I went running a lot in Brazil. A lot. I put all of my focus into the physical aspect of my life, and put my brain on the backburner. Whenever it resurfaced, I summoned more energy.
Seconds would tick by without me realizing it. Breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Rhythm. Control. Pace. Endurance. All things that we need.
When you're in exchange, everything is going by so fast, and your mind can't keep up with it all. There's no way. I am a solid month behind on my journal, still writing about those last weeks. There's a pile of papers on my desk that I brought back from Brazil that I haven't even touched, except to separate them from what I need for college.
My books are in my closet. I thought I'd want to read them, but I haven't gone near them, except to revisit the one I'm still reading, A Batalha do Apocalypse, every now and then, so I don't completely lose the story. I crack open the cover, find my bookmark, and read another of the short chapters in that massive tome. Then, satisfied that I am having no more difficulty than before, I put it down and do something else.
It's a constant tug of war between the two halves of my brain. What's in the United States is taking control, but what's in Brazil, man, it's fighting.
And it means that, in my own way, I'm still there.
.......
I just got my roommate and rooming selection for college. I'm back to my old ways, eagerly analyzing the catalog, plotting the next four years of my life. It never works that way, of course. But it's good to have an idea. Plans can be changed.
Plans can be changed. That's what I tell myself. Sometimes it's hard to believe. I write it down. Plans can be changed. Take it and mold it in your hands. Melt it down and recast it. It's malleable.
But now, it's just becoming so concrete.
.......
Half of it is waking up. My mother gave my bed away and replaced it with a futon, which I never knew could be so comfortable.
I've already gone into town three or four times, just like I used to do last summer, when I realized that Main Street is really only three miles of a hilly walk from my house. I had already gotten my placement in Fortaleza. Better start walking, I thought to myself. You'll be doing a lot of it in Brazil.
Except I didn't, really. Not nearly as much as I thought I would.
But at the same time, way more than I'd imagined.
There's really no preparing for living abroad. No amount of research that you do, no amount of blogs that you read, or language that you learn, can prepare you. It is something to be lived.
.......
Rhythm. This is what keeps up going. It pounds like a drum, perhaps the last steady thing in the muck. It's the only thing of which we're certain. Night before day, day before night.
This was my schedule, in it's more basic forms. I would wake up. I'd eat. I'd do something. I'd eat again. I'd do more. Then eat. Then I'd keep doing stuff until I slept.
I always slept, even if it was just for two hours.
Sleep is good.
.......
Getting a roommate is like getting a host family. You know you're going to a new place, one that you've most certainly never been. You're going to be living with people you don't know.
But it doesn't reek of déjà vu. It's like what Disney did to Hamlet. They dressed it down, changed a few details, and called it The Lion King.
At least I'm staying in the country.
.......
But there are times where I don't know what I'm doing. My body remembers, but my mind doesn't.
How many steps there are that lead to the basement. I counted them one time, when I was taking the dogs out. The dog didn't want to do. So I coaxed her with every step she took.
How to play the piano with the pedals. I had a keyboard, but no pedals. I was worried I'd forget how to play with my entire body. If I don't think about it, the muscle memory kicks in. But I can't remember what I did unless I read the notes off the page.
I take solace in the fact that I am still shocked by how flimsy our doorknobs are. And I swear, the sheets of toilet paper here are smaller. Bigger rolls, smaller sheets.
My dogs remembered me. Isn't that cute?
There are very few things that I control.
.......
The whole thing is ironic. You go away to a foreign land, without knowing anybody, without knowing the language, without having much to anchor yourself to.
Night before day, day before night. That was my anchor.
This is crazy, I thought on the shuttle bus to the hotel in Miami. I had just arrived, July 27th, 2011, sometime in the early afternoon. I sat in that seat, thinking about how many other people had sat in that very seat, imagining their stories and histories, as if they left some kind of ghostly imprint. This is crazy. I am crazy.
The world is full of crazy people.
Crazy is good. Crazy makes things work.
I am still in awe that anything still works, really. You can't see the forest for the trees? I wish I had your problem. I can't see the trees for the forest.
It's a jungle out there.
.......
Everything goes by so quickly, especially in today, where people around the world are accessible by just a few taps of a button. I've never thought of that before. Not really.
Not until I play it through my memory. It's never occurred to me to ask. It's everyday life. Nothing I've ever felt compelled to examine.
Everything travels so quickly now. Even the mail is faster. Fourteen business days to go anywhere in the world. That's only three weeks.
The days of the week pass by faster than I ever thought they would. Monday bleeds into Thursday. The past two weeks might as well be in the point of a tesseract. I swear we went to dance forró in Brazil after my plane touched down in Dulles.
It's a matter of which memories are brighter. I remember being in the Miami International Airport (also known as MIA, or Missing In Action) and staring at the little stands. I remember going through customs and speaking Portuguese. I remember making my way through Dulles, after having convinced everybody that I don't speak English, in that removed state. I played the part so well, if it wasn't for the electronic voices kindly reminding me that the walkway was going to end, I wouldn't have been able to follow the signs to get to the baggage claim.
Perhaps it was juvenile, but it was fun. Sometimes, I just need to set my own pace in the way I do things.
.......
Facebook stalking. That's the first thing that came to mind. I did this with my host family too. I took their email and plugged it in the search function on Facebook.
But then I thought of an article I read a few weeks ago. It was on the correlation between social networking and loneliness. We spend so much time representing ourselves online, the article said.
We show what we want people to see. What we want people to access in those few taps of a button. But is it the best representation of ourselves?
Probably not.
I sent my roommate an email.
This was, actually, the first thing I did with my host family. Facebook waited.
I want it noted that I use the term "Facebook stalking" in the most colloquial way possible. I want that on the record.
.......
One year is a long time. A really long time. People ask me, "A whole year without your mother? Didn't you miss her?"
Yes, I did. I missed her terribly. Yet at the same time, no, I didn't miss her at all. My mind was on a million other different things. There was just no time to miss my mother.
It was a long time coming.
.......
I still remind myself. Plans can be changed.
But who am I to know if they should be?
Laura has a meme on her computer that I thought was hilarious. It says: "Keep Calm and Be Brazilian."
.......
Life goes on. Life doesn't care about your troubles, or whatever you've built for yourself. Life is that anchor that keeps us fettered to reality. Life is the festooning of That Which Grounds Us.
Night before day, day before night.
Right now, I'm running to catch up.
Perhaps, with the Fourth of July right around the corner, things will start to make a little more sense. And I like to remind myself, too, that not everything in Life has to make sense.
Only a few things.
- Jake
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
The Last Night
Right now, I'm waiting for Elif to finish writing nice things for me so I can put them in my suitcase and finish packing. I'm in Facebook, typing up a despedida and I'm talking to a few AFS friends. I'm also receiving a handful of noticiations from my college's freshman class Facebook page.
These people seem so American to me! Even though I understand everything perfectly, it sounds so foreign! Reassimilation is going to be a fun process, I can already smell the roses. I notice bits of this whenever I watched an American movie or read an American novel here, but this time, for whatever reason, it's plainly obvious to me. The United States is so different.
Am I actually from the United States? Does that happen? I was thinking about the odds of that. One out of every six persons lives in India. Just India. What are the odds of being born into a middle-class family in the United States, have parents working in fields with scary-good financial security, and be able to go on exchange? Answer: Not a lot.
Sometimes it's good to see these things in perspective. Or just to realize that there is perspective.
While throwing together our things, I've realized that there are a few must-do things when packing to go home. AFS has so much information on what to pack when going over, but what do you pack when you go home? Do people leave stuff?
Actually, yes. We leave a lot of stuff. Here are a few tips that I've gathered from my experience:
1. Pack the Heavy Things First. Books. Presents. Computer. Jeans. These things should go in first. Once you have your base and have a solid idea of how much more weigh you can put in each back, you'll be able to mix and match the lighter stuff until it works.
2. If You Don't Need it, Leave it. I am leaving, and this list is not comprehensive, the suitcase with which I arrived, a duffle bag, clothes which I rarely wear, school notebooks (I tore out the pages I wanted), books I've read, dictionaries, writing materials, shampoo, sunscreen, my tennis shoes, and my cell phone. My host parents are donating my school uniform back to the school. And turn the things you leave into presents - I gave away a lot of books as presents. My cell phone is going to somebody who doesn't have one. Trust me - your host family will want as many sentimental objects as possible.
3. Eat Well Before Leaving. No heavy foods. You never know what your body's reaction to stress is going to be, so it's best to play it safe. Unless you have a stomach of steel and have never thrown up, except for the baby years, like me, heed this. Eat all of that cheese and cake before leaving. Avoid really acidic things - orange juice. Açaí.
4. Pack Early. Corollary to number two. If you pack a week, two weeks in advance, and go about your normal activites with less stuff to bog you down, you'll realize that you don't never half of the things you packed. This opens up a lot of space/weight for presents and other things. Seriously, try it. And be sure to set aside clothes in which to travel, with your passport.
5. Get More Stuff! Now that your bags are free of clutter, it's time to make use of those extra 10 kilos and buy some presents. I went today - got a bunch of small stuff, plus presents for Elif, who wasn't feeling well yesterday (see number three), and a few items I've been needing to get, such as a Portuguese dictionary (a mini one). It's also important to leave some space for presents that you might receive - people may give you a going-away present, and the last you anybody wants is for you to be inconvenienced. Also, get your host family a small gift! If you have no ideas, or you have an unconventional end (like me - my host parents went to Europe on the 16th) leave them a letter, and then send them a gift from your home country.
Elif and I bought the same dictionary and gave it to each other as presents. It was fun, especially since we made it into a very formal occasion.
6. Put the Heaviest Things in your Carry-On Bag. My bookbag is heavier than my smaller suitcase. Hopefully, I'll be able to take both of them on the plane - the backpack on my back, and the suitcase in my hand. Just be sure you have a really sturdy backpack. Otherwise, it might break in the airport....and that's not fun.
7. Have People Write for You. Similar to what Elif is doing right now - she just finished writing in two books, and now she's writing a longer letter - get a notebook, and tell people to write their goodbyes in it. Ask for letters. Ask for emails and Facebook accounts and addresses. Some people like to get a flag and have people write on that - I think writing on flags is kind of difficult and unnecessary. (I'm a bit of a purist - I don't like writing on things that weren't meant to be written on.) A light notebook works fine. Pass around some papers at school - it goes faster if there are more pieces.
8. Trade Things. If you ever stay the night in the house of another exchange student, bring your computer and your camera. And trade things! I've gotten almost all of Elif's photos (and she got almost all of mine...which is a lot) and I now officially have enough Turkish music on my computer to keep me busy for a couple of years. You can put these things in a separate hard drive once you get home, if you're like me and running a computer with little free space.
9. Do not Pack Anything Resembling Drugs. This is not a joke. I wanted to bring back tapioca - until I realized that it's a white powder. Somebody might mistake it for cocaine, and although that would be a hilarious story after the fact, I'm pretty keen on avoiding it.
10. Avoid Having Things. I know I just told you to get more stuff, but hear me out. When you pack to come over, ask yourself how much you're going to be using that item. I brought a yearbook and a photo album - guess how many times I used each? Twice. I have pictures on Facebook. This is unnecessary space and weight. Similarly, getting important mail from college? While it may be torture to do it, have them send it all to your parents in your home country, otherwise you'll have a large stack of papers and forms amassed in your suitcase. Which is fun. Except not really.
Elif is still writing. I wrote a lot for other people - I wrote in all of the books, on Elif's flag, on Facebook, in my journal (pieces of this will inevitably make it onto this blog), and in various other places. You can never write too much - writing makes connections in your brain, and by writing, you're saving a bit of yourself for somebody else. Keep a journal and write like crazy. Write it all down. Keep a notepad with you at all times and record your thoughts. Keep all of it.
Good-night Brazil.Tomorrow, I shall wake up a it after the sun rises. I shall take a shower, eat cake and pão de coco, drink juice, and leave for the Fortaleza airport. Then I'll go to São Paulo, eat lunch, and watch everybody leave. Alice and I are literally the last ones to fly back.I think there are a few kids from Thailand that leave after us, but everybody else goes before. It's gonna be a rough six hours.
And then, hello USA. I'd like for us to become reaquainted.
Until then,
~ Jake
These people seem so American to me! Even though I understand everything perfectly, it sounds so foreign! Reassimilation is going to be a fun process, I can already smell the roses. I notice bits of this whenever I watched an American movie or read an American novel here, but this time, for whatever reason, it's plainly obvious to me. The United States is so different.
Am I actually from the United States? Does that happen? I was thinking about the odds of that. One out of every six persons lives in India. Just India. What are the odds of being born into a middle-class family in the United States, have parents working in fields with scary-good financial security, and be able to go on exchange? Answer: Not a lot.
Sometimes it's good to see these things in perspective. Or just to realize that there is perspective.
While throwing together our things, I've realized that there are a few must-do things when packing to go home. AFS has so much information on what to pack when going over, but what do you pack when you go home? Do people leave stuff?
Actually, yes. We leave a lot of stuff. Here are a few tips that I've gathered from my experience:
1. Pack the Heavy Things First. Books. Presents. Computer. Jeans. These things should go in first. Once you have your base and have a solid idea of how much more weigh you can put in each back, you'll be able to mix and match the lighter stuff until it works.
2. If You Don't Need it, Leave it. I am leaving, and this list is not comprehensive, the suitcase with which I arrived, a duffle bag, clothes which I rarely wear, school notebooks (I tore out the pages I wanted), books I've read, dictionaries, writing materials, shampoo, sunscreen, my tennis shoes, and my cell phone. My host parents are donating my school uniform back to the school. And turn the things you leave into presents - I gave away a lot of books as presents. My cell phone is going to somebody who doesn't have one. Trust me - your host family will want as many sentimental objects as possible.
3. Eat Well Before Leaving. No heavy foods. You never know what your body's reaction to stress is going to be, so it's best to play it safe. Unless you have a stomach of steel and have never thrown up, except for the baby years, like me, heed this. Eat all of that cheese and cake before leaving. Avoid really acidic things - orange juice. Açaí.
4. Pack Early. Corollary to number two. If you pack a week, two weeks in advance, and go about your normal activites with less stuff to bog you down, you'll realize that you don't never half of the things you packed. This opens up a lot of space/weight for presents and other things. Seriously, try it. And be sure to set aside clothes in which to travel, with your passport.
5. Get More Stuff! Now that your bags are free of clutter, it's time to make use of those extra 10 kilos and buy some presents. I went today - got a bunch of small stuff, plus presents for Elif, who wasn't feeling well yesterday (see number three), and a few items I've been needing to get, such as a Portuguese dictionary (a mini one). It's also important to leave some space for presents that you might receive - people may give you a going-away present, and the last you anybody wants is for you to be inconvenienced. Also, get your host family a small gift! If you have no ideas, or you have an unconventional end (like me - my host parents went to Europe on the 16th) leave them a letter, and then send them a gift from your home country.
Elif and I bought the same dictionary and gave it to each other as presents. It was fun, especially since we made it into a very formal occasion.
6. Put the Heaviest Things in your Carry-On Bag. My bookbag is heavier than my smaller suitcase. Hopefully, I'll be able to take both of them on the plane - the backpack on my back, and the suitcase in my hand. Just be sure you have a really sturdy backpack. Otherwise, it might break in the airport....and that's not fun.
7. Have People Write for You. Similar to what Elif is doing right now - she just finished writing in two books, and now she's writing a longer letter - get a notebook, and tell people to write their goodbyes in it. Ask for letters. Ask for emails and Facebook accounts and addresses. Some people like to get a flag and have people write on that - I think writing on flags is kind of difficult and unnecessary. (I'm a bit of a purist - I don't like writing on things that weren't meant to be written on.) A light notebook works fine. Pass around some papers at school - it goes faster if there are more pieces.
8. Trade Things. If you ever stay the night in the house of another exchange student, bring your computer and your camera. And trade things! I've gotten almost all of Elif's photos (and she got almost all of mine...which is a lot) and I now officially have enough Turkish music on my computer to keep me busy for a couple of years. You can put these things in a separate hard drive once you get home, if you're like me and running a computer with little free space.
9. Do not Pack Anything Resembling Drugs. This is not a joke. I wanted to bring back tapioca - until I realized that it's a white powder. Somebody might mistake it for cocaine, and although that would be a hilarious story after the fact, I'm pretty keen on avoiding it.
10. Avoid Having Things. I know I just told you to get more stuff, but hear me out. When you pack to come over, ask yourself how much you're going to be using that item. I brought a yearbook and a photo album - guess how many times I used each? Twice. I have pictures on Facebook. This is unnecessary space and weight. Similarly, getting important mail from college? While it may be torture to do it, have them send it all to your parents in your home country, otherwise you'll have a large stack of papers and forms amassed in your suitcase. Which is fun. Except not really.
Elif is still writing. I wrote a lot for other people - I wrote in all of the books, on Elif's flag, on Facebook, in my journal (pieces of this will inevitably make it onto this blog), and in various other places. You can never write too much - writing makes connections in your brain, and by writing, you're saving a bit of yourself for somebody else. Keep a journal and write like crazy. Write it all down. Keep a notepad with you at all times and record your thoughts. Keep all of it.
Good-night Brazil.Tomorrow, I shall wake up a it after the sun rises. I shall take a shower, eat cake and pão de coco, drink juice, and leave for the Fortaleza airport. Then I'll go to São Paulo, eat lunch, and watch everybody leave. Alice and I are literally the last ones to fly back.I think there are a few kids from Thailand that leave after us, but everybody else goes before. It's gonna be a rough six hours.
And then, hello USA. I'd like for us to become reaquainted.
Until then,
~ Jake
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Packing
Tuesday, June 12
I can't believe it's really that time.
I go home Friday, June 22nd. My plane leaves for São Paulo at 10:22 in the morning.
My host parents are leaving to go to Germany (because my host sister is there) on the 16th, which is a Saturday. I will be going to stay with Elif and her host family for my final week. Thankfully, Elif and I are on the same flight to São Paulo (other interesting facts: she leaves for Istanbul at 23:15, and I leave for Miami at 23:55; we'll also be stepping in the front door of our respective houses at about the same time), so the family only needs to make one trip to the airport.
Laura and Alex, for some reason, fly to São Paulo at 9:00.
In case you're wondering about those of us who have to travel to get to an airport: the kids from Caicó, which is where we had both orientations (and also happens to be the setting for my post Campfires) take the bus to Natal on the 21st, fly to São Paulo, stay overnight, and then leave for their respective countries on the 22nd, with the rest of us. Curiously, they do not fly with the kids from Natal, who are flying the morning of the 22nd, like me.
But somehow, it just works. And that's really all you can ask for.
Packing three days before seems both very premature and very overdue.
I have more things than when I arrived. So what goes where? Can I just put everything that I arrived with in the suit with which I arrived, and then put all of my new things in my other suitcase?
Today, I packed up my doubts.
--------------------------------
Wednesday, June 13
Okay, it looks like we're actually getting somewhere. I've packed away all of my books and most of my clothes, save what I'll be using the next week. In fact, I'm working on packing away everything that I won't be using. I have my stuff all laid out - I'll be bringing home at suitcase, a smaller suitcase, a carry-on, and my backpack. Although, I suspect that I'll have to repack to adjust for weight and such. And I suspect I might have to pay baggage fees.
No, strike that. I have to pay baggage fees regardless, but thankfully, just on the domestic flight from Miami to Dulles.
My host mother just came into my room and helped me pack. We decided what I'm leaving here - surprisingly little, although I didn't arrive with much - and we also packed a bag for next week, so I won't have to unpack my suitcase for a week and then repack everything.
As of now, I have a suitcase, a smaller suitcase, a duffel, and a backpack. I think that I'm going to stick the backpack in one of the suitcases and then reorganize so that I only have three bags - I'm flying home with American Airlines, which won't let me carry on my backpack as my personal item, even though everything will fit in the seat in front of me, and having four bags means paying about $210 in baggage fees...which is not cool.
I will not be sending a box home, and I feel rather accomplished to say that. While I certainly brought things that I didn't use, it was only a few things (yearbook, photo albums), and they don't take up too much space or two much weight. In fact, most of the weight I'm bringing home is books. I probably have too many books. Books and bits of presents that I've accumulated over the course of my stay.
Mementos. Lembranças.
Today, I packed up my things.
----------------------------------
Thursday, June 14
The fun thing about packing is that you take things out which you may have forgotten. Old stories come back to life in your memory. You might remember somebody, and drop them a call. And then you put this thing, which reminded you of this person, into your bag, and you zip up your little memories of this person and those events and you think about the next thing and the next person, until it becomes forgotten, only to be unwrapped upon arriving-day and fondly remembered.
Smells have the same effect. Salty-smelling beads from Salvador. The sweetness of castanha butter from Natal. The smell of wood from the central market.
And then you remember that you'll find these smells again. Sweetness. Salt. Wood. You take comfort in the fact that you''ll revisit those places, at least in your mind.
It's a coping mechanism.
And that, my friends, is what my packing consists of today. Remembering things. Writing in my journal. Packing my memories away, into the "Brazil" compartment of my brain, ready for instant retrieval.
Because, deep down, we're already started to prepare for what happens next. I didn't keep my head in the United States while I was in Brazil, so why should I keep my head in Brazil while I'm in the United States? That's not an excuse to forget that it ever happened - there were never be an excuse for that, much less a desire - but a simple idea. If not now, later.
If not later, when?
Such are the thoughts buzzing around my brain today.
Today, I packed up my memories.
------------------------------
Friday Morning, June 15
I'm in my room, packing away the last of my things. I'll go to school, eat lunch with my host mom, and then I'll go off to the house of Elif and her host family.
And I find myself writing a letter.
I won't finish it. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight I'm just capturing the emotions. I'm just putting them on paper and feeling the weight of the pencil. My last night in this house.
I think it's so curious, that last night. Everything has become so familiar. I finally know where everything is. I've gotten used to taking a cold shower. I have a routine. I have a place at the table. I know everybody else's routine.
Every time I leave this house, I always end up back in it, don't I? What makes this time any different? Time itself? Just the fact that the Earth had completed a certain fraction of its orbit around the sun? But because I've seen x many amount of moons since I got here?
I still haven't learned the constellations. There are no stars in the city night sky.
You're only allowed a certain amount of meals, and once you've eaten them, it's time to move out. Isn't that how it always works? You have to keep moving. You have to make space for the next person. We have to create another vacuum, and we have to keep things moving.
I guess I'm just not aware of the time. It's summer here. It's always summer here. There are no seasons that I recognize. Yesterday was just as beautiful as last week, and last week was just as sunny as October. It's the illusion of stagnation that I'm holding on to. The fairy tale of the year time froze.
Except it never did.
I'm flipping through my journal, trying to remember all of the times I've written about. The wonderful moments that they talk about. The moments where I wanted to rip out my hair. The moments where I was worried I was under too much stress, per hair falling out.
How do you measure a year abroad? I've had some very high moments and some very humbling ones. I've had moments of success and moments of failure. But I've learned from them, both of them.
I like to think that, if you're making mistakes, you must be doing it right. Our mistakes teach us how to grow and make us into the people that we are. It's not until we recognize those mistakes that we grow. And how can we, if it's not from our own merit? How can I learn anything about myself if I don't discover it for myself?
We reap what we sow. That's the way of the world.
Right now, I'm packing up my feelings. The best way to do that is to let them spill out.
Até mais tarde, todo mundo. I'm looking forward to one more peaceful sleep in my bed.
Just one more.
~ Jake
I can't believe it's really that time.
I go home Friday, June 22nd. My plane leaves for São Paulo at 10:22 in the morning.
My host parents are leaving to go to Germany (because my host sister is there) on the 16th, which is a Saturday. I will be going to stay with Elif and her host family for my final week. Thankfully, Elif and I are on the same flight to São Paulo (other interesting facts: she leaves for Istanbul at 23:15, and I leave for Miami at 23:55; we'll also be stepping in the front door of our respective houses at about the same time), so the family only needs to make one trip to the airport.
Laura and Alex, for some reason, fly to São Paulo at 9:00.
In case you're wondering about those of us who have to travel to get to an airport: the kids from Caicó, which is where we had both orientations (and also happens to be the setting for my post Campfires) take the bus to Natal on the 21st, fly to São Paulo, stay overnight, and then leave for their respective countries on the 22nd, with the rest of us. Curiously, they do not fly with the kids from Natal, who are flying the morning of the 22nd, like me.
But somehow, it just works. And that's really all you can ask for.
Packing three days before seems both very premature and very overdue.
I have more things than when I arrived. So what goes where? Can I just put everything that I arrived with in the suit with which I arrived, and then put all of my new things in my other suitcase?
Today, I packed up my doubts.
--------------------------------
Wednesday, June 13
Okay, it looks like we're actually getting somewhere. I've packed away all of my books and most of my clothes, save what I'll be using the next week. In fact, I'm working on packing away everything that I won't be using. I have my stuff all laid out - I'll be bringing home at suitcase, a smaller suitcase, a carry-on, and my backpack. Although, I suspect that I'll have to repack to adjust for weight and such. And I suspect I might have to pay baggage fees.
No, strike that. I have to pay baggage fees regardless, but thankfully, just on the domestic flight from Miami to Dulles.
My host mother just came into my room and helped me pack. We decided what I'm leaving here - surprisingly little, although I didn't arrive with much - and we also packed a bag for next week, so I won't have to unpack my suitcase for a week and then repack everything.
As of now, I have a suitcase, a smaller suitcase, a duffel, and a backpack. I think that I'm going to stick the backpack in one of the suitcases and then reorganize so that I only have three bags - I'm flying home with American Airlines, which won't let me carry on my backpack as my personal item, even though everything will fit in the seat in front of me, and having four bags means paying about $210 in baggage fees...which is not cool.
I will not be sending a box home, and I feel rather accomplished to say that. While I certainly brought things that I didn't use, it was only a few things (yearbook, photo albums), and they don't take up too much space or two much weight. In fact, most of the weight I'm bringing home is books. I probably have too many books. Books and bits of presents that I've accumulated over the course of my stay.
Mementos. Lembranças.
Today, I packed up my things.
----------------------------------
Thursday, June 14
The fun thing about packing is that you take things out which you may have forgotten. Old stories come back to life in your memory. You might remember somebody, and drop them a call. And then you put this thing, which reminded you of this person, into your bag, and you zip up your little memories of this person and those events and you think about the next thing and the next person, until it becomes forgotten, only to be unwrapped upon arriving-day and fondly remembered.
Smells have the same effect. Salty-smelling beads from Salvador. The sweetness of castanha butter from Natal. The smell of wood from the central market.
And then you remember that you'll find these smells again. Sweetness. Salt. Wood. You take comfort in the fact that you''ll revisit those places, at least in your mind.
It's a coping mechanism.
And that, my friends, is what my packing consists of today. Remembering things. Writing in my journal. Packing my memories away, into the "Brazil" compartment of my brain, ready for instant retrieval.
Because, deep down, we're already started to prepare for what happens next. I didn't keep my head in the United States while I was in Brazil, so why should I keep my head in Brazil while I'm in the United States? That's not an excuse to forget that it ever happened - there were never be an excuse for that, much less a desire - but a simple idea. If not now, later.
If not later, when?
Such are the thoughts buzzing around my brain today.
Today, I packed up my memories.
------------------------------
Friday Morning, June 15
I'm in my room, packing away the last of my things. I'll go to school, eat lunch with my host mom, and then I'll go off to the house of Elif and her host family.
And I find myself writing a letter.
I won't finish it. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight I'm just capturing the emotions. I'm just putting them on paper and feeling the weight of the pencil. My last night in this house.
I think it's so curious, that last night. Everything has become so familiar. I finally know where everything is. I've gotten used to taking a cold shower. I have a routine. I have a place at the table. I know everybody else's routine.
Every time I leave this house, I always end up back in it, don't I? What makes this time any different? Time itself? Just the fact that the Earth had completed a certain fraction of its orbit around the sun? But because I've seen x many amount of moons since I got here?
I still haven't learned the constellations. There are no stars in the city night sky.
You're only allowed a certain amount of meals, and once you've eaten them, it's time to move out. Isn't that how it always works? You have to keep moving. You have to make space for the next person. We have to create another vacuum, and we have to keep things moving.
I guess I'm just not aware of the time. It's summer here. It's always summer here. There are no seasons that I recognize. Yesterday was just as beautiful as last week, and last week was just as sunny as October. It's the illusion of stagnation that I'm holding on to. The fairy tale of the year time froze.
Except it never did.
I'm flipping through my journal, trying to remember all of the times I've written about. The wonderful moments that they talk about. The moments where I wanted to rip out my hair. The moments where I was worried I was under too much stress, per hair falling out.
How do you measure a year abroad? I've had some very high moments and some very humbling ones. I've had moments of success and moments of failure. But I've learned from them, both of them.
I like to think that, if you're making mistakes, you must be doing it right. Our mistakes teach us how to grow and make us into the people that we are. It's not until we recognize those mistakes that we grow. And how can we, if it's not from our own merit? How can I learn anything about myself if I don't discover it for myself?
We reap what we sow. That's the way of the world.
Right now, I'm packing up my feelings. The best way to do that is to let them spill out.
Até mais tarde, todo mundo. I'm looking forward to one more peaceful sleep in my bed.
Just one more.
~ Jake
Monday, June 4, 2012
Message From Natal
After getting through
The Super-Hard But Super-Awesome Zombie Weekend, I went to Natal to do a mini-intercâmbio. I don't know if you can do this with AFS in other countries. But basically, a mini-intercâmbio is like a exchange year...except only for a week or two.
I am in Natal, another city in the Northwest, for just one week. Just one.
Everything that I have to say about Natal is currently unsaid - that'll have to wait until I write it in my journal, and I am still getting through The Super-Hard But Super-Awesome Zombie Weekend (on page eleven...and I'm still on Saturday. Sigh....). I'll blog it about it later, after I blog about everything else that happened before. And I'll backdate them, so that this blog reads a bit more tightly.
But that's not the point of this post. I'm sitting here writing a letter to my host family here, thanking them for welcoming me into their home for this short period of time.
But how do I write this note? How do I write it, leave it someplace they'll find, and just get up and leave, without knowing when I'll be back? Do I just leave this bedroom and this house, which has become so familiar over the past week, and get up and go?
If this is hard after just one week, how hard will it be with my family in Fortaleza?
Should I even be worrying about that, right now?
.....................
Redefining family. That's not a modern concept. We live in the age of the nuclear family, but what about those days where your extended family was just as close? Was the idea of an isolated nuclear family just as...radical?
People have all kinds of relationships.
Some of us have two mothers, or a single parent. Some live in foster homes. Some live with relatives. Some have parents that divorced and then married somebody else, and they have three, or four families.
Some of us go on exchange.
Who makes up my family? What does family even mean?
Can you live with somebody for a year, two years, five years, and not call them family? And can you live with somebody for a month, who becomes closer than your own brother?
How does that even work?
Surely, such abstract thoughts before the bedtime hour are not good for digestion.
My goodness, Freud would have a field day with all of this.
....................
I already hugged my Natalian sisters good-bye. I won't see them in the morning. My mother here works in Sustaneability, and gave me a reusable bag, which is now functioning as my carry-on. Or so I hope.
I'm already packed. The only things still left are the things I'll be using in the morning. Deodorant. My camera. Toothbrush. And, of course, everything in that nifty reusable bag is easily accessable, namely, my journal.
Good-byes are never fun. My sisters here wrote in my journal and made me promise not to read until I'm on the plane. The kids at my school threw me a picnic party. Nothing much is better than ham and cheese and peas and corn sandwiches. Especially with cream cheese.
Leaving them was hard.
And I just realized that I forgot to say good-bye to the woman who manages all of the exchange students. But it happens. Inevitably, you forget to do something on your way out. I hope she doesn't think too badly of me.
There's no way you can just wrap it all up. Absolutely no way.
......................
But I don't think that wrapping it all up is necessarily the best thing to do. I believe I'll come back. I'm sad I have to leave, but I know I'll come back.
The sooner we leave, the sooner we come back, isn't that how the world works?
I can only hope.
......................
Off to finish this letter, and then it's back to Fortaleza.
Back for the last two weeks.
Let's make them some of the best two weeks I've ever had.
Até mais tarde,
Jake
I am in Natal, another city in the Northwest, for just one week. Just one.
Everything that I have to say about Natal is currently unsaid - that'll have to wait until I write it in my journal, and I am still getting through The Super-Hard But Super-Awesome Zombie Weekend (on page eleven...and I'm still on Saturday. Sigh....). I'll blog it about it later, after I blog about everything else that happened before. And I'll backdate them, so that this blog reads a bit more tightly.
But that's not the point of this post. I'm sitting here writing a letter to my host family here, thanking them for welcoming me into their home for this short period of time.
But how do I write this note? How do I write it, leave it someplace they'll find, and just get up and leave, without knowing when I'll be back? Do I just leave this bedroom and this house, which has become so familiar over the past week, and get up and go?
If this is hard after just one week, how hard will it be with my family in Fortaleza?
Should I even be worrying about that, right now?
.....................
Redefining family. That's not a modern concept. We live in the age of the nuclear family, but what about those days where your extended family was just as close? Was the idea of an isolated nuclear family just as...radical?
People have all kinds of relationships.
Some of us have two mothers, or a single parent. Some live in foster homes. Some live with relatives. Some have parents that divorced and then married somebody else, and they have three, or four families.
Some of us go on exchange.
Who makes up my family? What does family even mean?
Can you live with somebody for a year, two years, five years, and not call them family? And can you live with somebody for a month, who becomes closer than your own brother?
How does that even work?
Surely, such abstract thoughts before the bedtime hour are not good for digestion.
My goodness, Freud would have a field day with all of this.
....................
I already hugged my Natalian sisters good-bye. I won't see them in the morning. My mother here works in Sustaneability, and gave me a reusable bag, which is now functioning as my carry-on. Or so I hope.
I'm already packed. The only things still left are the things I'll be using in the morning. Deodorant. My camera. Toothbrush. And, of course, everything in that nifty reusable bag is easily accessable, namely, my journal.
Good-byes are never fun. My sisters here wrote in my journal and made me promise not to read until I'm on the plane. The kids at my school threw me a picnic party. Nothing much is better than ham and cheese and peas and corn sandwiches. Especially with cream cheese.
Leaving them was hard.
And I just realized that I forgot to say good-bye to the woman who manages all of the exchange students. But it happens. Inevitably, you forget to do something on your way out. I hope she doesn't think too badly of me.
There's no way you can just wrap it all up. Absolutely no way.
......................
But I don't think that wrapping it all up is necessarily the best thing to do. I believe I'll come back. I'm sad I have to leave, but I know I'll come back.
The sooner we leave, the sooner we come back, isn't that how the world works?
I can only hope.
......................
Off to finish this letter, and then it's back to Fortaleza.
Back for the last two weeks.
Let's make them some of the best two weeks I've ever had.
Até mais tarde,
Jake
Campfires
Just a memory.
We're sitting on a light sheet, the only barrier between us and the sandy ground below. It's dark - the dead of night, or is it the morning? There's a fire, just a small thing, a little will-o-wisp that licks at the edges of the pieces of wood we feed it, but that never seems to be interested enough to consume them entirely. The sizzling and crackling of the flames sounds sparse and mute to my ears, like the sound of a light drizzle as it patters against the driveway pavement. In the distance, there is a small other brightness, easily forgettable, and behind us, rays of lights escape beyond the white plaster walls that mark the boundary of the house property. To my left, there is a lake, which every now and then waves to us, as if acknowledging that it, too, is perfectly content at this silent hour.
Everybody else is asleep or sitting inside those walls, chatting in hushed voices. I cannot hear the sounds that they make unless I close my eyes and focus on their voices, speaking familiar words. But I don't. I'm sitting with two other people, and a third is poking at the fire, breathing into the flames like one might breath into a particularly stubborn balloon, trying to coerce them into greater life and warmth.
They are speaking to each other, and I can only catch bits of the conversation. They are talking about the fire, mostly, I think, but there are other things in there too, things that do not go unnoticed by me, but that go unheard. It's in a strange, beautiful language that I can barely understand: a language that is scarcely comprehensible to me. I must reach out to it, freeze a word, and contemplate its possible meanings, quickly, before it absquatulates into some other unknown realm, and another sound replaces it.
And for once, I am not the speaker. I am the listener, the observer, one who is barely following the conversation, but who is understanding a great deal more than he thinks.
It's peaceful.
We're sitting on a light sheet, the only barrier between us and the sandy ground below. It's dark - the dead of night, or is it the morning? There's a fire, just a small thing, a little will-o-wisp that licks at the edges of the pieces of wood we feed it, but that never seems to be interested enough to consume them entirely. The sizzling and crackling of the flames sounds sparse and mute to my ears, like the sound of a light drizzle as it patters against the driveway pavement. In the distance, there is a small other brightness, easily forgettable, and behind us, rays of lights escape beyond the white plaster walls that mark the boundary of the house property. To my left, there is a lake, which every now and then waves to us, as if acknowledging that it, too, is perfectly content at this silent hour.
Everybody else is asleep or sitting inside those walls, chatting in hushed voices. I cannot hear the sounds that they make unless I close my eyes and focus on their voices, speaking familiar words. But I don't. I'm sitting with two other people, and a third is poking at the fire, breathing into the flames like one might breath into a particularly stubborn balloon, trying to coerce them into greater life and warmth.
They are speaking to each other, and I can only catch bits of the conversation. They are talking about the fire, mostly, I think, but there are other things in there too, things that do not go unnoticed by me, but that go unheard. It's in a strange, beautiful language that I can barely understand: a language that is scarcely comprehensible to me. I must reach out to it, freeze a word, and contemplate its possible meanings, quickly, before it absquatulates into some other unknown realm, and another sound replaces it.
And for once, I am not the speaker. I am the listener, the observer, one who is barely following the conversation, but who is understanding a great deal more than he thinks.
It's peaceful.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Thirty Minutes to Midnight
I didn't think it was possible for my life to go any faster.
We are down to the wire - I have exactly one month before departure. Embarkment. Going over the rainbow. Snapping the cord.
Today I sat down with my host mother and we talked about my last few weeks here. I looked at my calendar - that's still, what, thirty days, right? That's such a long time. This calendar fills up an entire page.
Why do I feel like I have to do everything now?
Why don't I get it?
...
Wait.
Does that mean I'm going home? No, really. Does it?
But what is home, really? This place feels like home, doesn't it? Everything is so familiar. The shape of the pillow has molded to my head. The seat of the car. My classes at school. The adorable stuffed kangaroo sitting on a shelf in my room.
The walls around the building. The gym on the ground floor. The set of gates by the front. Our parking spaces. The canopy of leaves that shadows this street. The sounds of honking cars in the evening. The streetlight that is secured in place by a ladder.
Tall buildings. Constant noise. Webs of telephone lines. Rusty billboard signs. The fact that I can see the mall from my house.
Okay, so I still haven't gotten over that one.
My brain just doesn't compute. What do you mean, I'm going home? That can't be. I have a pile of books I need to need. I have places I want to go. I have things I want to do.
So, what do I do? Do I just get up and leave? Do I just take everything that I brought and let the rest stay? Do I still speak Portuguese with everybody?
Do people really speak English? Does this happen?
...
It goes through the back of every exchange student's mind. Will I live this year in isolation? This semester? This month?
For some, the answer is yes. Some people don't make lasting connections with people on their exchange years. Some people never learn the language of their host country. Some people don't look around them.
For others, the answer is no.
...
It just seems do definitive. You're going home. Cut the ropes. End of story. Sorry. Curtain falls. Show's over. Go gag yourself and stop whining.
And then, once you've said your heart-breaking, tear-wrenching, sorrowful good-byes, what's next? You pick up your bags, and you get on a plane.
And you sit there. On a plane.
And I guess you think. Maybe you talk with other people. Maybe you talk because you don't know what to think, or how to think anymore. Because it's happening again.
...
So what do I do now? What's left?
Perhaps it's all in my head. Maybe this is actually a dream. Maybe I just got attacked by an incubus and I'm hallucinating. That's a logical explanation.
Or maybe it was the nargles.
That doesn't even make any sense.
Okay. Right. What's left?
Well, I'm here. That counts for something, right? I have my physical possessions. If I touch them, maybe I'll remember something. I have my camera, with fresh pictures on it. I have my computer, with old pictures. And there's always Facebook. And Skype.
Oh, Skype. My primary telephone.
I still speak this new language...basically. I have my clothes. My journal. My defunct cell phone.
And I still remember things. I wrote things down. I took pictures. I clicked my mental save button.
But when I get back, what do I do? Everybody will be happy to see me, okay. But then...what's left? Do I just pick up where I left off?
Will my dogs remember me?
...
Such are the thoughts that are running through my mind, one more before leaving. And then I think, what about those people I've met? Those people in the "Brazil" category of my mind? What about them?
Does life just continue, like clockwork? Does everybody just go about their business, going to school, watching movies, tanning at the beach, eating sushi?
Do the hands on the clock keep ticking?
Why is that a problem?
...
I think there's a lot of fear. A lot of uncertainty. A lot of rush to finish things. To get it all done. To make it last long enough so I can say, "Well, when I was an exchange student..."
Which begs the question: do we ever stop being exchange students?
Just because I touch down in my home country, does that mean this is over?
Did it stop?
Does it stop?
...
Why don't I get it?
We are down to the wire - I have exactly one month before departure. Embarkment. Going over the rainbow. Snapping the cord.
Today I sat down with my host mother and we talked about my last few weeks here. I looked at my calendar - that's still, what, thirty days, right? That's such a long time. This calendar fills up an entire page.
Why do I feel like I have to do everything now?
Why don't I get it?
...
Wait.
Does that mean I'm going home? No, really. Does it?
But what is home, really? This place feels like home, doesn't it? Everything is so familiar. The shape of the pillow has molded to my head. The seat of the car. My classes at school. The adorable stuffed kangaroo sitting on a shelf in my room.
The walls around the building. The gym on the ground floor. The set of gates by the front. Our parking spaces. The canopy of leaves that shadows this street. The sounds of honking cars in the evening. The streetlight that is secured in place by a ladder.
Tall buildings. Constant noise. Webs of telephone lines. Rusty billboard signs. The fact that I can see the mall from my house.
Okay, so I still haven't gotten over that one.
My brain just doesn't compute. What do you mean, I'm going home? That can't be. I have a pile of books I need to need. I have places I want to go. I have things I want to do.
So, what do I do? Do I just get up and leave? Do I just take everything that I brought and let the rest stay? Do I still speak Portuguese with everybody?
Do people really speak English? Does this happen?
...
It goes through the back of every exchange student's mind. Will I live this year in isolation? This semester? This month?
For some, the answer is yes. Some people don't make lasting connections with people on their exchange years. Some people never learn the language of their host country. Some people don't look around them.
For others, the answer is no.
...
It just seems do definitive. You're going home. Cut the ropes. End of story. Sorry. Curtain falls. Show's over. Go gag yourself and stop whining.
And then, once you've said your heart-breaking, tear-wrenching, sorrowful good-byes, what's next? You pick up your bags, and you get on a plane.
And you sit there. On a plane.
And I guess you think. Maybe you talk with other people. Maybe you talk because you don't know what to think, or how to think anymore. Because it's happening again.
...
So what do I do now? What's left?
Perhaps it's all in my head. Maybe this is actually a dream. Maybe I just got attacked by an incubus and I'm hallucinating. That's a logical explanation.
Or maybe it was the nargles.
That doesn't even make any sense.
Okay. Right. What's left?
Well, I'm here. That counts for something, right? I have my physical possessions. If I touch them, maybe I'll remember something. I have my camera, with fresh pictures on it. I have my computer, with old pictures. And there's always Facebook. And Skype.
Oh, Skype. My primary telephone.
I still speak this new language...basically. I have my clothes. My journal. My defunct cell phone.
And I still remember things. I wrote things down. I took pictures. I clicked my mental save button.
But when I get back, what do I do? Everybody will be happy to see me, okay. But then...what's left? Do I just pick up where I left off?
Will my dogs remember me?
...
Such are the thoughts that are running through my mind, one more before leaving. And then I think, what about those people I've met? Those people in the "Brazil" category of my mind? What about them?
Does life just continue, like clockwork? Does everybody just go about their business, going to school, watching movies, tanning at the beach, eating sushi?
Do the hands on the clock keep ticking?
Why is that a problem?
...
I think there's a lot of fear. A lot of uncertainty. A lot of rush to finish things. To get it all done. To make it last long enough so I can say, "Well, when I was an exchange student..."
Which begs the question: do we ever stop being exchange students?
Just because I touch down in my home country, does that mean this is over?
Did it stop?
Does it stop?
...
Why don't I get it?
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Tiradentes
Two weeks ago, the 21st of April, was Tiradentes.
Quick history lesson: Tiradentes was a Brazilian that shuffled gold and other valuable resources from the mines of Vila Rica, the capital of the state Minas Gerais, to Rio de Janeiro. His trips to Rio explosed him to liberal ideas, including those by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, John Locke, and the American Revolution. He became increasingly dissatified with the amount of exploitation that was being done to Brazil by the crown in Portugal.
Tiradentes joined with a number of other like-minded citizens. They wanted to create a new republic with a capital at São João de Rei and start a university. Their flag was a triangle surrounded by the Latin words "Libertas Quae Sera Tamen", or "Freedom, Even If It Be Late".
His plan was, on a day of derrama, or a day of high dissatisfaction with the government (there is no translation for this), to take to the streets and proclaim the Republic.
Unfortunately for Tiradentes, one member of his group, Joaquim Silveiro dos Reis, betrayed the movement to the governor, and Tiradentes was forced to flee to Rio.
He tried to reorganize his movement there, and he agreed to meet Joaquim Silveiro dos Reis in Rio de Janeiro, not knowing that Joaquim was the one that betrayed the movement. Tiradentes was arrested on May 10, 1789.
His trial and the trial of nine others took almost three years to complete. The Queen of Portugal lowered the sentence of the other nine to degredation instead of death. Tiradentes was hanged on April 21, 1792, in Rio de Janeiro, in the plaza now named after him (Praça Tiradentes). His body was cut and a document was drawn up in his blood, to declare him infamous. His head was displayed in Vila Rica and parts of his body in Rio de Janeiro, as a warning and a reminder to those who oppose the crown.
Today, April 21 is a national holiday in Brazil, a day where students organize revolts and protest against the government. There is a city in Minas Gerais bearing his name, and several other Latin American countries also honor him by naming major avenues in his honor. The proposed flag is now the flag of Minas Gerais, the only difference being that the triangle was changed to red.
- Jake
 |
| There was a protest at Praça Portugal. |
Quick history lesson: Tiradentes was a Brazilian that shuffled gold and other valuable resources from the mines of Vila Rica, the capital of the state Minas Gerais, to Rio de Janeiro. His trips to Rio explosed him to liberal ideas, including those by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, John Locke, and the American Revolution. He became increasingly dissatified with the amount of exploitation that was being done to Brazil by the crown in Portugal.
 |
| A Marcha Contra a Corrupção - The March Against Corruption. In our government. In our finances. |
Tiradentes joined with a number of other like-minded citizens. They wanted to create a new republic with a capital at São João de Rei and start a university. Their flag was a triangle surrounded by the Latin words "Libertas Quae Sera Tamen", or "Freedom, Even If It Be Late".
 |
| This is a national organization. |
 |
| With the blessing of the police, we too, took to the streets. |
Unfortunately for Tiradentes, one member of his group, Joaquim Silveiro dos Reis, betrayed the movement to the governor, and Tiradentes was forced to flee to Rio.
 |
| And people watched. Cars honked in encouragement. People joined us. |
 |
| While others passed by, forgetting the significance of this date. It's just another annoying protest, their faces said. |
 |
| And now we do what Tiradentes could not. |
 |
| And we, too, remember Tiradentes. |
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Páscoa!
Sorry about the long hiatus. My computer fio (cord) broke and for some reason I don't want to upload the 600+ pictures I've taken in the last month to the family computer, and I for some reason I don't want to blog when I have no pictures. So until that arrives (should be next week, I hope), the blog will be pictureless. Yippie.
In other words, things break. Use an adapter next time, Jake. Then this won't happen. These things are so evident in retrospect.
I've got to blog about Salvador, which was the 13-16 of April, Carnaval, which was back in Feburary (whoops), and the first orientation, which was back in...November? It might have to wait until I get back home. There are some other posts I want to write (about blogging, about this series of protests that's been going on, food, Brazilian culture, the city of Fortaleza - interesting stuff), and I think we're going to Jericoacoara at the end of the month. My host mother, the official trip-planner (she's just generally awesome), says that we exchangers have to go before we leave. The big obstacle? It's on the other side of Ceará, about a six-hour car ride from Fortaleza.
Páscoa (Easter) is the name of the big holiday that we celebrate in the United States, but here in Brazil, the Semana Santa (Holy Week) is much more important. Semana Santa is pretty much that entire week. I had the usual hummy-drummy Monday before taking two long and painfully difficult tests designed to simulate the monster that haunts the nightmares of every Brazilian High School student: O Vestibular. To put this into perspective for you, using the American school system as a base, imagine that the SAT covered advanced English, Mathematics, History, Biology, Physics, Chemistry, Geography, and either Spanish or French, and that you could only take it at the end of the academic year, and that your score on this single test would determine what college you could go to and what you could major in. Yes, it's that scary. The school system here merits a couple of posts all by itself.
During these testing days, we students have the luxury of sleeping in, or getting up early and studying, or some other third mindless option. (I went to Lojas Americanas, this absolutely wonderful God-send of a store that I will ake a blog post about, and bought food.) We go to school before 13:00, which is when the test starts. You eat lunch and then bring snacks, like cookies or Japanese peanuts. Or both. (Hint: This is what I did. In the US, we're not supposed to eat in the classroom because of kids that have peanut allergies. Not sure about what my school does about that, or if anybody attending even has peanut allergies. I expect they have this sort of information on file. Anyway.)
We arrive, find our assigned room (this information is posted in seemingly insidious places throughout the school; I can never seem to find them until somebody points it out to me), pick seats, and begin. I've always found it very interesting here how students are organized by their first names - everybody has at least two last names and few people have a middle name, so I suppose going by the first name is easier. They split the classes into two different rooms: one for A-N, the other for O-Z.
About an hour and a half, two hours, I'm-actually-not-sure-because-I-wasn't-keeping-track hours, they hand out the answer sheet. It's fill in the bubbles, but we have to use pen. So if you mess up, you get that question wrong...? I don't know anything about this. It's definitely not Scantron, because you must use pen.
And then you leave when you're done. It's like college, except much more frightening. I think.
One day was Math, Portuguese, and Foreign Language; the other was everything else. For the Portuguese test, we write an essay in addition to the multiple choice. These are different too. Imagine if the SAT Essay had more abstract grading criteria than it already does. And a minimum line count. Not a minimum word count. A minimum line count.
So anyway, anyway, let's talk about the fun stuff now.
We left for the sítio (country house) Wednesday night, as neither Rapha nor I had class for the rest of the week. Along the way, we stopped at the house of Mãe's grandparents to pick up her aunt and her niece, Roberta. The sítio is about half-an-hour away from the apartment, and by the time we got there and unpacked it was nearing 11:00, which is past my bedtime. Except not really. But I was tired, so I slept.
The next day, Thursday, Roberta and I chilled until Clarissa, Laura, and Elif arrived. This was around 3:00, and since Roberta and I got up around 10:00, there wasn't much chill time. We ate lunch. We tried to remember the words to Química do Amor. We ate more food.
They did arrive, and introductions were made all around. In Brazil, introductions are almost ritualistic. Men shake hands. Women kiss each other on the cheek once or twice, and the same is expected between men and women. I'm not quite sure of how you know whether to do one kiss or two kisses, although I suspect it varies from family to family.
And then, we took part in what has become a great exchange student pasttime - we watched movies. In Portuguese with Portuguese subtitles. I feel like this is the best way to work on comprehension, because you don't always look at the subtitles when you're understanding the audio. And sometimes, jokes are just that much better in a foreign language. And sometimes they don't make any sense and you're left wondering what the Dickens that was supposed to be in the original script.
Friday was a beach day. Beach beach beach beach beach. Except we only went in the morning. But that counts as the whole day, pretty much. And I burned. I reapplied SPF 50 twice, and I still burned. And now, sitting here, more than two weeks later, a corner of my foot is still burned. I give up. Brazilian sun, you win.
Clarissa brought a giant chocolate egg for us. In Brazil, people usually give large eggs of chocolate. They're hollow, but with more chocolate inside (but it's wrapped). Bite-sized eggs, like in the US, are nonexistant, and chocolate rabbits are only for small children. The difference with Clarissa's egg is that she actually made it. Chocolate on cookies on chocolate on strawberries on chocolate. Delicious.
And really, Saturday and Sunday were pretty calm. Visitors came - this is very common, visiting somebody in their sítio to get away from the city -, we went swimming, we played ping-pong, we made brownies, we watched more movies, we climbed trees and held uncomfortable positions so we could take good photos and not fall off.
All pretty normal stuff.
I got home around 5:00 or 6:00, and we headed right off to mass. I may officially be Catholic, but I'm not religious and I don't agree with a lot of things that the Vatican says and does (and doesn't do). But, interestingly enough, a mass in a Brazilian Catholic church and a mass in an American Catholic church are actually pretty different. For example, no Latin in masses. No crossing with the Holy Water upon entrance. No kneeling and crossing before sitting down. The priest doesn't come through and sprinkle the Holy Water throughout the crowd. Sometimes, the Host is dipped in the wine, sometimes they are separate, and sometimes there is no wine except at the altar. You cross after putting the Host in your mouth, not before. you don't bow your head just before receiving the host. In Brazil, you receive a paper with has all of the mass printed, except for the Priest's speech, and sometimes they change the songs. Churches range from being stunningly modern to simple, from ornate to undistinguished. Oftentimes, churches overflow and have an entirely separate room for people to sit in plastic chairs.
The dove (which represents the Holy Spirit) can be found everywhere. In homes, on bumpers, photos in restaurants, stores, etc. The saying "Deus é fiel" (God is Faithful) is also a common sight, usually on car windows.
But interestingly enough, Catholics in Brazil aren't as conservatives as Catholics in the United States, as this article suggests (although, it's a little dated).
That said, Ceará may very well be the most religious part of the country. One of the great things about Brazil is that it's so large and so diverse, so what is true for one part of the country might not be true for another part.
Hey, that sounds...familiar.
In other words, things break. Use an adapter next time, Jake. Then this won't happen. These things are so evident in retrospect.
I've got to blog about Salvador, which was the 13-16 of April, Carnaval, which was back in Feburary (whoops), and the first orientation, which was back in...November? It might have to wait until I get back home. There are some other posts I want to write (about blogging, about this series of protests that's been going on, food, Brazilian culture, the city of Fortaleza - interesting stuff), and I think we're going to Jericoacoara at the end of the month. My host mother, the official trip-planner (she's just generally awesome), says that we exchangers have to go before we leave. The big obstacle? It's on the other side of Ceará, about a six-hour car ride from Fortaleza.
Páscoa (Easter) is the name of the big holiday that we celebrate in the United States, but here in Brazil, the Semana Santa (Holy Week) is much more important. Semana Santa is pretty much that entire week. I had the usual hummy-drummy Monday before taking two long and painfully difficult tests designed to simulate the monster that haunts the nightmares of every Brazilian High School student: O Vestibular. To put this into perspective for you, using the American school system as a base, imagine that the SAT covered advanced English, Mathematics, History, Biology, Physics, Chemistry, Geography, and either Spanish or French, and that you could only take it at the end of the academic year, and that your score on this single test would determine what college you could go to and what you could major in. Yes, it's that scary. The school system here merits a couple of posts all by itself.
During these testing days, we students have the luxury of sleeping in, or getting up early and studying, or some other third mindless option. (I went to Lojas Americanas, this absolutely wonderful God-send of a store that I will ake a blog post about, and bought food.) We go to school before 13:00, which is when the test starts. You eat lunch and then bring snacks, like cookies or Japanese peanuts. Or both. (Hint: This is what I did. In the US, we're not supposed to eat in the classroom because of kids that have peanut allergies. Not sure about what my school does about that, or if anybody attending even has peanut allergies. I expect they have this sort of information on file. Anyway.)
We arrive, find our assigned room (this information is posted in seemingly insidious places throughout the school; I can never seem to find them until somebody points it out to me), pick seats, and begin. I've always found it very interesting here how students are organized by their first names - everybody has at least two last names and few people have a middle name, so I suppose going by the first name is easier. They split the classes into two different rooms: one for A-N, the other for O-Z.
About an hour and a half, two hours, I'm-actually-not-sure-because-I-wasn't-keeping-track hours, they hand out the answer sheet. It's fill in the bubbles, but we have to use pen. So if you mess up, you get that question wrong...? I don't know anything about this. It's definitely not Scantron, because you must use pen.
And then you leave when you're done. It's like college, except much more frightening. I think.
One day was Math, Portuguese, and Foreign Language; the other was everything else. For the Portuguese test, we write an essay in addition to the multiple choice. These are different too. Imagine if the SAT Essay had more abstract grading criteria than it already does. And a minimum line count. Not a minimum word count. A minimum line count.
So anyway, anyway, let's talk about the fun stuff now.
We left for the sítio (country house) Wednesday night, as neither Rapha nor I had class for the rest of the week. Along the way, we stopped at the house of Mãe's grandparents to pick up her aunt and her niece, Roberta. The sítio is about half-an-hour away from the apartment, and by the time we got there and unpacked it was nearing 11:00, which is past my bedtime. Except not really. But I was tired, so I slept.
The next day, Thursday, Roberta and I chilled until Clarissa, Laura, and Elif arrived. This was around 3:00, and since Roberta and I got up around 10:00, there wasn't much chill time. We ate lunch. We tried to remember the words to Química do Amor. We ate more food.
They did arrive, and introductions were made all around. In Brazil, introductions are almost ritualistic. Men shake hands. Women kiss each other on the cheek once or twice, and the same is expected between men and women. I'm not quite sure of how you know whether to do one kiss or two kisses, although I suspect it varies from family to family.
And then, we took part in what has become a great exchange student pasttime - we watched movies. In Portuguese with Portuguese subtitles. I feel like this is the best way to work on comprehension, because you don't always look at the subtitles when you're understanding the audio. And sometimes, jokes are just that much better in a foreign language. And sometimes they don't make any sense and you're left wondering what the Dickens that was supposed to be in the original script.
Friday was a beach day. Beach beach beach beach beach. Except we only went in the morning. But that counts as the whole day, pretty much. And I burned. I reapplied SPF 50 twice, and I still burned. And now, sitting here, more than two weeks later, a corner of my foot is still burned. I give up. Brazilian sun, you win.
Clarissa brought a giant chocolate egg for us. In Brazil, people usually give large eggs of chocolate. They're hollow, but with more chocolate inside (but it's wrapped). Bite-sized eggs, like in the US, are nonexistant, and chocolate rabbits are only for small children. The difference with Clarissa's egg is that she actually made it. Chocolate on cookies on chocolate on strawberries on chocolate. Delicious.
And really, Saturday and Sunday were pretty calm. Visitors came - this is very common, visiting somebody in their sítio to get away from the city -, we went swimming, we played ping-pong, we made brownies, we watched more movies, we climbed trees and held uncomfortable positions so we could take good photos and not fall off.
All pretty normal stuff.
I got home around 5:00 or 6:00, and we headed right off to mass. I may officially be Catholic, but I'm not religious and I don't agree with a lot of things that the Vatican says and does (and doesn't do). But, interestingly enough, a mass in a Brazilian Catholic church and a mass in an American Catholic church are actually pretty different. For example, no Latin in masses. No crossing with the Holy Water upon entrance. No kneeling and crossing before sitting down. The priest doesn't come through and sprinkle the Holy Water throughout the crowd. Sometimes, the Host is dipped in the wine, sometimes they are separate, and sometimes there is no wine except at the altar. You cross after putting the Host in your mouth, not before. you don't bow your head just before receiving the host. In Brazil, you receive a paper with has all of the mass printed, except for the Priest's speech, and sometimes they change the songs. Churches range from being stunningly modern to simple, from ornate to undistinguished. Oftentimes, churches overflow and have an entirely separate room for people to sit in plastic chairs.
The dove (which represents the Holy Spirit) can be found everywhere. In homes, on bumpers, photos in restaurants, stores, etc. The saying "Deus é fiel" (God is Faithful) is also a common sight, usually on car windows.
But interestingly enough, Catholics in Brazil aren't as conservatives as Catholics in the United States, as this article suggests (although, it's a little dated).
That said, Ceará may very well be the most religious part of the country. One of the great things about Brazil is that it's so large and so diverse, so what is true for one part of the country might not be true for another part.
Hey, that sounds...familiar.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Messing Up
It happens sometimes.
Earlier this week, my host parents sent me out to buy bread. In Brazil and pretty much everywhere except the United States, people actually eat real bread (yes American, I am hating on your flimsy bread), and therefore you must buy it at the bakery...or bread-vending place. Whatever it's called in English.
To be fair, my directions were given after a long set of confusing instruction and much bandying of words between my host parents (everybody has their specific bread preferences, it seems. Me? I love bread. It's a bit of a problem.), they sent me off.
So, right. I went to the bread-store-place and got what the told me. 7 loaves.
But when I got back, it appeared I was supposed to get 7 loaves of two different types of bread.
Oh, right. Gotcha. I totally...did not understand that part. Whoops.
It's not that it was a big deal or anything - I just feel like it's worth mentioning if only to say that it's okay to mess up. We're here to learn. You know that. Your host parents know that. Your host siblings and people in your host community know that. You mess up, you learn from your mistakes, and then you try harder until you get it right.
It might be a good idea to reiterate this to yourself. And just remember - we've got your back.
Three months left.
- Jake
Earlier this week, my host parents sent me out to buy bread. In Brazil and pretty much everywhere except the United States, people actually eat real bread (yes American, I am hating on your flimsy bread), and therefore you must buy it at the bakery...or bread-vending place. Whatever it's called in English.
To be fair, my directions were given after a long set of confusing instruction and much bandying of words between my host parents (everybody has their specific bread preferences, it seems. Me? I love bread. It's a bit of a problem.), they sent me off.
So, right. I went to the bread-store-place and got what the told me. 7 loaves.
But when I got back, it appeared I was supposed to get 7 loaves of two different types of bread.
Oh, right. Gotcha. I totally...did not understand that part. Whoops.
It's not that it was a big deal or anything - I just feel like it's worth mentioning if only to say that it's okay to mess up. We're here to learn. You know that. Your host parents know that. Your host siblings and people in your host community know that. You mess up, you learn from your mistakes, and then you try harder until you get it right.
It might be a good idea to reiterate this to yourself. And just remember - we've got your back.
Three months left.
- Jake
Canoa Quebrada
I would do it again in a heartbeat.
Canoa Quebrada is a beach located in Ceara, about a two hour drive from the city of Fortaleza. The city itself isn't so much a city, but more like a conglomeration of settlements. There's the main settlement, and then there are a few small housing developments a mile or two away in any direction, and it's like that.
Everybody arrived at the apartment of one of the AFS volunteers at 9:00AM (what? 9:00? On a Saturday? That's so early!) for our 10:00 departure. We actually left at 10:15, but this is basically 10:00.
It was during this time that I learned that we were actually receiving four exchange students instead of two, and that AFS was starting a new chapter in Caucaia (go to another language for more information...English Wiki is seriously lacking the goods this time) and placing two of the students there, one from Germany and the other from Thailand. Unfortunately, one of those students arrived by 9:00 but hadn't paid in advance (because his host parents didn't tell him about the trip, or something...?) and couldn't go. But he was the only one. We other seven went. Poor guy. Next time, I'll drag him by the ear.
We stayed in a pousada (hostel) owned by a guy who lived in Italy. Laura, our resident Italian, was delighted. Not everybody had arrived, but we went to our respective rooms. Boys and girls. In total, we were 15, 8 boys and 7 girls. Five of the boys were arriving later, so it was just three of us to start.
We went down to lunch, which was actually too much food. I think my stomach has shrunk. I am definitely not eating as much as I would be eating in the US, and I don't feel any hungrier.
Sadly, we did not reach Africa. The conversation went something like this:
Afterwards, we went dancing again. :D I almost pulled an all-nighter, but the coffee crash plus the dangerous combination of forro and reggae finally got to me. After discovering that I had, in fact, tanned (Brazil is magic), I took several trips along Broadway to look at merchandise (read: eat ice cream) and score some last photos...which are all on Elif's camera. Once she uploads them...
Note: Not all of these pictures are mine. Julia, an AFS volunteer who was with us, put them on Facebook ie publin domain, and so I borrowed exactly 20. And then I probably deleted about 5-7 in Blogger angst. Big thanks to Julia. : D
I'll post/link to videos later.
Canoa Quebrada is a beach located in Ceara, about a two hour drive from the city of Fortaleza. The city itself isn't so much a city, but more like a conglomeration of settlements. There's the main settlement, and then there are a few small housing developments a mile or two away in any direction, and it's like that.
Everybody arrived at the apartment of one of the AFS volunteers at 9:00AM (what? 9:00? On a Saturday? That's so early!) for our 10:00 departure. We actually left at 10:15, but this is basically 10:00.
 |
| Just a small part of the AFS Family |
 |
| Yes, we actually went to Broadway. Who knew? |
 |
| And here it is. Pousada. |
Well, we did some quick math and figured that the girl's room was bigger, so we needed to switch. But no. You know how girls can be with these things (no offense). So instead, we guys were going to vote somebody off the island, so to speak, to sleep in the girls' room, or we were gonna half to break out the hammocks and sleep on top of each other. Almost literally.
 |
| Just before lunch. |
After lunch, we took a ride to the beach. I'm not actually sure how the transportation system works, since we never once paid these guys anything. But...
It was pretty crazy. Almost crashed with tourists that didn't understand the road signs a couple of times (which was really scary, considering that there were no doors or windows and four of us weren't even in the car) but then we arrived at the beach. I think these drivers just like to show off, because we inclined it on the sand at a pretty solid 45-degree angle. Don't let go, don't let go...
 |
| Sitting on the back. Don't try this at home. |
But the beach! I was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
There was only one buggy (that's what I'm calling it), so we had to wait for the second group to get here. That called for a dance party.
One of the volunteers taught me and Elif two traditional dances, which I may or may not have already forgotten. And no, it's not all just salsa. And yes, it is much harder to dance on the wet sand. But I think we covered it pretty well.
But then they arrived and we set off towards our real destination: the symbol of Canoa Quebrada, a certain point in the sand formation.
And then we took so many pictures it's taking too long for me to look through them all. But here's a favorite:
And then, y'know, shenanigans galore. What else?
 |
| But then, so are we. :) |
 |
| See? I didn't even make that one up. |
But then they arrived and we set off towards our real destination: the symbol of Canoa Quebrada, a certain point in the sand formation.
 |
| This, and between the pass. But mostly this. |
 |
| What am I doing? What is Elif doing? Why are we up there? How did we even get up there? Why didn't I take a picture of that? |
As it turns out, the symbol of Canoa Quebrada is the same symbol that is on the flag of Turkey. So weird. Yet so awesome. Welcome to AFS.
 |
| It's actually really, really, really tall. |
 |
| This kid's name is Kiki. She's awesome. |
 |
| And then, while everybody else was having fun and shouting like "massive surprise inheritance", I was actually working on something. |
We decided to go swimming.
To Africa.
To Africa.
 |
| To Africa! |
Elif: Guys, we have to go deeper! *goes farther out*
Alex: Elif, you're so small! Don't get swept away!
Elif: *rolls eyes*
Me: Deeper! Whoo!
Elif: Whoo!
Laura: No! Guys, there's nothing there but Africa! *dramatic pose* Africa, I say! *she pauses* No, wait, is it really Africa?
Me: It's Africa.
Alex: Africa?
Laura: AFRICA!
Me: It's Africa.
Alex: Africa?
Laura: AFRICA!
It's what we do.
How often do you get to do that?
But I made it through and we went to the streets, in front of a bar, where people were dancing. Two dance parties, in one day? You're kidding me, right? (Okay, so the first wasn't actually a dance party. Now shut up.) AFS showed us some Brazilian dances, and I, in all of my foresight (read: somebody said it would be a good idea), had already learned most of the lyrics to the more popular Brazilian dance songs (this generally isn't my style), which made such a difference! Because, y'know, that just makes the whole thing so much better.
Then I got voted into the girls' room. D: Just kidding. It wasn't that bad. Just had to wait a long, long time to shower. It was near 4:30 by the time I finally get to bed.
The next day, we took a boat trip. Or, rather, we got on a boat, got swamped by waves, and then went back to the beach. :)
Then we went on top of the sand and took weird pictures. You must do this every chance you get. And just fyi, it's a long way down...
Afterwards, we went for a BUGGY RIDE! I have videos. I have not yet checked them to make sure we didn't say/do anything blog-inappropriate (just kidding. AFS kids are always professional) before I post them. The buggy trip led us to some interesting places, and most of the following photos are from there. Elif still hasn't uploaded her photos, and she has a lot of good ones, so I might just, y'know, steal from her...
 |
| The others arrived, so we went to dinner! Comedaaaaaa! |
In this new group were the other two from Thailand, Int and Puri (who we called Juni), two other volunteers from AFS, and this guy that just knew all of them from school. Sitting in that restaurant, we had the United States, Germany, Italy, Turkey, Thailand, and Brazil.
How often do you get to do that?
After dinner (and after the digestive process had settled a bit), we went to a luau. Or, rather, a "luau". A Brazilian luau, not a Hawaiian luau. There was a hut on the beach that swayed back and forth, and there was a small fire in the sand. Had it not been for the deadly combination of Reggae and Forro, I may not have actually started to get tired. Should have drunken more coffee.
Speaking of which, Brazilian coffee is absolutely wonderful. Do drink it.
But I made it through and we went to the streets, in front of a bar, where people were dancing. Two dance parties, in one day? You're kidding me, right? (Okay, so the first wasn't actually a dance party. Now shut up.) AFS showed us some Brazilian dances, and I, in all of my foresight (read: somebody said it would be a good idea), had already learned most of the lyrics to the more popular Brazilian dance songs (this generally isn't my style), which made such a difference! Because, y'know, that just makes the whole thing so much better.
We finally arrived back at the hostel around 3:00.
Then I got voted into the girls' room. D: Just kidding. It wasn't that bad. Just had to wait a long, long time to shower. It was near 4:30 by the time I finally get to bed.
The next day, we took a boat trip. Or, rather, we got on a boat, got swamped by waves, and then went back to the beach. :)
We were on a boat, and I was sitting at the bow with Laura. I sang Come Sail Away. Because I could. (Read: Because everybody was like, 'Jake, sing something!' And the only other thing I could think of was 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean'. They might have tossed me overboard.) Being at the bow in a boat like that is a great idea, because the waves were merciless. Absolutely merciless. This one huge wave came and knocked me and Laura towards the mast. I dunno if anything has ever been so much fun. We were laughing and coughing up water, which was pretty hilarious. I almost fell overboard a couple of times.
Weird pictures:
 |
| Charlie's Angels...again |
 |
| I was meditating. It's a pretty big deal. |
 |
| Celebrate good times ~ |
 |
| The beach. To the right you can see the shack that served food. |
 |
| Wuz here. Just in case you were unclear on that bit. |
 |
| I was pretty impressed. |
 |
| I thought there was a bench, so I sat down with everybody else... There was no bench. |
 |
| Posing with Elif. |
 |
| What is the only thing that could possibly attract that amount of people? And if you guessed ice cream, please try again. Soccer. |
 |
| Dinner! |
 |
| AFS Fortaleza 2012. |
I'll post/link to videos later.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The Last 100 Days
Warning: Lots of cake in this one.
It starts tomorrow.
Or, at least, I think it starts tomorrow, because I have been getting some pretty conflicting return dates. June 28. June 24. June 23. July. Aghh.
I received an email from the community theatre group I usually do during the summer, and we talked about how I would audition, and when, if possible, and they ask me, "When do you get back?"
To which I replied: "Nobody actually knows."
This is where I wonder if anybody has actually bought our planes tickets yet. AFS, sometimes you make me wonder. (Note: AFS in your home country is responsible for buying your return ticket.)
In Portuguese, there is this verb aproveitar, best translated as "to make use of (something)". We don't actually have a verb for this in English, but I think Thoreau said it best: “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die Discover that I had not lived.”
I think aproveitar is a little more compact, but that's just my opinion.
But, let me tell you, I am gonna aproveitar these last 100 days. I have trips planned. I am going to Canoa Quebrada (a beach - check it out) this weekend with AFS. I am going to visit Salvador in late April with my host mother, Elif, and my host mother's friend. During the semana santa (the week leading to Easter), I am going to do...something. That I have no quite figured out.
I don't even know where to begin with a checklist. There's so much stuff I want to do. It's like a hysteria. I have to cram everything in there. I have to find some way around these obstacles that pervade my life. Jeitinho, I tell myself. The little way. Like rain, slipping through the cracks. It exists.
But because I like to keep positive, I'm going to say this: I think the fact that there even are obstacles for me to work around is pretty exciting. Adventure. Challenges. That's why I'm here. When I go out, I get sidetracked so often I should probably get myself a behavioral correction device so that those fifteen minutes don't turn into four hours, but I don't because the very idea of doing something I didn't plan out is exciting.
Serendipity is the isle we seek; and her ship: she sails by the name of spontaneity.
Or something like that. For those of you who don't know what serendipity is (it doesn't translate into other languages), think of it as a fortunate discovery. Like you went looking for a needle in a haystack and emerged with the farmer's daughter in hand. Or something like that.
My last post was about this not being real, about how I can't believe that I can actually have my cake and eat it too. Now this post I'm going to tell you it's becoming too real. You can't put an expiration date on this. I've been so anxious for the point where my Portuguese is fluent enough so that I can actually understand what's going on around me, and now that it actually have the nerve to show up I want more time.
Gotta go squeeze it out.
That reminds me. We just bought a juicer. Time to make some orange juice. Peace.
It starts tomorrow.
Or, at least, I think it starts tomorrow, because I have been getting some pretty conflicting return dates. June 28. June 24. June 23. July. Aghh.
 |
| Nobody else knows who's gonna win this starting contest... |
To which I replied: "Nobody actually knows."
This is where I wonder if anybody has actually bought our planes tickets yet. AFS, sometimes you make me wonder. (Note: AFS in your home country is responsible for buying your return ticket.)
In Portuguese, there is this verb aproveitar, best translated as "to make use of (something)". We don't actually have a verb for this in English, but I think Thoreau said it best: “I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die Discover that I had not lived.”
I think aproveitar is a little more compact, but that's just my opinion.
But, let me tell you, I am gonna aproveitar these last 100 days. I have trips planned. I am going to Canoa Quebrada (a beach - check it out) this weekend with AFS. I am going to visit Salvador in late April with my host mother, Elif, and my host mother's friend. During the semana santa (the week leading to Easter), I am going to do...something. That I have no quite figured out.
I don't even know where to begin with a checklist. There's so much stuff I want to do. It's like a hysteria. I have to cram everything in there. I have to find some way around these obstacles that pervade my life. Jeitinho, I tell myself. The little way. Like rain, slipping through the cracks. It exists.
“Your name is Rain, isn’t it? Rain slips in the cracks and slides through the seams. You can do it? Can’t you?”We'll start with number one: I just forgot how to spell "obstacles". I should be so much more worried about this...
But because I like to keep positive, I'm going to say this: I think the fact that there even are obstacles for me to work around is pretty exciting. Adventure. Challenges. That's why I'm here. When I go out, I get sidetracked so often I should probably get myself a behavioral correction device so that those fifteen minutes don't turn into four hours, but I don't because the very idea of doing something I didn't plan out is exciting.Serendipity is the isle we seek; and her ship: she sails by the name of spontaneity.
Or something like that. For those of you who don't know what serendipity is (it doesn't translate into other languages), think of it as a fortunate discovery. Like you went looking for a needle in a haystack and emerged with the farmer's daughter in hand. Or something like that.
My last post was about this not being real, about how I can't believe that I can actually have my cake and eat it too. Now this post I'm going to tell you it's becoming too real. You can't put an expiration date on this. I've been so anxious for the point where my Portuguese is fluent enough so that I can actually understand what's going on around me, and now that it actually have the nerve to show up I want more time.
Gotta go squeeze it out.
 |
| Ugur, from Turkey, came to visit us this weekend. |
 |
| Cake. It may be a lie, but it tasted great. We exchange students love our cake. |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)