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
Showing posts with label Family Ties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family Ties. Show all posts
Lima Wedding
As far as cultural milestones are concerned, weddings are a pretty big one. Between the bridal brunch and wedding, I now feel like I have been fully inducted into Peruvian culture.
It was a beautiful day for a Lima winter wedding and the white stone hacienda served as the perfect backdrop. The couple was married in a small chapel with their closest family while the rest of the guests waited outside. After the ceremony we were treated to a Peruvian Paso Horse show (my favorite!) and a beautiful parade of pisco sours and delicious appetizers. We then moved to the reception which took place under a large white canopy which was full of people and alcohol. Pisco sours on arrival, wine for each table, rum for each table, personalized bottles of pisco and glasses of champagne flowing freely.
I ate my weight my Peruvian food and then danced it off latina style. The best compliment I received was, "Meghan, you don't look like a gringa!"The picture above is from the hora loca or "crazy hour" which takes place at every Peruvian wedding. It's full of silly hats, noise makers, balloons and often times clowns and people on stilts. Check out the newlyweds behind me!
The only surprise tradition was when it came time for the garter toss. In Peru, once the garter is removed, the groom chooses an (un)lucky couple to take their place center stage and the male then places the garter on his significant other. The beautiful bride had not one, not two but ten garters, meaning that ten couples were chosen for this honor. Alvaro and I were spared the embarrassment but our newly engaged friends were not.
It was a wonderful day full of sunshine, friends, family and lots of love. My perfect introduction to Peruvian weddings. Congratulations to the newlyweds!
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.
American Holidays
The joys of an American holiday season.
I have no shame in saying that I have barely thought about Peru and my home in Lima over the past three weeks. I have been too busy enjoying winter weather, time with my family, familiar streets, the English language and lots of visits with friends.
In the weeks leading up to my trip to the States, I was the most homesick I had ever been. I yearned to come home and in nearly everything I did I remembered, "Just two weeks until the States..."
No amount of homesickness could have prepared me for the feeling of pure joy and gladness I have felt since being home. The first few days, I was emotional wreck. On Christmas Eve, we went to see the Tennessee Titans play the Jacksonville Jaguars and I cried at the first note of the National Anthem. That evening at our Christmas Eve service, I cried while singing the familiar lyrics of Christmas Carols. I cried when hearing country music on the radio and when seeing the cheerful face of my parents dog.
And now, as I enter my last week in the States, I have once again become emotional and feel unprepared for my return to Lima. Yesterday as I sat in the Nashville airport waiting to pick up my mom, I sat listening to some wannabe country music star playing music for the whole lounge. In the moment, as I saw the sign for a beloved Nashville deli and heard "Welcome to Music City" come across the loud speaker, I was overwhelmed by my love for Nashville.
For my whole life, I have wanted to move away. To see the world and to live in a bustling city. Even a mid sized city like Nashville, felt too small for me. But now that I have done those things, I have moved away and lived in a huge city, I am drawn to the quaint, familiar feeling of Nashville. To the feeling of home.
Nashville is my home. My family is my home. Though I currently make my life somewhere else, it doesn't feel like my home. Just like all the travelers who have gone before me, I finally know the sweet joy of being able to simply come home.
I have no shame in saying that I have barely thought about Peru and my home in Lima over the past three weeks. I have been too busy enjoying winter weather, time with my family, familiar streets, the English language and lots of visits with friends.
In the weeks leading up to my trip to the States, I was the most homesick I had ever been. I yearned to come home and in nearly everything I did I remembered, "Just two weeks until the States..."
No amount of homesickness could have prepared me for the feeling of pure joy and gladness I have felt since being home. The first few days, I was emotional wreck. On Christmas Eve, we went to see the Tennessee Titans play the Jacksonville Jaguars and I cried at the first note of the National Anthem. That evening at our Christmas Eve service, I cried while singing the familiar lyrics of Christmas Carols. I cried when hearing country music on the radio and when seeing the cheerful face of my parents dog.
And now, as I enter my last week in the States, I have once again become emotional and feel unprepared for my return to Lima. Yesterday as I sat in the Nashville airport waiting to pick up my mom, I sat listening to some wannabe country music star playing music for the whole lounge. In the moment, as I saw the sign for a beloved Nashville deli and heard "Welcome to Music City" come across the loud speaker, I was overwhelmed by my love for Nashville.
For my whole life, I have wanted to move away. To see the world and to live in a bustling city. Even a mid sized city like Nashville, felt too small for me. But now that I have done those things, I have moved away and lived in a huge city, I am drawn to the quaint, familiar feeling of Nashville. To the feeling of home.
Nashville is my home. My family is my home. Though I currently make my life somewhere else, it doesn't feel like my home. Just like all the travelers who have gone before me, I finally know the sweet joy of being able to simply come home.
I sense a vacation
I am at that point where a vacation is so close that every day is a struggle to do anything but think about my vacation. It's made exponentially worse by three things:
1. I'm going to the States.
2. I'm going to the States for Christmas.
3. I'm going to the States for Christmas for four whole weeks!
All I think about is what restaurants we are going to go to, all the fun activities we have planned (Christmas light viewings, Alvaro's first live NFL game, a basketball game at my Alma Mater, hot chocolate...) the list goes on and on and on.
For all of the above reasons, the past week has been particularly difficult. I have learned a lot about my tolerance level for separation since being here. I used to think I was some tough traveler who could survive for months on end without any form of homesickness. Ladies and gentleman, that's a lie. I have discovered that around the six month mark, I start to become very, very homesick. If I want to be really honest though, I start to lose it. It feels as if a crazy person has inhabited my body for the past week, going from happy to angry to confused to I just want to go home!! in about five seconds flat.
Though I am yearning to leave Peru for a little while, I know I am not ready to leave Peru for good. That's comforting. It's hard to see that on the days when the only thing that will make me happy are law abiding drivers and sweet tea, but when I look around me I know that part of me loves this place.
But just because I love something, doesn't mean I don't need a break. I have two countdowns going: 10 days until we leave and 11 days until we touch down in Nashville. Tomorrow we hit single digits and then the real excitement begins!
1. I'm going to the States.
2. I'm going to the States for Christmas.
3. I'm going to the States for Christmas for four whole weeks!
All I think about is what restaurants we are going to go to, all the fun activities we have planned (Christmas light viewings, Alvaro's first live NFL game, a basketball game at my Alma Mater, hot chocolate...) the list goes on and on and on.
For all of the above reasons, the past week has been particularly difficult. I have learned a lot about my tolerance level for separation since being here. I used to think I was some tough traveler who could survive for months on end without any form of homesickness. Ladies and gentleman, that's a lie. I have discovered that around the six month mark, I start to become very, very homesick. If I want to be really honest though, I start to lose it. It feels as if a crazy person has inhabited my body for the past week, going from happy to angry to confused to I just want to go home!! in about five seconds flat.
Though I am yearning to leave Peru for a little while, I know I am not ready to leave Peru for good. That's comforting. It's hard to see that on the days when the only thing that will make me happy are law abiding drivers and sweet tea, but when I look around me I know that part of me loves this place.
But just because I love something, doesn't mean I don't need a break. I have two countdowns going: 10 days until we leave and 11 days until we touch down in Nashville. Tomorrow we hit single digits and then the real excitement begins!
30 Years!
In somewhat unrelated expat news, Happy 30th Anniversary to my wonderful parents!
Really though, it's not completely unrelated.
A) Without my parents, I wouldn't be here (read: alive) and neither would Lady in Lima &
B) Without my parents I wouldn't be in Lima.
I feel beyond fortunate to have such loving and supportive parents. They have always encouraged me to be whatever I want to be, no questions asked. I credit them with developing my strong sense of self and independence.
When I wanted to study abroad they never faltered in their support and were happy for me even though it took me away from them. After my college graduation when I told my dad that I wanted to move to Peru he asked, "Were you expecting me to be surprised?"
They have supported me emotionally and financially (even though this independent girl wanted to do it alone) and I am forever grateful. I couldn't ask for a better support system than my two dear parents.
Congrats!
Also today a big Happy Birthday to my maternal Grandma, even though she won't read this because she doesn't use the internet. :)
I'm back!
My sincere apologies for my extended absence. Two weeks ago, Alvaro and I boarded a plane for my home sweet home in Nashville, Tennessee. We had two weeks of nothing but seeing friends, spending time with my family and eating way too much good food. I took a much needed break from my laptop and enjoyed two weeks of green grass and summer sunshine.
And I got to spend lots of time with my favorite buddy: Maxwell Merriweather Jenkins, my parents beloved dog.
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.
Greeting Rules
In addition to the ever intriguing cheek kiss, there appears to be even more complications with the greeting culture in Peru.
Two weeks ago, I was sitting in another teacher's classroom when her teenage daughter walked in. I was reading a magazine and the girl rushed over to her mom and began to animately describe her day. Her mom stopped her mid sentence and said, "Greet Miss Meghan." The girl rushed over to me and greeted me with a kiss.
Last week, I walked into work at 6:35am, greeted the secretary and rushed over to read the schedule. I was struggling to carry all of my books, dreading teaching so early in the morning and intently looking at the schedule. Within a few seconds, the cleaning lady waved her hand in front of me and said, "Hooolllllaaaa, Meghan. How are you?" with a slight twinge of frustration in her voice. It wasn't until much later that I realized that she was offended that I hadn't greeted her. A similar encounter like this has played out twice the same woman.
In several instances, when Alvaro and I have rushed into his house or been working intently and not greeted someone individually, we have been on the receiving end of a correctional conversation with his mom.
I finally asked him about this and he said that without a doubt, if you do not greet every single person in the room and/or house, you have just offended all who are present. It's an interesting cultural note because I am not used to such formalized greetings, especially in everyday settings with individuals I do not know very well. Though it's sightly uncomfortable, I think that my discomfort speaks to the individualized American in me that has been cultured for the past twenty three years.
What cultural differences have you encountered when it comes to greetings?
Two weeks ago, I was sitting in another teacher's classroom when her teenage daughter walked in. I was reading a magazine and the girl rushed over to her mom and began to animately describe her day. Her mom stopped her mid sentence and said, "Greet Miss Meghan." The girl rushed over to me and greeted me with a kiss.
Last week, I walked into work at 6:35am, greeted the secretary and rushed over to read the schedule. I was struggling to carry all of my books, dreading teaching so early in the morning and intently looking at the schedule. Within a few seconds, the cleaning lady waved her hand in front of me and said, "Hooolllllaaaa, Meghan. How are you?" with a slight twinge of frustration in her voice. It wasn't until much later that I realized that she was offended that I hadn't greeted her. A similar encounter like this has played out twice the same woman.
In several instances, when Alvaro and I have rushed into his house or been working intently and not greeted someone individually, we have been on the receiving end of a correctional conversation with his mom.
I finally asked him about this and he said that without a doubt, if you do not greet every single person in the room and/or house, you have just offended all who are present. It's an interesting cultural note because I am not used to such formalized greetings, especially in everyday settings with individuals I do not know very well. Though it's sightly uncomfortable, I think that my discomfort speaks to the individualized American in me that has been cultured for the past twenty three years.
What cultural differences have you encountered when it comes to greetings?
16 Churches?
My sweet, sweet boyfriend has a serious problem with his memory. That boy has lived in Lima his whole life and yet only knows one way to get to work, school, his grandparent's house, etc. He frequently leaves his house without his cell phone or card access key for work. His memory is unbelievably fleeting. What's unusual, though, is that he can't remember how to get to the airport but he does remember what we were talking about "on that one day last year when I was in Nashville and we were eating at the Cheesecake Factory. You were eating pasta and drinking an iced tea and you were wearing your favorite dress and new wedges..." Seriously? Seriously?! You can remember what I was wearing on a random lunch date over a year ago, but you can't take an alternate route to your favorite sushi place? Oh, I love that boy.
As we were making plans for the Easter holidays he said, "On Friday, it's tradition for my family to go to different churches in Lima and look at the monuments they have set up for Easter." Sounded good enough to me, "How many churches do you go to?" I asked. He replied: "Sixteen."
"Sixteen! You've got to be kidding me! How long does it take to go to sixteen different churches?"
He continued to tell me it takes only a couple of hours, which made zero logical sense, but I went with it.
When the day finally arrived (its was actually Maundy Thursday, not Good Friday), we met his parents and went churches throughout Lima. Due to the language barrier and slight religious barrier (Baptists and Catholics are just slightly different) I'm not exactly sure why we were going, but I enjoyed it anyway. A few of the churches had actually set up a mock table of the Last Supper which I found to be particularly fitting and poignant. Others had simply decorated the altar with too many flowers, something I found interesting since over abundance is avoided during Lent.
I struggled to explain to his parents how Baptists celebrate Easter, again the language barrier was simply too much. Those conversations are often particularly difficult for me because I fear that the lack of pomp and circumstance in some Protestant denominations might come off as apathy to ceremony-loving Catholics.
Oh, and in case you're wondering: it was only seven churches, not sixteen...
As we were making plans for the Easter holidays he said, "On Friday, it's tradition for my family to go to different churches in Lima and look at the monuments they have set up for Easter." Sounded good enough to me, "How many churches do you go to?" I asked. He replied: "Sixteen."
"Sixteen! You've got to be kidding me! How long does it take to go to sixteen different churches?"
He continued to tell me it takes only a couple of hours, which made zero logical sense, but I went with it.
When the day finally arrived (its was actually Maundy Thursday, not Good Friday), we met his parents and went churches throughout Lima. Due to the language barrier and slight religious barrier (Baptists and Catholics are just slightly different) I'm not exactly sure why we were going, but I enjoyed it anyway. A few of the churches had actually set up a mock table of the Last Supper which I found to be particularly fitting and poignant. Others had simply decorated the altar with too many flowers, something I found interesting since over abundance is avoided during Lent.
I struggled to explain to his parents how Baptists celebrate Easter, again the language barrier was simply too much. Those conversations are often particularly difficult for me because I fear that the lack of pomp and circumstance in some Protestant denominations might come off as apathy to ceremony-loving Catholics.
Oh, and in case you're wondering: it was only seven churches, not sixteen...
Feliz Cumple
I almost completely forgot about my birthday. Between starting a new job, working crazy hours, living in a another country and being thousands of miles away from all my birthday traditions, it was Monday afternoon before I realized, "Oh wait, my birthday is Wednesday."
Since I have only been at this job for about a week, I didn't tell anyone it was my birthday. However, the girl who drives me found out Tuesday afternoon and must have told the teacher in my classroom. When I arrived at school this morning, 23 adorable children sang Happy Birthday to me in English and in Spanish.
I had to teach in the evening, but was able to celebrate with Alvaro's family by going to dinner at my favorite restaurant. The best part about my birthday is that all of Peru is on vacation today and tomorrow for Easter. Thank you, Peru, for this fabulous birthday.
I don't exactly feel one year older, but I do feel one year more grown up. I guess that happens when you begin living on your own, trying to pay your own bills and mommy & daddy are a continent away. Hello, adulthood!
Traveling Abroad
Last week while perusing CNN.com, my eyes caught the title Why More Americans Don’t Travel Abroad. The opening paragraph states that only 30% on Americans have a passport, a statistic that startled me. The article makes several wide sweeping assumptions about Americans and our to-travel-or-not-to-travel culture. Not all of those assumptions are entirely correct, I think that the American travel culture is much more complicated than the four bullet points laid out by the author. He does, however, provide a few valid insights into why Americans stay near the amber waves of grain.
When I was ten years old, I took ten days off from my fifth grade classroom and embarked on a trip to London with my dad. It was very important to my parents that myself and two siblings grow up with an attitude that is very welcoming to international travel. My dad took each of us to London around our tenth birthday. Not only was this a memorable trip to celebrate finally reaching the years of double digits, but moreso, it was to teach us to not be afraid of travel. As part of the trip, before the end of the week, I was solely responsible for the plans of that day. My dad asked me to pick out what sites I wanted to see, what restaurants we would go to and also what Underground stops we would need to use. I had complete control of that day and even if I were to chose the wrong Underground stop, my dad wouldn’t say anything. For him, it was all about learning how to navigate another city.
After high school I accompanied my dad on a ten day mission trip he was leading to Warsaw, Poland. This was my first venture to a country that didn’t speak English and I learned how to cope with a new level of travel difficulties. I was the youngest member of the team, by at least fifteen years. The day before our flight back to the United States, my dad had a serious issue with his contacts. By the time we arrived at the Amsterdam airport for our connection, he could barely open his eyes. He then entrusted me, his eighteen year old daughter, with the responsibility of finding a pharmacy and directing our twenty member team to our new gate.
In the Spring of 2009, I left to study in Germany. This was my first big trip without my parents. Three girls from my university were going with me so I wasn’t entirely alone. It wasn’t until several months into my time there that I began my solo traveling. My dad encouraged me to skip class (coming from a professor?) and said that the real advantage of being in Germany was to travel to the surrounding countries. I took several solo trips: Bern (Switzerland), Berlin & Hildesheim (Germany) and then to Prague, London and Paris (I traveled alone but met friends in each of these cities). I know that my dad was worried about me, but his constant encouragement was, “This is why I took you to London, so you would do something like this.”
In my Senior year of college, like most soon-to-be graduates, I was struggling with what I wanted to do with the next few years of my life. I wasn’t quite ready to go to graduate school and working in retail lost its appeal long ago. Traveling abroad seemed like the only logical option. My whole life has been centered around being encouraged to leave home, see the world, and experience new cultures, so this type of transition seemed very natural to me.
One thing that I think the article does well, is emphasize that the United States is a country focused on working. Our students incur thousands of dollars worth of student loans simply to get an education worthy enough to land them a job that will pay well enough to pay back the loans that got them there in the first place. We become grown-ups at age 22 and then enter into the lives that we will lead for the next six decades: work, marriage, mortgages, and children. When I tell my international friends that more than a dozen of my college peers have gotten married, they can’t believe it. For most European and Latin American cultures that I have encountered, marriage isn’t even a possibility until one nears the end of their 20s.
And our employees receive minimal vacation time, hindering their freedom to take a couple of weeks for an extended trip. When you are given a meager two weeks for vacation per year, a trip to Europe is out of the question. Who wants to spend 2-3 of their precious vacation days stuck in airports?
Though I knew this before, reading the above article made me even more grateful for the opportunities my parents have given me. My love for travel and language and new cultures can only be attributed to their constant encouragement from the time I was a little girl. Even though my passion takes me thousands of miles away from my home, they have always been encouraging and never once hesitated in their support. Perhaps most importantly, they have graciously given me the freedom to leave my American life and build one in another country. I consider it a great gift that I am not carrying the burden of student loans nor the pressure to find a job. That is one of the sweetest gifts they could have ever given me.
When I read that only 30% of my fellow Americans hold a passport, I am reminded that what comes natural to me, doesn’t necessarily come natural to everyone else. It makes me thankful that I am able to experience something like this and shows me that it really is my parents who made all this possible.
When I was ten years old, I took ten days off from my fifth grade classroom and embarked on a trip to London with my dad. It was very important to my parents that myself and two siblings grow up with an attitude that is very welcoming to international travel. My dad took each of us to London around our tenth birthday. Not only was this a memorable trip to celebrate finally reaching the years of double digits, but moreso, it was to teach us to not be afraid of travel. As part of the trip, before the end of the week, I was solely responsible for the plans of that day. My dad asked me to pick out what sites I wanted to see, what restaurants we would go to and also what Underground stops we would need to use. I had complete control of that day and even if I were to chose the wrong Underground stop, my dad wouldn’t say anything. For him, it was all about learning how to navigate another city.
After high school I accompanied my dad on a ten day mission trip he was leading to Warsaw, Poland. This was my first venture to a country that didn’t speak English and I learned how to cope with a new level of travel difficulties. I was the youngest member of the team, by at least fifteen years. The day before our flight back to the United States, my dad had a serious issue with his contacts. By the time we arrived at the Amsterdam airport for our connection, he could barely open his eyes. He then entrusted me, his eighteen year old daughter, with the responsibility of finding a pharmacy and directing our twenty member team to our new gate.
In the Spring of 2009, I left to study in Germany. This was my first big trip without my parents. Three girls from my university were going with me so I wasn’t entirely alone. It wasn’t until several months into my time there that I began my solo traveling. My dad encouraged me to skip class (coming from a professor?) and said that the real advantage of being in Germany was to travel to the surrounding countries. I took several solo trips: Bern (Switzerland), Berlin & Hildesheim (Germany) and then to Prague, London and Paris (I traveled alone but met friends in each of these cities). I know that my dad was worried about me, but his constant encouragement was, “This is why I took you to London, so you would do something like this.”
In my Senior year of college, like most soon-to-be graduates, I was struggling with what I wanted to do with the next few years of my life. I wasn’t quite ready to go to graduate school and working in retail lost its appeal long ago. Traveling abroad seemed like the only logical option. My whole life has been centered around being encouraged to leave home, see the world, and experience new cultures, so this type of transition seemed very natural to me.
One thing that I think the article does well, is emphasize that the United States is a country focused on working. Our students incur thousands of dollars worth of student loans simply to get an education worthy enough to land them a job that will pay well enough to pay back the loans that got them there in the first place. We become grown-ups at age 22 and then enter into the lives that we will lead for the next six decades: work, marriage, mortgages, and children. When I tell my international friends that more than a dozen of my college peers have gotten married, they can’t believe it. For most European and Latin American cultures that I have encountered, marriage isn’t even a possibility until one nears the end of their 20s.
And our employees receive minimal vacation time, hindering their freedom to take a couple of weeks for an extended trip. When you are given a meager two weeks for vacation per year, a trip to Europe is out of the question. Who wants to spend 2-3 of their precious vacation days stuck in airports?
Though I knew this before, reading the above article made me even more grateful for the opportunities my parents have given me. My love for travel and language and new cultures can only be attributed to their constant encouragement from the time I was a little girl. Even though my passion takes me thousands of miles away from my home, they have always been encouraging and never once hesitated in their support. Perhaps most importantly, they have graciously given me the freedom to leave my American life and build one in another country. I consider it a great gift that I am not carrying the burden of student loans nor the pressure to find a job. That is one of the sweetest gifts they could have ever given me.
When I read that only 30% of my fellow Americans hold a passport, I am reminded that what comes natural to me, doesn’t necessarily come natural to everyone else. It makes me thankful that I am able to experience something like this and shows me that it really is my parents who made all this possible.
Alvaro, Attorney at Law
By now it’s old news that my time in Lima hasn’t exactly been going to plan. The biggest divergence from my well laid plan- I’m six weeks behind the date when I was supposed to start work. Although this was incredibly frustrating at the beginning of my time in Peru, I have learned to accept it as just one of the struggles of moving to another country. Alvaro and I have spent countless hours trying to figure out what went wrong. Did we not plan correctly? Is it the Institute? Is it their employees? Is it Peru? Perhaps all of the above?
The most frustrating part about this experience is the lack of direct contact that I have had with anyone official. It seems most logical to me that when being hired, especially as a foreigner, I should be speaking with Human Resources or another department experienced with hiring procedures. Instead, I have only been in touch with one woman, who is the Manager of Instructors at one of the area institutes. Though she is well qualified for training, monitoring and managing instructors, she is not well qualified to answer my questions regarding a work visa, tax rules or contracts for foreigners.
About six weeks ago, at the peak of my frustration, I called my contact and asked to speak to someone in Human Resources. her reply was this, “Human Resources can’t hire a new instructor without the approval of another instructor. So by calling them you won’t make any progress.” That was it. No name, no contact info, nothing. Every time I spoke with this woman, it was another excuse about someone being sick or the Holidays or how “they’re going to do it soon,” which doesn’t actually mean “soon” in Peruvian.
I conceded. I gave up and decided to wait and wait and hoped that things would work out. Several weeks ago I began my two week training course followed by a week of observations. At the end of my training I was told that I could sign my contract on January 10th. That day came and went without a contract. Today we were determined to change that.
I received a phone call today and they asked me to bring all of my paperwork to Human Resources because they wouldn’t draw up my contract without them. Cecilia, Alvaro’s sister, is graciously handling the legal aspect of my paperwork and had received “completed” versions of my contract earlier this morning. Except they were incomplete and full of errors. Alvaro took me to hand in my paperwork this afternoon and brought the faulty contracts with him.
We told the receptionist that we needed to meet with someone in Human Resources, and she instinctively told us they were all in a meeting. I was determined to not leave unless we had spoken to someone and I then told her that they were supposed to be expecting us, just a small stretch of truth. She walked off and then came back a few minutes later and took us into a small, chaotic office. We were introduced to the woman at the desk who didn’t look away from her computer when making our introductions. Our voices we muffled by the Spanish love songs coming from the radio next to her desk. We handed her our papers and she nearly hurried us out the door. Alvaro, however, had another plan.
He opened the folder with the incorrect contracts and began asking our new friend questions about the errors. For example, why the contract says it is for a “man with British citizenship” and also why she decided to simply omit three of the obligatory clauses? She didn’t have any answers.
We were shuffled around the office until we landed in the office of the General Manager. Finally, someone with a little bit of power. We sat in front of his desk and once again made our introductions. The Manager looked at Alvaro and asked, “You’re her lawyer?” and without skipping a beat he replied, “Yes, my firm is representing Señorita Gwaltney because she is very close friends with one of our associates.” I had to tilt my head and use my hand to cover my mouth in order to hide my smirk. Alvaro, my lawyer, and the Manager discussed the particular clause in question and then we left the room so he could consult with his law firm. A few minutes later, he told us the new clause and all seemed well.
Until Alvaro called Cecilia, my real lawyer, and told her of the addendum. “That’s illegal,” she replied, “the Ministry of Work will never accept that clause.” Alvaro walked back into his office, “Excuse me, but I just spoke with my “colleague” (synonymous with “sister” in this case) and she informed me that the Ministry will not accept that clause. Is that how your lawyer advised you?” His reply: “Oh, no, he didn’t advise me on that. I just made it up.” How typical Peruvian.
Nearly defeated, we left the Institute and were told to come back tomorrow morning in order to sign the papers. The Manager assured us that everything would be ready in the morning. Upon our departure, my “lawyer” Alvaro, told the Manager, “Unfortunately I have another appointment in the morning, but one of my colleagues will be here to assist Señorita Gwaltney.” And just like that, he earned his degree.
The most frustrating part about this experience is the lack of direct contact that I have had with anyone official. It seems most logical to me that when being hired, especially as a foreigner, I should be speaking with Human Resources or another department experienced with hiring procedures. Instead, I have only been in touch with one woman, who is the Manager of Instructors at one of the area institutes. Though she is well qualified for training, monitoring and managing instructors, she is not well qualified to answer my questions regarding a work visa, tax rules or contracts for foreigners.
About six weeks ago, at the peak of my frustration, I called my contact and asked to speak to someone in Human Resources. her reply was this, “Human Resources can’t hire a new instructor without the approval of another instructor. So by calling them you won’t make any progress.” That was it. No name, no contact info, nothing. Every time I spoke with this woman, it was another excuse about someone being sick or the Holidays or how “they’re going to do it soon,” which doesn’t actually mean “soon” in Peruvian.
I conceded. I gave up and decided to wait and wait and hoped that things would work out. Several weeks ago I began my two week training course followed by a week of observations. At the end of my training I was told that I could sign my contract on January 10th. That day came and went without a contract. Today we were determined to change that.
I received a phone call today and they asked me to bring all of my paperwork to Human Resources because they wouldn’t draw up my contract without them. Cecilia, Alvaro’s sister, is graciously handling the legal aspect of my paperwork and had received “completed” versions of my contract earlier this morning. Except they were incomplete and full of errors. Alvaro took me to hand in my paperwork this afternoon and brought the faulty contracts with him.
We told the receptionist that we needed to meet with someone in Human Resources, and she instinctively told us they were all in a meeting. I was determined to not leave unless we had spoken to someone and I then told her that they were supposed to be expecting us, just a small stretch of truth. She walked off and then came back a few minutes later and took us into a small, chaotic office. We were introduced to the woman at the desk who didn’t look away from her computer when making our introductions. Our voices we muffled by the Spanish love songs coming from the radio next to her desk. We handed her our papers and she nearly hurried us out the door. Alvaro, however, had another plan.
He opened the folder with the incorrect contracts and began asking our new friend questions about the errors. For example, why the contract says it is for a “man with British citizenship” and also why she decided to simply omit three of the obligatory clauses? She didn’t have any answers.
We were shuffled around the office until we landed in the office of the General Manager. Finally, someone with a little bit of power. We sat in front of his desk and once again made our introductions. The Manager looked at Alvaro and asked, “You’re her lawyer?” and without skipping a beat he replied, “Yes, my firm is representing Señorita Gwaltney because she is very close friends with one of our associates.” I had to tilt my head and use my hand to cover my mouth in order to hide my smirk. Alvaro, my lawyer, and the Manager discussed the particular clause in question and then we left the room so he could consult with his law firm. A few minutes later, he told us the new clause and all seemed well.
Until Alvaro called Cecilia, my real lawyer, and told her of the addendum. “That’s illegal,” she replied, “the Ministry of Work will never accept that clause.” Alvaro walked back into his office, “Excuse me, but I just spoke with my “colleague” (synonymous with “sister” in this case) and she informed me that the Ministry will not accept that clause. Is that how your lawyer advised you?” His reply: “Oh, no, he didn’t advise me on that. I just made it up.” How typical Peruvian.
Nearly defeated, we left the Institute and were told to come back tomorrow morning in order to sign the papers. The Manager assured us that everything would be ready in the morning. Upon our departure, my “lawyer” Alvaro, told the Manager, “Unfortunately I have another appointment in the morning, but one of my colleagues will be here to assist Señorita Gwaltney.” And just like that, he earned his degree.
Feliz Navidad from Peru
In Peru, Christmas occurs during summer. Unlike Florida which just happens to have a warmer winter, here Christmas is surrounded by summer vacation, beach houses, pool supplies lining the store aisles and much warmers days.
For most Peruvians “Christmas” occurs on the evening on Christmas Eve, beginning with Mass around 6pm then followed by an evening with family. Alvaro’s family eats Christmas dinner at 10:30pm. A big meal complete with turkey, apple sauce, rice, fruit salad and limeade. At midnight we toasted to Jesus’s birthday while listening to the fireworks outside. We opened presents and by 1am, while Santa was still circling the globe, Christmas in Peru was over.
The next morning, I had my mini- American Christmas. I Skyped with my parents while opening my presents and then left for a Christmas morning brunch with Alvaro. We then spent most of the morning walking around several parks that are located right next to the beach. We passed the time watching children with their new toys, paragliders and eating ice cream.
To finish the night we watched Alvaro’s favorite Christmas movie: Jingle all the Way, while eating traditional Peruvian Christmas bread, panetón.
The worst
I was sitting in the lobby of my language school eating a croissant filled with manjar blanco. I was sitting there waiting on my taxi driver to pick me up and drop me off at the apartment of a lady from church. I never carry my iPod around Lima, in fact, yesterday was the first day I had brought it out of my apartment. The directions to this woman’s apartment were quite complicated and before I left I made the conscious decision to bring my iPod to read her directions from an email rather than take two minutes to write them down.
My iPod was on top on my folder which was sitting on the table.
A young man walked in holding a letter and a bag of candy. He placed the letter on top of my notebook and held out the bag of candy, asking me to buy some. I repeated the word “no” what must have been two dozen times. In the fifteen seconds that he stood there I remember thinking, “Why is he being so insistent?” After five more seconds of my repetitive “no,” he left. At that moment my taxi driver arrived and I hurried to gather my belongings. I was no more than fifteen feet outside of Berlitz when I thought, “I don’t remember putting my iPod in my bag.” And like, right under my nose, my iPod had been stolen.
It’s a thirty minute drive from the school and I cried the entire way. My mind was racing with thoughts of giving up and going home: How long is the lease on my apartment? Good thing I didn’t pay for my work visa yet. Surely I could get my job back at Banana Republic. I could live with mom and dad for a few months. I still have a return flight to use. What about Alvaro? Could we do it?
After getting back to my apartment I scrambled to figure out what to do with my life. I wasn’t ready to go back to retail full time, therefore grad school seemed like a solid option. I researched both the Art History and German programs at Vanderbilt. I felt a huge sigh of relief when I realized I had not missed the application deadlines. “I know a few professors there,” I thought, “hopefully this is when those connections become important.”
After getting off work, Alvaro came over to my apartment. In those moments I let out my greatest confession. I started to censor myself, after all, it is his country, but he told me to be honest. What followed was a twenty minute monologue of everything I find strange, uncomfortable, ugly, illogical and outright ridiculous about Peru. I have a handful of friends who have traveled to Peru and they all said that they simply, “fell in love with the people.” I recounted those stories to him and said, “The truth is, I simply haven’t.”
We left to indulge in my new bad day food: drinks and appetizers at Chili’s. The familiar menu and decor makes me feel like I’m at least a little bit closer to the United States. On our way out, his mom called and asked if we could stop by his grandfather’s house. We arrived and were greeted by his mom, three aunts and a tray full of Bailey’s and cookies. A welcoming sight after a day like that.
His Aunt Carmen picked up a small gift and held it in her hands and started to say something to me. Alvaro translated and it went something like this:
“I know that this will not replace what you had because your parents gave it to you and it was really special. But we want you to have this anyway. Hopefully it will make up for the bad that happened to you in our country.”
I opened the gift and it was a new iPod.
My iPod was stolen at 1:30pm and I opened their gift at 8:30pm. In just those seven short hours, they replaced my iPod. I was speechless, in Spanish or in English and all I could do was cry.
It wasn’t about the iPod, truthfully, it never was. iPods get lost and stolen and they can be easily replaced. Since I have arrived in Lima, I have struggled with finding my place and feeling secure within this huge, strange city. I was sitting inside the lobby of Berlitz when this happened. Berlitz, along with my home, is supposed to be one of the few places where I feel safe and in those few moments, my security was stolen from me. Just the day before this happened I had promised Alvaro that I would be braver. How am I supposed to be brave when I don’t feel safe in the place where I should feel most secure?
My iPod was on top on my folder which was sitting on the table.
A young man walked in holding a letter and a bag of candy. He placed the letter on top of my notebook and held out the bag of candy, asking me to buy some. I repeated the word “no” what must have been two dozen times. In the fifteen seconds that he stood there I remember thinking, “Why is he being so insistent?” After five more seconds of my repetitive “no,” he left. At that moment my taxi driver arrived and I hurried to gather my belongings. I was no more than fifteen feet outside of Berlitz when I thought, “I don’t remember putting my iPod in my bag.” And like, right under my nose, my iPod had been stolen.
It’s a thirty minute drive from the school and I cried the entire way. My mind was racing with thoughts of giving up and going home: How long is the lease on my apartment? Good thing I didn’t pay for my work visa yet. Surely I could get my job back at Banana Republic. I could live with mom and dad for a few months. I still have a return flight to use. What about Alvaro? Could we do it?
After getting back to my apartment I scrambled to figure out what to do with my life. I wasn’t ready to go back to retail full time, therefore grad school seemed like a solid option. I researched both the Art History and German programs at Vanderbilt. I felt a huge sigh of relief when I realized I had not missed the application deadlines. “I know a few professors there,” I thought, “hopefully this is when those connections become important.”
After getting off work, Alvaro came over to my apartment. In those moments I let out my greatest confession. I started to censor myself, after all, it is his country, but he told me to be honest. What followed was a twenty minute monologue of everything I find strange, uncomfortable, ugly, illogical and outright ridiculous about Peru. I have a handful of friends who have traveled to Peru and they all said that they simply, “fell in love with the people.” I recounted those stories to him and said, “The truth is, I simply haven’t.”
We left to indulge in my new bad day food: drinks and appetizers at Chili’s. The familiar menu and decor makes me feel like I’m at least a little bit closer to the United States. On our way out, his mom called and asked if we could stop by his grandfather’s house. We arrived and were greeted by his mom, three aunts and a tray full of Bailey’s and cookies. A welcoming sight after a day like that.
His Aunt Carmen picked up a small gift and held it in her hands and started to say something to me. Alvaro translated and it went something like this:
“I know that this will not replace what you had because your parents gave it to you and it was really special. But we want you to have this anyway. Hopefully it will make up for the bad that happened to you in our country.”
I opened the gift and it was a new iPod.
My iPod was stolen at 1:30pm and I opened their gift at 8:30pm. In just those seven short hours, they replaced my iPod. I was speechless, in Spanish or in English and all I could do was cry.
It wasn’t about the iPod, truthfully, it never was. iPods get lost and stolen and they can be easily replaced. Since I have arrived in Lima, I have struggled with finding my place and feeling secure within this huge, strange city. I was sitting inside the lobby of Berlitz when this happened. Berlitz, along with my home, is supposed to be one of the few places where I feel safe and in those few moments, my security was stolen from me. Just the day before this happened I had promised Alvaro that I would be braver. How am I supposed to be brave when I don’t feel safe in the place where I should feel most secure?
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