Getting A Life (Sort Of)

As the fall season approaches on the homeland, I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't miss seasons. A great singer once said, "The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time." Well, that can be difficult when my days are inseparable based on their weather. Don't get me wrong, I love not having to check the forecast every morning before leaving my room or needing a big enough wardrobe to prepare for Minnesota's daily climatic mood swings. But no matter how much we northerners enjoying griping about it, and how bad the Twins are doing, weather is an unconsciously effective way to distinguish your days from one another. If I were to think about what I did on Wednesday after class, I probably wouldn't be able to remember. Whereas, on Minnesota Street, one can always count on the state's multiple personalities to help you remember that was the night you went to the bar because it was pouring rain or walked in the woods in the afternoon because the sun was shining. I can't even imagine what that's like here on a longer time scale. Everyone in Stearns County remembers the summer of '12 as one of the wildest, with buildings flooding, Arboretum blowdowns, and hail larger than golf balls (that Brian and I hid from in my Dad's Camry on campus, giving the car itself a golf ball look to it). But in Colombia, if you said you were born that year when it was partly cloudy and kinda rained a lot, you'd be giving yourself a few centuries of leeway. So it is a bit sheepishly that I attempt to recount what the hell I've been up to during the last two weeks, paying very little attention to chronological correctitude.

Becoming a Legal Colombian (sort of)

What consumed me for about a week was the ever-so-convenient process of acquiring our work visas.  Last years volunteers had written us a six page guide to getting a visa in Colombia, complete with hints on how to skirt various obstacles that present the applicant with a certain bureaucratic jankiness. So after a few weeks gathering the necessary documents, we finally held our breaths as we waded through two hours of smoggy morning traffic to the Chancelor's Office in Bogota. We got our number, only to find out that the building didn't have an ATM to take out cash needed to pay for the visa. Conveniently, none of the ATMs around took my card, so I waited with our driver and a monk who accompanied us while Devon did his thing filling out paperwork. After that office, one then has to proceed to Immigration a few blocks down and get their fingerprints, pictures, and visa stamp etc. All in all, that day took nine hours, since the system 'shut down' while Devon was waiting at Immigration. A few days later, I tried my luck again, this time having taken money out at a known reliable ATM near us. In a rare stroke of luck, I was able to hit both Chancellor and Immigration in less than two hours, but ended up waiting hours for our driver who thought it was going to take as long as the first day. Finally, just last Friday, we were both able to go and pick up our actual ID card, a Colombian visa good for one year from last week. So after three days of waiting for my name to be called and filling out so many forms that my Colombian phone number and address is branded into my memory, I triumphantly walked into my afternoon class wearing my Colombian jersey, eliciting more than a few cheers and Eso!!'s.    

Becoming a Cultural Colombian (sort of)

While getting my visa did take three full days and was a stress that had been on my mind for a while, what really kept me from typing these pitiful paragraphs was that I was rarely in my room. Firstly, I've only sung karaoke twice in my life, and both times were in Bogota. The first embarrassment came when celebrating birthday parties for two monks here, and the second came when we went to a nearby karaoke bar with some other teachers who had stayed after school to play the students in soccer a couple weeks ago. I should probably use the word "yelled," since we didn't know a lot of the songs, and we were in a bar. Naturally, where at first we thought we sounded like Cher and Sinatra's love-children, we later watched the videos with plugged ears. Yes, yelled is a much better word.

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In a conscious effort to not spend so much time in my room, I have been frequenting a different sort of local watering hole, a panaderia (basically, a bakery). Now, this requires some background: Back in Chile, my friend Ari wanted to go to a certain nearby bar often enough that the atmosphere would be Cheers-esque, that the employees would know his name, and they would shoot the breeze until the early hours of the morning. Ultimately, I think his endeavors were unsuccessful, though they might have at least recognized him towards the end. Well, his goal then and mine now are the same. This Panaderia is only about 3 blocks from the monastery, and one week I ended up going four days straight. The fruits of my effort has been that the ladies who work there not only recognize me, but know what I get (take that, Ari), which is some pastry/cookie combined with an avena drink, which is essentially an oat smoothie with whole milk. It probably doesn't grace the bottom of the food pyramid with its presence, or whatever they're using these days, but damn is it good. The downside is that the ladies there might also think I'm crazy because I go there so often. The younger one who takes my order always gives me a "why the hell is this gringo always here?" side glance that I'm never able to decipher. On the other hand, deciphering a woman's thoughts or intent has never been my strong suit, hence monastery.

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"Wait, wait! Okay, now I'm ready..."

In a welcome twist of fate, high-school athletics has once again dribbled into my life. Since day one, I have been glad that I have had the opportunity to work with the boy's basketball team here. Running, shooting and goofing around with the same kids I have to be professional with in the classroom has been more fun than I anticipated. This weekend, we had a tournament nearby that included boy's and girl's basketball and volleyball. So, we packed a bus full of hormones and released them upon a real swanky high-school. Our first opponent was a no-show, and we won our next three games to put us in the final against the host school. Though we ended up losing in the championship, I'm still of the mind that losing can frequently be more important than winning. As long as you're not always losing, it can better motivate you to work harder and teach you how to improve. It also helps that Daniel is one hell of a good coach. Not exactly the most outspoken guy, he's the computer science teacher at our high-school. But when it comes to basketball, he's well spoken and has a firm grasp on when to motivate and when to congratulate. He also happens to be the best basketball player I've seen down here so far, which can go a long way in retaining authority as a coach in any sport. He and the other coaches, Alex (girls basketball, mathematics), Felipe (volleyball, biology), and Sergio (soccer, phy ed) are a great group of guys that are always fun to be around.

Both boy's and girl's basketball teams get in on the huddle
after two second place finishes. Both teams were upset,
but they celebrated together anyways. If that's not what
sports are all about, I don't know what is.

While I, too, mourn the lack of blogging frequency these last few weeks, I don't lament it too much considering I have made up for it Skyping friends and family. The urge to type about my current life is severely diminished when I'm explaining it to people a few nights a week. But, hopefully, I can get back on that life-contemplating track. Until next time, here's a collage of most of the people who have taken the time to chat with me. Much appreciated y'all!

Some of the Skypers so far. At least, the ones I've remembered to snatch a shot of. Not sure how Ben didn't end up here.

Spanish word of the day: burlarse means to mock or tease. Since it's reflexive, I usually use it like "Siempre me burlan" (They always give me shit) in regards to the monks teasing me whenever they get the chance, or as "Porque me burlas asi?" (Why you gotta tease me like that?) when I walk into the bakery and all the ladies start cracking jokes about the gringo bread-lover.

Song in my head lately: My friend Dan introduced me to Jackson Browne back in high-school, and this song still gets me. These Days is my favorite of his, though Take it Easy and Runnin' on Empty are good road trippin' songs, too.

J.