Where this will lead, nobody knows

Sleepless once again. After laying in bed listening to the wind howl outside, I have succumbed to the misery of the insomnia and decided to try to busy myself somehow so that I might exhaust myself enough to fall into a couple of hours of sleep before my alarm is the next thing to demand my bleary-eyed attention.

The silver lining of this sleepless night is the message I received when logging into Facebook. To preface, I have spent most of this year questioning whether or not I am really making any difference here inside of my classroom. At Americano in general. I have formed some authentic relationships with some of my students, I have collaborated with friends and found some fulfillment there, but altogether I have missed the rapport and sense of purpose I had built at Jefferson. It seems the Universe can be merciful to somewhat heavy-hearted teachers because here is the message I have just opened from a student I had last year:

Ms. Baci

I just wanted to let you know that you were my favorite teacher I had in all of my 4 years at Jefferson and you were the only teacher that I would have wanted to be at my grad party. I know that your in South America which makes that impossible but I just wanted to tell you that I would have loved for you to come and that your one of the best teachers I ever had

The young man who wrote this just graduated. I appreciated him, but I had no idea the sentiment was mutual. As teachers, we are often unaware of the impact that we have. And then sometimes we are fortunate enough to receive something so beautiful.

Intuition led me abroad. I seek comfort in that when I lay awake at night, unable to sleep, pondering the possibilities of my future. I have fallen out of touch with my own instincts at times, though I've always unwound myself from my own confusion, or others' opinions, to reconnect with "that iron string" as Emerson calls it. "Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind," my favorite Transcendentalist continues in "Self-Reliance." I may spin my wheels in the darkness of night, but reflecting upon my own history, I will ultimately make another intuitive move when it comes to my next big decision. And decisions grounded in intuition are decisions within which resides great peace for me.

This year has been intensely difficult at times. But I regret nothing. From a young age I have had a sound sense of self (though as I've recounted before, that understanding has undergone doubt and reflection a number of times), and I now see myself even more deeply as a woman who will always need to push her own boundaries.

This year too has been about seeing my own evolution to be less about changing who I am and more about accepting the woman within this skin. I attempted to leave parts of myself behind when I hopped aboard the plane in August, but they craftily packed themselves in the suitcase of my self. insecurities. sensitivities. duality. contradictions. at times, I am a paradigm. darkness. lightness. I have spent enough time in my 31 years wishing I was more like someone else, whether it be like one of my sisters or one of my friends; it is high time I embrace the fact that I am often vulnerable, yep, I'm sometimes moody and I frequently snap at a student and later regret my unrefined reaction. I'm also a genuine friend, deeply reflective with a great deal of integrity. Not to mention I sometimes snort when I laugh, lean when I toot and spew various liquids through my nose (though not for some years now, the spewing liquids part, that is), and there is something to be said for such quirks...and a woman who will admit to them.

I've had conversations with friends recently about what we are most fond of in this first year. For me it is the intangible: the indispensable friendships I have formed and seeing myself through the entangling discomfort, and sometimes agony, that were my first months as an international teacher, as an expat in Ecuador. I do feel a sense of pride, a sense of accomplishment, independence and strength in having chosen to take this chance. Chance, though, is not the word most suited for a decision based on intuition. For reasons I may now be able to articulate, and others that are latent, this is just where I was supposed to be, and just where I am supposed to be now.

The decision to teach abroad has undeniably altered the course of my world. I just wonder in how many ways.

Photo credit

For My Papa on his 31st Father's Day

Papa,

I have just hunkered down at El Quetzal. While I am enjoying the solitude of this solo trip, the last time I was here was with you and Mom and your presences would be a welcome addition again now. I just may grab you 2...or 24 blocks of cacao for those dynamite Mindo brownies. Our politics may differ, but we will always share a deep passion for good chocolate. And really, we share more than that...

An affinity for the deep blue sea and all of the fishes within. Perhaps as I've gotten quite used to pushing my boundaries, to extending myself beyond my comfort zone, I will join you for a shark dive...or maybe I'll still stick to listening to your stories. (I suppose it depends if Mom gets a vote.) Regardless, diving in The Galapagos will be breathtaking, I am certain.

An awe and appreciation for the mountains. I was just recounting to a friend the story of the shale rock climb in Montana all those summers ago now. A rough and scary experience, but it's prepped me for some great climbing in Ecuador. A bit more recently I reflect on our hike in Rocky Mountain National Park. I had been living in Colorado for months, and yet I trailed behind you as your lungs were made for the mountains. What are the chances you come and scale a volcano with me before my time is through here?

An interest in expanding our minds. I think the last book I picked up of yours was a Malcolm Gladwell. That was after having had to abandon The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable Fragility. With the various titles and genres that have been stacked on the shelves, the message was clear: Work your brain. Be a thinker.

(I also hope I share the "aging well" gene with you. The George Clooney look is working for you, Dad. So if you rock Clooney, I'm hoping to pull off Michelle Pfeiffer.)

My gratitude that you are my father increases with each passing year. To have been raised by a man who has instilled in me the value of saving and giving, to have shown me that real men, strong men, show emotion, to have demonstrated the benefit of a strong work ethic, all of this is invaluable. You are precious to me, Daddy.

I may have been accused of being too picky when it comes to men, but with you as my model, Dad, the bar is set high.

My father and his adoring daughters.

I am really looking forward to the summer, when we can buff it up at CrossFit. For real, whose dad can still kick that kind of butt? My dad! And I'm anticipating some good bonfires out back. Smoke an Ecuadorian cigar with me?

It is a strong and independent woman you have supported me in becoming, but within still resides your little girl.

I love you, Dad.

Extranjeras Abroad: Flub-ups and Fun Times in Ecuador

Blogger's Note: I am rather disappointedly posting a censored version of this entry today. Being a teacher has many rewards, but one downfall is that your words and actions are constantly scrutinized. Desiring to be a bit more entertaining and risqué, I had written a post that had me chuckling (though I have always been gifted at laughing at myself), but at lunch my level-headed colleagues had advised me against publishing it for the world at large. My inner rule follower won out (damn her), but should you beseech me to do so, I will happily send along the uncensored edition.

I played hookie on Friday. Recently I have been reflecting upon the fact that I let my rebellious teenage years pass me by (in fact, when Michelle inquired about the worst thing I did as a kid, all I came up with was "I had a fight with my mom once. I was so mad that I slammed the door when I took off to pace the neighborhood."), so I am working on making up for lost time in my 30s it seems. As teachers back home are finishing up school this week, the ex-pats abroad in Ecuador are pushing through until July 4th this summer, so Michelle and I took off Thursday evening for la playa se llama Puerto Lopez for a long weekend of sand, sol and siestas.

Not wanting to suffer through a 10 hour bus ride, we had booked tickets to fly into Guayaquil. At lunch on Thursday I was inquiring about how long the drive was from the airport in Guayaquil to Puerto Lopez. This prompted quizzical looks from my friends at the table. First flub-up and rookie mistake. Guayaquil to Puerto Lopez: 3.5 hours by car. Manta to Puerto Lopez: 1.5 hours by car. Map reading has never been my forte.

After an easy one-hour plane ride from Quito, we set out to find a taxi to drive us those 3.5 hours to Hosteria Mandala.

This is the lovely abode that awaited us. 

As we were following un hombre to his car, still trying to barter the price, Michelle declares, "Well, I think we're gonna have to stay awake for this one. Seems a little sketchy." Mmmm... mmmm, yep, didn't need to hear that. I have an active imagination that started reeling right away. As we were still bickering with "taxi driver" numero uno, another hombre sidles up to us and agrees to take us for the price we were arguing with el primero. Settling into this dude's car, Michelle starts laughing as she pulls out a swiss army knife from her coat pocket, which she had inadvertently brought along. "This is why they checked your purse at security," she deduces. Unsettling to find that as our things were in separate bins when they went through the scanner, the "security" dudes mixed up which bin to really search. Not our flub-up this time.

About two hours into the car ride, by the way my stomach seemed to be eating itself, it occured to me that I had burned my last calorie some 30 kilometers back. Perhaps it is because we were promised a snack en el avión, and while I know portion sizes are a bit smaller here in South America, I felt that LAN Airlines proved to be a bit of a tease.

Exhibit A: Snack according to LAN standards.  

Exhibit B: Snack according to Michelle and Jamie's standards.

Luckily the owners of Mandala were kind enough to fulfill our dinner wishes even though the kitchen was closed when we arrived at 10 pm. Turns out, this hostería has the best ceviche that I have ever introduced to my taste buds. In fact, we proceeded to eat our weight in ceviche throughout the weekend.



Our first full day in Puerto Lopez consisted of a leisurely breakfast at Mandala and then a short trip out to Los Frailes. In my experience so far, the beaches of Ecuador are quite different than the beaches in Mexico with which I became familiar in my adolescence as we took annual family trips to Cozumel, Akumal and Puerto Vallarta. Las playas that I have visited here seem to offer more solitude than the tourist attractions of Mexico. Solitude is just what I was musing on as I was lounging on the sands of this serene beach. What I find so lovely about my friendship with Michelle is that we can share space and continue to have a sense of solitude. When you find such persons, hang on to them, for they are kindred spirits.

Yoga en el mar. 

Yoga en la playa. 

Amidst our silent reflections, we continued to ruminate together as well. Really, we pondered some pressing questions. It still seems an enigma to us where Ecuador is hiding all the men and monedas. And now an additional mystery is where the farmers are stowing all the good coffee. Ecuador is a large producer of coffee beans, and yet we are served instant Nescafé time and again. Befuddling really. I hope my second year offers some answers here.

It seems I have gained some wisdom in my 31 years as I left Los Frailes slightly sun-kissed rather than looking like a lobster bake. (Second degree sun burns at 13 will teach you a thing or two about slathering on copious amounts of sunscreen.)

The rest of Friday consisted of finding and devouring more seafood, reading in hammocks and discovering the most kick-ass piña coladas, which Mandala serves for a mere $7 in a large margarita glass. (The secret to these coladas? Coconut ice cream. Di.vine.)

A friend who likes to eat as much as I do is a friend for life.

While a small coastal town, Puerto Lopez still offers a number of excursions, outings and sights to see, but Saturday found us planted on the beach outside of our hostería. You know how some women get gestational diabetes? It seems I get beach town Narcolepsy. My body and soul simply wanted the rest. I did make it down la playa for a long walk while Michelle opted for a massage. Upon her return, she took an incredible tumble, giving all passerby a full moon in the middle of the day. She was quite surprised that nobody hollered "Tiiiimbeeerrr," opting instead to come to her aid rather than snicker at her misstep. Muy amables those Ecuadorians. Unfortunate flub-up there, though the bruises to her legs and ego were nothing an additional piña colada and calamari ceviche couldn't assuage.

By la cena on Saturday night we were invited to dine with a couple we had passed earlier in the day. As it turns out, Pat and Wayne are funding their trips around the world through a travel blog. I was taking mental notes because what a way to live the retired life. Wayne is often featured on the Huffington Post online.

It is these brief connections, these passing conversations that make living and traveling abroad even more enthralling. Earlier in the day, the owner of the hostel where we had desayuno-ed had chatted us up for a good while, explaining his passion for preserving the jungle and how he came to be bit by a mosquito which had laid eggs in his face, thus making him appear to have a flesh eating disease (and still he kept his passion for preserving the jungle). Sunday I would be walking down la playa once again before our return to Quito when a nice looking, middle-aged Argentinean man would join stride with me. These rather fleeting encounters do give one glimpses into the lives of others, which I find inspires reflection on how different people's lives can be, and yet paths are somehow joined for some minutes, an hour, or perhaps, at some points, even a lifetime.

As Michelle and I reluctantly settled into the taxi that would return us to the airport in Guayaquil, I inquired of our driver, "Dos y media horas, si?"  "Noo, tres y media," came Miguel's reply. The doña at our hostel had assured us that as long as the taxi driver knew where he was going, 2.5 hours was an appropriate allotment of time. Michelle glanced at her watch and we deduced that if indeed the trip took 3.5 hours, our plane would se va before we were buckled into our LAN seats. We sweetly suggested that Miguel Step On It. He didn't disappoint, so this was merely a near flub-up.

Our weekend was certainly more full of fun times than flub-ups, but if you are further interested in South American fuck-ups, see Andy´s blog Do Expats Dream of Misfit Sheep? His uncanny ability to use wit and humor to fend off the relative depression that can beset one in the face of a series of misfortunate events will provide some evening entertainment.

Until next time, mi familia y amigos, mucho amor,

Jame