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
Friday, June 22, 2012
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.
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