Fireflies Dancing in a Marsh

Totally unrelated to the post, but I had
my 6th grade English class to draw
 2 people and write sentences describing
 them. This is one student's rendition
of their teacher.

It's probably safe to say that most people in my generation, at some point during their scholarly years, took the time to Google their teachers or tried to find them on Facebook. I remember finding an assistant teacher's Facebook page when I was in middle school. His profile picture featured his nonathletic self in basketball shorts hiked up to his nipples and I thought I had stumbled upon the world's greatest secret, mostly because I only ever saw him in khakis and a dress shirt that never seemed to fit. So I wasn't too surprised to have my own students start adding me on Facebook last year. That hasn't been too much of a problem this year since I moved down to 6th and 7th grade (our school doesn't allow kids under 13 to have Facebook, so them adding me would be asking for punishment from the school). What did catch me a little off guard was when a student told me on Monday that he'd seen my video on Youtube. For a moment, my mind screamed, "Shit, what videos do I have on Youtube??" before remembering that I only appear in three videos (I'll save you some time: one is a relay finish before my body began failing me in life, another is making leche asada in Chile for a Spanish assignment with my friend, Bobby, and the last one is our Beyonce dance last year at school here in Colombia). But, much like 12 year old JJ, this kid thought he'd struck gold. Or, at least black mail. Naturally, by the time Friday came around, nearly all of my students had seen me either dance in a Chilean kitchen or in front of hundreds of innocent Colombian youths. Unfortunately for this kid who'd thought he'd discovered my darkest secrets, I could give zero you-know-whats if everyone saw me dancing because I've grown to enjoy the hell out of it.

I should probably clarify some things. First, when I say dancing, I sure as shit don't mean whatever atrocities are committed in the crapshoot that is Sal's Bar back in St. Joe. People throwing their bodies against one another in a rhythmically challenged, alcohol ridden seizure isn't really appealing to anyone involved. And second, by saying I enjoy real dancing definitely does not mean that I claim to be any good at it. But I've sure found chances to do it a lot recently.

Good pictures are impossible.

Early in the week we decided to finally go to Gringo Tuesdays, an event at a bar in the swanky Zona Rosa district that encourages learning of different languages. We had heard from other expats that we'd met that this event also helps gringo dudes meet Colombian dudettes, which played no part in our decision to go whatsoever. When we walked in I was initially taken aback by how much English I was hearing, since I never hear it spoken in public these days (you know, Colombia). We quickly found our way to an English table (there were tables for French, English, Spanish, German, and Portuguese, with basic and advanced tables for each) and said our hellos. I had asked my friend Tatiana if she wanted to join as well to practice her English. But since it was a crowded and loud bar the conversation quickly reverted back to Spanish, as two occasionally confused gringos were better than five frequently confused Colombians. It turned out to be a lot more fun than I had originally thought, meeting new people and knowing where to find an enclave of young people with a similar desire to improve a second language. What was even more fun was when the clock struck nine and security came around and started stacking chairs in the corner to make room for a dance floor. I must have been distracted by the riveting conversation with our new friends to notice how quickly a DJ got set up and dudes were on stage singing, rapping, dancing, etc. We ended up dancing way later than I'd wanted to, since I was the only one who had to work as early as 6:30 the next morning. But as is my motto: #$%& it, worth it.

Some homeroom kids, as well as my homeroom
co-director, Eliana.

Friday brought democracy to our school, an increasing rarity around the world these days it seems. We had our student body presidential vote, with the incumbent eventually winning. There were also seminars and videos on the importance of democracy. To cap the day of civic happenery, we had mini Olympics, with each grade forming teams and competing against each other in various sports. Each homeroom also was given a country and needed to create a flag and team cheer/dance. My group, 6B, represented Peru like a boss, taking home the award for the best cheer. Which is a good thing too, because we didn't win anything else the rest of the day! Later that evening, Alex and I had another basketball game. We ended up losing, but we had also lent the other team one of our better players since they were too few. What was more fun was grabbing a few beers with Alex afterward and getting to know the math man better.

Saturday was supposed to be uneventful. I had nothing on my mind but grading quizzes and reading, until I went to find Luz, one of the monastery cooks, to tell her that we had to decline her invite to go dancing with her daughter and friends next weekend because we had something previously planned. Contrary to my expectations, she lit up and said, Well that's good, because I actually wanted to ask if you wanted to go tonight instead! I thought for a second about my fun-filled evening awaiting me 'neath the stack of seventh grade quizzes on adverbs of frequency, and quickly said I'd run and grab Devon. We ended up going to a club relatively close to the monastery with Leidy - Luz' daughter - and her friends (yes, that's pronounced like lady, and yes, it's a fairly common name here). Again, the dancing lasted much longer than my body wanted it to, especially with the basketball game the night before. But, again, @#$% it, worth it. Plus this club had a bubble machine and flamethrowers on stage that nearly gave me an early hairstyle change.

When someone asks me what we dance in the States, I can already sense a long conversation arriving.  "Well, we don't have a national dance or anything. In fact we don't really dance much at all."
"Then, what do you do at clubs or parties?"
"That's a really great question."
Thus ensues having to describe typical American parties, not exactly a pleasant experience when talking to someone from any other country but Ireland and drinking isn't the focus of the party. I usually try to divert attention away from the drinking by claiming that we make up for it with lawn games, board games, bonfires, and other related shenanigans. But another topic I'm made to reconsider more while living in another country is how much Americans drink. And yes, I realize how many read that last sentence and thought to themselves, Damn right, we do! And, well, that is related to a bunch of other uniquely American problems fit for a different conversation. All those things - games and fires - are all fine and fun, but our dancing is atrocious. I learned how to polka last spring, but just as likely as someone my age having looked up a teacher on Facebook is that same someone not knowing how to dance. Again, not claiming I do it well. But I've at least lost the inhibitions of looking like an idiot, which is something I consistently do very well.

J.

Spanish word of the day: This is a random one. So I was midst quiz-grading yesterday when I was really starting to get annoyed with all the yelling happening outside my window. I looked out, and there were all the cooks and janitors of San Carlos doing fire training, complete with fires to put out and hoops to crawl under. The oft yelled word that drew me to the window was agachado! that came booming from a fully clad fireman yelling at the workers to stay ducked when they crawl under the hoops. This is because the verb agachar means to duck.

Song in my head lately: At the end of 2014, I was on my way down to Florida to canoe in the Everglades with some great people from CSB/SJU. My seat buddy on the way down, Katherine, introduced me to Matt Corby, a smoldering aussie with a vocal range that is decently rare these days. Resolution is one of his better ones, though Made of Stone - very different, stylistically - is also incredible. Listening to him will always remind me of the 30 hour van ride down to Florida and back. What a trip. Currently on another one here in Colombia.

Come here so I can paint your face, office cat.