
Today my kids learned the "rr". Last week they learned about "rr"'s weak Superhero friend, the single "r". This weak "r" is scared by vowels so he makes a very quiet sound. But strong "rr" isn't afraid and makes a loud rolling sound.
The Spanish teacher left the room for a while so I had to help the students and needed to tell them words like "cart" and "vineyard," all with the "rr". I took to simply writing them down because I can't properly pronounce them and felt like I was hindering their understanding of the differences between the sounds.
When the teacher came back, I sheepishly told her that I can't roll my "r"s and using hand drawn illustrations, showed me how I can properly train my tongue to make the sound. She finished her explanation by saying, "You simply need to train the tongue. Since there are very few strong sounds in English your mouth is weak."
Hmph. At least I've still got "th".
My children are learning to read and write by working through every letter of the alphabet. When a new letter is introduced they listen to a small story that features an abundance of the the new letter. Such as,
"La llama llorona esta llorando porque se perdió su llave."
(The crying llama is crying because she lost her key.)Clearly that lesson is about the "ll".
I knew this day would come, I was simply waiting for the humiliation. One of the things I find most fascinating about languages, is the difficulties non-native speakers have when trying to pronounce difficult native sounds.
For example,
1. "th" in English is incredibly difficult for Spanish speakers because there is no such sound in Spanish
2. The German umlaut (ü) is one of the impassable barriers between my German and the German I would like to have. I once told a receptionist that I need to "push my paper" because I can't correctly pronounce the difference between "drücken" (to push) and "drucken" (to print).
3. Then there is the horrible rolling of the "r". This hinders me from distinguishing between words like "dog" & "but" and "car" & "expensive"
Today my kids learned the "rr". Last week they learned about "rr"'s weak Superhero friend, the single "r". This weak "r" is scared by vowels so he makes a very quiet sound. But strong "rr" isn't afraid and makes a loud rolling sound.
The Spanish teacher left the room for a while so I had to help the students and needed to tell them words like "cart" and "vineyard," all with the "rr". I took to simply writing them down because I can't properly pronounce them and felt like I was hindering their understanding of the differences between the sounds.
When the teacher came back, I sheepishly told her that I can't roll my "r"s and using hand drawn illustrations, showed me how I can properly train my tongue to make the sound. She finished her explanation by saying, "You simply need to train the tongue. Since there are very few strong sounds in English your mouth is weak."
Hmph. At least I've still got "th".
A Lima tremor
I have been working at the school for just over four months and so far we have had three earthquake drills. The first time, I knew we would be having a drill so I treated it appropriately. The second time I was walking back to my classroom from the printer when the siren sounded. There was a little jump in my chest, my steps quickened and I briefly thought, "Alright, here we go..." But alas, another drill. Two weeks ago was National Earthquake Drill Day so I was obviously prepared for the sirens.
Last Wednesday, I was sitting in my classroom, eating my lunch when the sirens sounded. My first thought was, "Another drill? Seriously?!" I rushed out of the classroom to my designated concentration zone and waited for my children. Less than ten seconds later, I felt the ground move as if there was a wave beneath the concrete. Simultaneously, I looked across the courtyard and saw the windows shaking.
During a drill, once everyone has gathered we move to a final evacuation point. But on Wednesday, the director simply said, "Nobody move and please be silent." In that moment I knew, this was for real.
I would later learn that the tremor we felt in Lima was an effect of the 7.0 earthquake that hit Pucallpa, Peru, in the Amazon. Thankfully, there were only two dozen reported injuries from the quake. It was an interesting experience because it was my first tremor. I spent my childhood in Florida and college years in Tennessee so I am more familiar with hurricanes and tornadoes. Earthquakes are a whole new challenge for me.
What we felt in Lima was so minor, that a lot of residents didn't even feel the movement. To be honest, the sirens heightened my awareness of the situation. Had they not sounded, I too might not have felt it. I was however, relieved to know that I was calm throughout the whole event. I had feared that my first earthquake would be a traumatizing experience. Thankfully, Peru was spared from major damage.
Natural disasters seem to be all over the news this week. Thinking of all my fellow Americans along the eastern seaboard who are currently braving Irene's winds.
Last Wednesday, I was sitting in my classroom, eating my lunch when the sirens sounded. My first thought was, "Another drill? Seriously?!" I rushed out of the classroom to my designated concentration zone and waited for my children. Less than ten seconds later, I felt the ground move as if there was a wave beneath the concrete. Simultaneously, I looked across the courtyard and saw the windows shaking.
During a drill, once everyone has gathered we move to a final evacuation point. But on Wednesday, the director simply said, "Nobody move and please be silent." In that moment I knew, this was for real.
I would later learn that the tremor we felt in Lima was an effect of the 7.0 earthquake that hit Pucallpa, Peru, in the Amazon. Thankfully, there were only two dozen reported injuries from the quake. It was an interesting experience because it was my first tremor. I spent my childhood in Florida and college years in Tennessee so I am more familiar with hurricanes and tornadoes. Earthquakes are a whole new challenge for me.
What we felt in Lima was so minor, that a lot of residents didn't even feel the movement. To be honest, the sirens heightened my awareness of the situation. Had they not sounded, I too might not have felt it. I was however, relieved to know that I was calm throughout the whole event. I had feared that my first earthquake would be a traumatizing experience. Thankfully, Peru was spared from major damage.
Natural disasters seem to be all over the news this week. Thinking of all my fellow Americans along the eastern seaboard who are currently braving Irene's winds.
Routines
I can't find a routine.
Before quitting my language institute job, I daydreamed about how I would spend my newfound free time. I will go to yoga and Skype with my family. I will blog regularly and plan my meals. I will clean frequently and pick up writing again. I will be a über productive, creative machine.
None of that has happened.
During my three week vacation, I accomplished very little. I had all these lofty goals for what I could get done but spent most of those weeks simply enjoying all the freedom. I went from a 70 hour work week to a 0 hour work week and couldn't get enough of doing nothing. Then I felt frustrated by what I perceived as lost time but was comforted by my dads' words that sometimes "it takes a while to be creative again."
I'm back to working and am just now beginning to sort out my normal work week routine. Slowly, very slowly, it feels like I am developing a normal pace of life. Balanced between my job and caring for my apartment, my writing and myself, I can see a glimmer of the "normal" post-grad life I have been seeking since graduating well over a year ago.
The only surprisingly, not very "normal" thing about it is that I happen to be doing all this in Lima, Peru. I sure didn't see that one coming while I was waiting to walk across the stage. But I have learned that normalcy fluctuates and this is where I am. Honestly, I couldn't be happier about my space in this little corner of the world.
Before quitting my language institute job, I daydreamed about how I would spend my newfound free time. I will go to yoga and Skype with my family. I will blog regularly and plan my meals. I will clean frequently and pick up writing again. I will be a über productive, creative machine.
None of that has happened.
During my three week vacation, I accomplished very little. I had all these lofty goals for what I could get done but spent most of those weeks simply enjoying all the freedom. I went from a 70 hour work week to a 0 hour work week and couldn't get enough of doing nothing. Then I felt frustrated by what I perceived as lost time but was comforted by my dads' words that sometimes "it takes a while to be creative again."
I'm back to working and am just now beginning to sort out my normal work week routine. Slowly, very slowly, it feels like I am developing a normal pace of life. Balanced between my job and caring for my apartment, my writing and myself, I can see a glimmer of the "normal" post-grad life I have been seeking since graduating well over a year ago.
The only surprisingly, not very "normal" thing about it is that I happen to be doing all this in Lima, Peru. I sure didn't see that one coming while I was waiting to walk across the stage. But I have learned that normalcy fluctuates and this is where I am. Honestly, I couldn't be happier about my space in this little corner of the world.
Traffic Chaos
When we were in the United States a few weeks ago, someone actually congratulated us on surviving traffic in Lima. I accepted the congratulations with great sincerity because surviving traffic in Lima is no easy feat.
I come from a land full of kind, orderly, overly sympathetic Southern drivers. If you need to get over to another lane, simply put on your blinker and a kind driver will welcome you in front of them with a warm wave. Once you find your place in the lane, a small thank you wave is exchanged and there is harmony in the world. If the traffic lights are not working, the intersection becomes a four way stop and drivers patiently wait their turn in line. As I wait my turn I usually think, "Look at how nice humans can be to one another."
And then in Lima, simply driving down the street is an exercise in survival of the fittest. This no holding back, let the biggest car win approach to driving has completely dissolved my desire to drive in Lima. My boyfriend's mom tells me, "...but you know how to drive, you will be fine." Not exactly.
I know how to drive in a state of orderly drivers who respect traffic lanes. I know how to drive in a city with traffic laws that are actually laws and not mere suggestions. I know how to drive in a place where a stop sign means stop, not honk-your-horn-as-you-pass-through-the-intersection-to-tell-the-other-cars-that-you-are-coming.
Lima is the only city I have ever been in where cars in the right hand turn lane, dart forward after the light changes, go across several lanes of traffic and make a left turn. He with the larger car wins.
Today, I received this video as yet another shocking example of the traffic conditions in Lima. I know that the traffic problems and lack of law enforcement are serious issues, but I can't help but to sit in humored awe as I witness the chaos. It's something that to me, a driver from regulated, kind Tennessee, is so bizarre that it can't possibly be real. Now you too can witness the adventure that is driving in the city. You don't need to speak Spanish to understand the video, but I'll give you a hint: that's an exit ramp.
I come from a land full of kind, orderly, overly sympathetic Southern drivers. If you need to get over to another lane, simply put on your blinker and a kind driver will welcome you in front of them with a warm wave. Once you find your place in the lane, a small thank you wave is exchanged and there is harmony in the world. If the traffic lights are not working, the intersection becomes a four way stop and drivers patiently wait their turn in line. As I wait my turn I usually think, "Look at how nice humans can be to one another."
And then in Lima, simply driving down the street is an exercise in survival of the fittest. This no holding back, let the biggest car win approach to driving has completely dissolved my desire to drive in Lima. My boyfriend's mom tells me, "...but you know how to drive, you will be fine." Not exactly.
I know how to drive in a state of orderly drivers who respect traffic lanes. I know how to drive in a city with traffic laws that are actually laws and not mere suggestions. I know how to drive in a place where a stop sign means stop, not honk-your-horn-as-you-pass-through-the-intersection-to-tell-the-other-cars-that-you-are-coming.
Lima is the only city I have ever been in where cars in the right hand turn lane, dart forward after the light changes, go across several lanes of traffic and make a left turn. He with the larger car wins.
Today, I received this video as yet another shocking example of the traffic conditions in Lima. I know that the traffic problems and lack of law enforcement are serious issues, but I can't help but to sit in humored awe as I witness the chaos. It's something that to me, a driver from regulated, kind Tennessee, is so bizarre that it can't possibly be real. Now you too can witness the adventure that is driving in the city. You don't need to speak Spanish to understand the video, but I'll give you a hint: that's an exit ramp.
What can you do?
This morning while driving to work, one of my Peruvian friends began telling me about two stories she heard on the news last night. She shared with me a report about the bleak conditions present in Lima´s firestations. The reporter explained that in most cases, though each station has several fire trucks, at any given time only a couple are operational. Being a firefighter in Lima is not a paid position, so all men and women are volunteers and the stations recieve little if any funding from the government. I have yet to see a a firestation during my time Lima. If one of the city´s high rise apartment buildings were to catch on fire, what could be done?
The following story she shared with me was a feature on the frigidly cold weather conditions in Puno, Peru. This area is underdeveloped and poverty stricken. Due to the lack of resources, often time residents become very ill due to the cold. She told me that the Regional President of Puno spoke on the news and said, "They keep telling me that money is coming, but I haven´t seen it yet. I have been here for five months and I haven´t seen any of it."
As I learn more and more about the complicated workings of the Peruvian government and social programs, I am overhwlemed by the sheer volume of obstacles facing anyone who would like to make a positive change. Money, food and blankets are important means of help, but Peru needs more than that. There are problems that are so deepy institutionalized, that it appears to me that it would take decades to change the system. It breaks my heart to see the enormous volume of need in the city around me and yet I don´t know where the help should begin.
No matter where you are in the world, there are problems which are staggeringly overwhelming. How do you cope with feeling helpless?
The following story she shared with me was a feature on the frigidly cold weather conditions in Puno, Peru. This area is underdeveloped and poverty stricken. Due to the lack of resources, often time residents become very ill due to the cold. She told me that the Regional President of Puno spoke on the news and said, "They keep telling me that money is coming, but I haven´t seen it yet. I have been here for five months and I haven´t seen any of it."
As I learn more and more about the complicated workings of the Peruvian government and social programs, I am overhwlemed by the sheer volume of obstacles facing anyone who would like to make a positive change. Money, food and blankets are important means of help, but Peru needs more than that. There are problems that are so deepy institutionalized, that it appears to me that it would take decades to change the system. It breaks my heart to see the enormous volume of need in the city around me and yet I don´t know where the help should begin.
No matter where you are in the world, there are problems which are staggeringly overwhelming. How do you cope with feeling helpless?
Peruvian Weather
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| Please note the general lack of variety in Lima's weather. |
Ask a Limean about the weather outside and most likely you will get one of two responses:
"It's sunny." or "It's not sunny."
For the first few months that I was here, this exchange caused me endless frustration. Telling me about the amount of sun in the sky does little to inform me about the outside temperature. Oh so I thought.
In Nashville, I couldn't leave the house without consulting the weather. During the winter, I needed to know the day's high in order to know how many layers to wear. During the summer, I needed to know if I should expect a cool summer breeze. Well, now that we are solidly into Lima's winter, I understand why no one speaks of the weather in temperatures: because it doesn't matter.
In the morning when I leave for work, it's usually cloudy and grey. The air has a coolness that cuts through my trench coat. If the sun stays hidden behind the clouds, the weather stays the same for the whole day. On these days my fingers turn to ice and I wear my coat the whole day. I spend most of the day wondering: How can 60 degrees feel so cold? However, if the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, the day warms up and I am transported once again to summer days. Forget about those perfect winter days when the air is crisp but the sun welcomes you to be outside, bundled in your warmest kints. I have unfortunately come to the conclusion that they don't exist here. When the sun is out, it's hot. End of story.
The Countdown
And the countdown begins.
I have been working too much. It's as simple as that. Quite by accident, I have been working 70+ hours per week since the middle of April. I went to the United States a couple of weeks ago and the night before my return flight, I broke down in my parent's living room. The thought of returning to Lima and working that much crippled me. After a long conversation with my dad (Happy Father's Day!), it was very, very clear that I needed to quit one of my jobs. The exhaustion that I feel from working so much prevents me from exploring Lima. The decision was made: I'm quitting.
I couldn't feel better about it. Peru requires a 30 day notice when leaving a position (which feels like forever). I am, however, six days into that period. Only 24 to go. To help me count the days, I have made a paper chain, reminiscent of my days in the second grade, and I take great satisfaction in removing one each evening.
Only 24 days until yoga, blogging, reading, cooking, baking, writing and time with Ms. Emmaline.
Hooray!
Food Wars
Now almost seven months into my new life in Lima, the one thing that I simply can not adjust to is eating a big lunch. I can't do it. I have tried and tired and tired. It's customary to eat a large lunch (think American dinner) anywhere from 1-3pm and then to have a light dinner later in the evening sometime around 9pm. The first few months that I was here, I tried to eat large lunches with Alvaro's family. Big meals consisting of meat, veggies and rice or potatoes (but sometimes rice and potatoes) were put in front of me. I was polite and grateful for my new hosts, so I ate. Even though I had a huge lunch, when 7pm rolled around a little voice in my head said, "Ok, Meghan, time for dinner."
When I started my new job a month ago, the first question Alvaro's mom asked me was "What will you be eating for lunch?" I told her that the school offered lunch for all the teachers and she exclaimed that this was, "So wonderful! That's fantastic! You need to eat those big lunches because you are going to be working a lot now and certainly need your strength."
I neglected to tell her that I wasn't planning on eating those lunches, but instead was planning on bringing my own food. The thing is, when lunch rolls around, I crave a salad or fruit and a sandwich. Not a plate full of meat and rice. Nearly every time I see Alvaro's mom or aunts, the conversation somehow leads to my nutritional intake and what kinds of food I am eating and when. On a few occasions, when asked what I had for the meal in question, I have told the truth and been bombarded by four very concerned women fawning over my health.
It's an interesting cultural moment because I can't remember the last time my parents were so interested in the details of my diet. I moved into the college dorm when I was 18 and from that moment on, I was solely responsible for my own nutrition. When I wasn't eating in the university cafeteria, I was cooking my own meals. Admittedly, they were not always the healthiest, but when you live in a dorm with only a microwave as stove, you make some sacrifices. I ate one too many helpings of EasyMac, but I"m around to talk about it so I wasn't harmed too much. Believe it or not, I can feed myself.
In Lima, most children live at home until they are married. The average age for marriage seems to be closer to 30, not in the early 20s like most of my university peers back home. Because of this, parents are more intimately involved in their children's care and nutrition for much longer. I value this and appreciate the family ties it helps to create. However, there's a small part of my independent American self that struggles to fit into this mold.
I have found that my solution is to simply smile and agree. I tell his mom and aunts that somedays I eat at school, even though those days haven't come yet. I reassure them that I am taking my vitamins and eating my protein, all while remembering to drink milk with breakfast. I am doing my best to let them take care of me, while still holding onto me.
When I started my new job a month ago, the first question Alvaro's mom asked me was "What will you be eating for lunch?" I told her that the school offered lunch for all the teachers and she exclaimed that this was, "So wonderful! That's fantastic! You need to eat those big lunches because you are going to be working a lot now and certainly need your strength."
I neglected to tell her that I wasn't planning on eating those lunches, but instead was planning on bringing my own food. The thing is, when lunch rolls around, I crave a salad or fruit and a sandwich. Not a plate full of meat and rice. Nearly every time I see Alvaro's mom or aunts, the conversation somehow leads to my nutritional intake and what kinds of food I am eating and when. On a few occasions, when asked what I had for the meal in question, I have told the truth and been bombarded by four very concerned women fawning over my health.
It's an interesting cultural moment because I can't remember the last time my parents were so interested in the details of my diet. I moved into the college dorm when I was 18 and from that moment on, I was solely responsible for my own nutrition. When I wasn't eating in the university cafeteria, I was cooking my own meals. Admittedly, they were not always the healthiest, but when you live in a dorm with only a microwave as stove, you make some sacrifices. I ate one too many helpings of EasyMac, but I"m around to talk about it so I wasn't harmed too much. Believe it or not, I can feed myself.
In Lima, most children live at home until they are married. The average age for marriage seems to be closer to 30, not in the early 20s like most of my university peers back home. Because of this, parents are more intimately involved in their children's care and nutrition for much longer. I value this and appreciate the family ties it helps to create. However, there's a small part of my independent American self that struggles to fit into this mold.
I have found that my solution is to simply smile and agree. I tell his mom and aunts that somedays I eat at school, even though those days haven't come yet. I reassure them that I am taking my vitamins and eating my protein, all while remembering to drink milk with breakfast. I am doing my best to let them take care of me, while still holding onto me.
Complete Vacuum Chaos
Last Friday, before leaving to go pick up Erin from the airport, I decided to make one last quick vacuum of my apartment. My place came with this tiny, apartment style vacuum that I have always thought was somewhat sub-par. It wasn’t nearly as powerful as my parent’s Animal Hair Picker Upper 2000, but I thought the smaller size and non-animal hair specific qualities could account for the lack of power. Well, last Friday it was pulling up absolutely nothing. After five months of vacuuming cat hair, I decided it was time to investigate changing the bag.
This was going well until I pulled the bag out (along with a giant cloud of dust) and realized that most likely, this bag wasn’t disposable. The plastic cover was an old plastic that was both discolored and brittle with age. The previous owner has seemingly taped the bag back together with brown masking tape. I haven’t seen extra bags, either in my apartment nor the grocery store, so my first instinct was that this was somehow reusable. Of course my next step was to call my parents. Though I want to be independent and a creative problem solver, issues of vacuum bags and faulty oven electricity should be left to the experts (and parents are experts in everything, duh). My dad asked if the bag was cloth or paper, I replied, “Cloth”. There was my answer: reusable.
But how, one must ask, do you empty a reusable vacuum bag. After careful investigation, I saw that the bottom of the bag was held together by a removable slide apparatus. Once that was removed, the contents could fall out of the bottom of the bag. I want to reuse resources and recycle and save our dear planet, but for sanitary purposes, I think that some things should simply being disposable. For example, kitchen clothes and vacuum bags.
I left my Skype on and went to the kitchen to dispose of the contents. The dust and cat hair and human hair and cigarette butts (clearly not mine), were so packed together that I had to pull them out of the bag. Gross. With every loosened clump, a cloud of dust shot straight into my face, and my mom was able to hear every squeamish yell.
I cleaned out as much as I could and attempted to put the bag back in the vacuum. Thanks to many early mornings spent cleaning at Banana Republic, I had a general idea of how to the bag back together. That is, of course, until I realized that the seal was completely broken. I tried as best I could to close the seal and showed my parents my proud work. I turned on the vacuum and within seconds a cloud of smoke was coming out of the back of the vacuum! I squealed, my parents started laughing and in unison said, “The bag isn’t sealed correctly.” No joke.
With a kaputt bag and a desperate need to vacuum, I gathered my Spanish dictionary, checked the words for “to work” and “vacuum” and went downstairs to ask Enrique, my doorman, if there was a vacuum I could borrow. He told me that unfortunately there wasn’t one. I assured him not to worry because Alvaro was going to bring the vacuum from his house.
And he did, which was very sweet, but now I am vacuum-less and have a cat that is still in the Northern Hemisphere when it comes to climate and she is shedding with each and every step. Until I can find another vacuum bag, it looks like I’ll be creating a DIY cleaning device to handle all this hair. Thanks, Peru.
This was going well until I pulled the bag out (along with a giant cloud of dust) and realized that most likely, this bag wasn’t disposable. The plastic cover was an old plastic that was both discolored and brittle with age. The previous owner has seemingly taped the bag back together with brown masking tape. I haven’t seen extra bags, either in my apartment nor the grocery store, so my first instinct was that this was somehow reusable. Of course my next step was to call my parents. Though I want to be independent and a creative problem solver, issues of vacuum bags and faulty oven electricity should be left to the experts (and parents are experts in everything, duh). My dad asked if the bag was cloth or paper, I replied, “Cloth”. There was my answer: reusable.
But how, one must ask, do you empty a reusable vacuum bag. After careful investigation, I saw that the bottom of the bag was held together by a removable slide apparatus. Once that was removed, the contents could fall out of the bottom of the bag. I want to reuse resources and recycle and save our dear planet, but for sanitary purposes, I think that some things should simply being disposable. For example, kitchen clothes and vacuum bags.
I left my Skype on and went to the kitchen to dispose of the contents. The dust and cat hair and human hair and cigarette butts (clearly not mine), were so packed together that I had to pull them out of the bag. Gross. With every loosened clump, a cloud of dust shot straight into my face, and my mom was able to hear every squeamish yell.
I cleaned out as much as I could and attempted to put the bag back in the vacuum. Thanks to many early mornings spent cleaning at Banana Republic, I had a general idea of how to the bag back together. That is, of course, until I realized that the seal was completely broken. I tried as best I could to close the seal and showed my parents my proud work. I turned on the vacuum and within seconds a cloud of smoke was coming out of the back of the vacuum! I squealed, my parents started laughing and in unison said, “The bag isn’t sealed correctly.” No joke.
With a kaputt bag and a desperate need to vacuum, I gathered my Spanish dictionary, checked the words for “to work” and “vacuum” and went downstairs to ask Enrique, my doorman, if there was a vacuum I could borrow. He told me that unfortunately there wasn’t one. I assured him not to worry because Alvaro was going to bring the vacuum from his house.
And he did, which was very sweet, but now I am vacuum-less and have a cat that is still in the Northern Hemisphere when it comes to climate and she is shedding with each and every step. Until I can find another vacuum bag, it looks like I’ll be creating a DIY cleaning device to handle all this hair. Thanks, Peru.
Unhappy Monday
Teaching at 6:45am isn’t a terrific way to start the week, however, I did everything possible to ensure a happy start to my week.
Last night I was asleep by 9:30. Now that I have to work on Saturdays, my weekends are cut much shorter. Yesterday, Alvaro and I spent the better part of the day with his extended family. I had a terrific time being with them and felt a major confidence boost with my Spanish, but the six hours intense immersion experience left me feeling exhausted. I was asleep at 9:30 and awoke this morning at 5:30 ready to take on the week.
Everything was great until I got to school and realized I should have eaten something. I skipped dinner last night because our giant Peruvian lunch was at 3pm. But this morning at 6am, was much further removed from my delicious aji de pollo and I was starved. Then my four person class quickly turned into a one person class because three students were late. I began the class with a review from last week, focusing solely on vocabulary. After two minutes of trying (rather unsuccessfully) to prompt my student with the word “landlord,” I had to check my lesson plans to make sure I was in the right chapter. Tough classes are particularly tough when they happen at 7am.
Thankfully another student walked in around 7 and I sighed with relief because I assumed she would have a better grasp of the vocabulary. The class started looking up, that is until I moved my chair and saw a gigantic cockroach mean inches from my book bag sitting on the ground. Somehow he flipped over and was lying on his back. I wasn’t about to touch him. I had a hard enough time dealing with large bugs but seeing as my day was heading downhill and fast, I just couldn’t do it. So he sat there, cockroach legs in the air, for the next 25 minutes until the class break.
During the break I found the sweet cleaning lady and asked if she could dispose of my unwelcome friend with a broom. After this, I was convinced that things would get better. A third student arrived but her phone rang 6 times in the span of fifteen minutes, on the seventh ring she apologized, grabbed her things and left.
As the hour approach 8am, I started to really dread my already dreadful “coaching and micro-teaching” at 9am. My usually comfortable wedges, were uncomfortable and I was hot because my Peruvian students hate AC. I needed coffee and the syrup like liquid served at Berlitz was not going to cut it. I immediately decided that if I had to sit through almost two hours of unpaid “coaching and micro-teaching,” I was going to be comfortable and I was going to have my coffee.
I walked home, changed, made coffee and spent a few minutes with Emmaline. I grabbed my books, took a deep breath and walked out the door. I rode the elevator with a sweet little boy in his stroller and his grey terrier. I walked along the street feeling like maybe, just maybe, Monday would start looking up. That thought quickly left my mind when in the next instant, the old man walking by me made a perverse kissing noise at me. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it always irks me. I just keep walking, shaking my head in disgust and mumbling a variety of insults in English. I still haven’t decided which is worse, the young man who whistles as me or the old man who makes kissing noises. It’s probably a tie, they’re both repulsive.
I marched on to my micro-teaching, forcing myself to be in a better mood but that didn’t exactly help. Disinterested students, cockroaches and gross old men- all before 9am- can put a damper on even the best laid plans
Last night I was asleep by 9:30. Now that I have to work on Saturdays, my weekends are cut much shorter. Yesterday, Alvaro and I spent the better part of the day with his extended family. I had a terrific time being with them and felt a major confidence boost with my Spanish, but the six hours intense immersion experience left me feeling exhausted. I was asleep at 9:30 and awoke this morning at 5:30 ready to take on the week.
Everything was great until I got to school and realized I should have eaten something. I skipped dinner last night because our giant Peruvian lunch was at 3pm. But this morning at 6am, was much further removed from my delicious aji de pollo and I was starved. Then my four person class quickly turned into a one person class because three students were late. I began the class with a review from last week, focusing solely on vocabulary. After two minutes of trying (rather unsuccessfully) to prompt my student with the word “landlord,” I had to check my lesson plans to make sure I was in the right chapter. Tough classes are particularly tough when they happen at 7am.
Thankfully another student walked in around 7 and I sighed with relief because I assumed she would have a better grasp of the vocabulary. The class started looking up, that is until I moved my chair and saw a gigantic cockroach mean inches from my book bag sitting on the ground. Somehow he flipped over and was lying on his back. I wasn’t about to touch him. I had a hard enough time dealing with large bugs but seeing as my day was heading downhill and fast, I just couldn’t do it. So he sat there, cockroach legs in the air, for the next 25 minutes until the class break.
During the break I found the sweet cleaning lady and asked if she could dispose of my unwelcome friend with a broom. After this, I was convinced that things would get better. A third student arrived but her phone rang 6 times in the span of fifteen minutes, on the seventh ring she apologized, grabbed her things and left.
As the hour approach 8am, I started to really dread my already dreadful “coaching and micro-teaching” at 9am. My usually comfortable wedges, were uncomfortable and I was hot because my Peruvian students hate AC. I needed coffee and the syrup like liquid served at Berlitz was not going to cut it. I immediately decided that if I had to sit through almost two hours of unpaid “coaching and micro-teaching,” I was going to be comfortable and I was going to have my coffee.
I walked home, changed, made coffee and spent a few minutes with Emmaline. I grabbed my books, took a deep breath and walked out the door. I rode the elevator with a sweet little boy in his stroller and his grey terrier. I walked along the street feeling like maybe, just maybe, Monday would start looking up. That thought quickly left my mind when in the next instant, the old man walking by me made a perverse kissing noise at me. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it always irks me. I just keep walking, shaking my head in disgust and mumbling a variety of insults in English. I still haven’t decided which is worse, the young man who whistles as me or the old man who makes kissing noises. It’s probably a tie, they’re both repulsive.
I marched on to my micro-teaching, forcing myself to be in a better mood but that didn’t exactly help. Disinterested students, cockroaches and gross old men- all before 9am- can put a damper on even the best laid plans
Fish Market
Lima smells like fish.
When I walk outside in the early morning or later in the evening, I am hit with an overwhelming smell that resembles that of the fresh fish section at Publix. Actually, I don’t even have to leave my apartment to enjoy the sweet stench rolling in from the ocean. Thanks to the lack of sealant in most Peruvian apartments, my windows are not completely sealed. Sure, they are closed, but there are small open spaces that allow for the horrid smell to be the first thing my senses register in the morning.
These small openings not only welcome this smell, but also an abundance and dirt and dust. Never before have I so genuinely appreciated the cleaning power of rain. Since it never rains in Lima, and the city is next to a desert, everything is coated in a terrible brown dust. Somehow this dust manages to find its way into my apartment. My entire apartment requires a weekly dusting and frequent vacuuming. Between the dust and Emmaline's hair, I feel like I am losing the war for cleanliness in my place. I now am beginning to understand why nearly every Peruvian family has maid.
The fish smell seeps into my apartment and wishes me a delightful good morning. In the evenings as I walk to work, the smell returns and accompanies me on my walk through the park. I have absolutely no idea why this phenomenon occurs. Alvaro says that it means winter is coming, but I’m not convinced that’s the source. It’s seems like one of those interesting associations that Peruvians use to describe every weather change and illness. My personal favorite is this on from Alvaro’s mom: “If you drink ice water, you will certainly get an immediate cold.”
When I walk outside in the early morning or later in the evening, I am hit with an overwhelming smell that resembles that of the fresh fish section at Publix. Actually, I don’t even have to leave my apartment to enjoy the sweet stench rolling in from the ocean. Thanks to the lack of sealant in most Peruvian apartments, my windows are not completely sealed. Sure, they are closed, but there are small open spaces that allow for the horrid smell to be the first thing my senses register in the morning.
These small openings not only welcome this smell, but also an abundance and dirt and dust. Never before have I so genuinely appreciated the cleaning power of rain. Since it never rains in Lima, and the city is next to a desert, everything is coated in a terrible brown dust. Somehow this dust manages to find its way into my apartment. My entire apartment requires a weekly dusting and frequent vacuuming. Between the dust and Emmaline's hair, I feel like I am losing the war for cleanliness in my place. I now am beginning to understand why nearly every Peruvian family has maid.
The fish smell seeps into my apartment and wishes me a delightful good morning. In the evenings as I walk to work, the smell returns and accompanies me on my walk through the park. I have absolutely no idea why this phenomenon occurs. Alvaro says that it means winter is coming, but I’m not convinced that’s the source. It’s seems like one of those interesting associations that Peruvians use to describe every weather change and illness. My personal favorite is this on from Alvaro’s mom: “If you drink ice water, you will certainly get an immediate cold.”
Whirlwind
Last week was a whirlwind. I went from having absolutely nothing to do to spending the entire week without barely a moment to sit down a breath. How did that happen?
My teaching schedule is mainly concentrated to very early morning hours and late evening hours. Since most of the school’s clients are business men and women, our peak hours are when they are not at work. I have been very fortunate this past week and have gotten nearly double the hours I was expecting to receive my first week. Based on the experience of a friend and what I heard during training, I was expecting only two lessons per day. Instead, I average four lessons per day all last week. It seems like my Americanness has finally paid off- I am getting so many hours in order to learn faster and therefore be trained for the higher levels. The school wants to “take advantage” of my native English.
Each day I have about 4.5 hours of actual teaching time, but I have been getting to the school early and staying late to ask questions, fill out paperwork and make sure I have remembered everything on the very detailed to-do list for each student. In addition to teaching hours, I spend at least one hour preparing for each two lessons. Add three hours of prep to 4.5 hours of teaching and my part time job just turned full time.
Last week was a constant rush of teaching, coming home, throwing together some food, preparing, going to yoga, more preparing, getting ready for work, more teaching, more preparing and then bedtime. The worst aspect of my job is that the next day’s schedule isn’t available until 8pm. Most evenings I teach until 9:45pm. I get my schedule for the next morning as I leave the school and inevitably, I have a class the next morning at 6:45am. My new routine is to eat a late dinner while frantically preparing for the next morning’s class. I am convinced that there is a better scheduling system, but no one is in a rush to develop it.
This is all good. I’m busy, I feel productive, I have a routine. In the midst of these, I am still searching for another job. Preferably one that provides weekly-or even monthly- schedules (what a novelty!) and one that is full time. My current hourly wage barely buys a cup of coffee, paying my rent is a long way off from that.
However, I am thankful. I am thankful that finally I have some sort of employment. It is far from ideal in every aspect. Currently, the only ideal thing about this job is the location, but I am convinced that any day now they will transfer me to the school an hour away from here. My game plan for that day is to play the pathetic American girl role and tell them that I simply can’t travel that far.
It’s a job, nothing more and certainly nothing less. I’ve already seen that this school offers little opportunities for promotion and performance or seniority isn’t rewarded with bonus or pay increase. I haven’t had the chance to speak to many other professors, but it surprises me that they would choose to stay in such a stagnant position.
I have to keep telling myself, “at least you have a job.” Though I am really hoping that another surfaces sooner rather than later.
My teaching schedule is mainly concentrated to very early morning hours and late evening hours. Since most of the school’s clients are business men and women, our peak hours are when they are not at work. I have been very fortunate this past week and have gotten nearly double the hours I was expecting to receive my first week. Based on the experience of a friend and what I heard during training, I was expecting only two lessons per day. Instead, I average four lessons per day all last week. It seems like my Americanness has finally paid off- I am getting so many hours in order to learn faster and therefore be trained for the higher levels. The school wants to “take advantage” of my native English.
Each day I have about 4.5 hours of actual teaching time, but I have been getting to the school early and staying late to ask questions, fill out paperwork and make sure I have remembered everything on the very detailed to-do list for each student. In addition to teaching hours, I spend at least one hour preparing for each two lessons. Add three hours of prep to 4.5 hours of teaching and my part time job just turned full time.
Last week was a constant rush of teaching, coming home, throwing together some food, preparing, going to yoga, more preparing, getting ready for work, more teaching, more preparing and then bedtime. The worst aspect of my job is that the next day’s schedule isn’t available until 8pm. Most evenings I teach until 9:45pm. I get my schedule for the next morning as I leave the school and inevitably, I have a class the next morning at 6:45am. My new routine is to eat a late dinner while frantically preparing for the next morning’s class. I am convinced that there is a better scheduling system, but no one is in a rush to develop it.
This is all good. I’m busy, I feel productive, I have a routine. In the midst of these, I am still searching for another job. Preferably one that provides weekly-or even monthly- schedules (what a novelty!) and one that is full time. My current hourly wage barely buys a cup of coffee, paying my rent is a long way off from that.
However, I am thankful. I am thankful that finally I have some sort of employment. It is far from ideal in every aspect. Currently, the only ideal thing about this job is the location, but I am convinced that any day now they will transfer me to the school an hour away from here. My game plan for that day is to play the pathetic American girl role and tell them that I simply can’t travel that far.
It’s a job, nothing more and certainly nothing less. I’ve already seen that this school offers little opportunities for promotion and performance or seniority isn’t rewarded with bonus or pay increase. I haven’t had the chance to speak to many other professors, but it surprises me that they would choose to stay in such a stagnant position.
I have to keep telling myself, “at least you have a job.” Though I am really hoping that another surfaces sooner rather than later.
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