Our Endless Numbered Days

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
- Iron and Wine


Getting ready to leave [a] home is a bizzare thing. Each time I am about to leave somewhere this bittersweet countdown starts. It´s full of excitement and sadness, satisfaction and confusion. It´s like waiting for Christmas but knowing that Christmas passes quickly and then you´re back to ordinary life but surrounded by wrapping paper.
 
But now (day 14 until I´m home, on the countdown) I simply feel as if I´m drifting. I´m not grasping for extra time with anyone (like Chile), nor am I anxiously packing and making lists of things I´ll do when I get home. (Mostly because those lists were made six months ago.) I´m just going along like I do every week. Grading tests, walking to class, walking home, as if telling myself to just forget the bomb that is about to drop on my idea of culture and family and life. I have no idea what kind of culture shock I´m in for. Granted, I´m not in the depths of Africa or on top of a mountain in Nepal, but I feel something boding, or if not boding, definitely lurking, waiting to take me by surprise.
 
But I come armed with a vuvuzuela.

Happy Father's Day, Daddyman!

For my sweet Daddy,

I wanted to save this letter for Father’s Day. I hope you didn’t think I’d left you out. I missed the past two Father’s Days because I was at camp, but this is the first Father’s Day that I’m spending with someone else’s daddy. It’s kind of bizarre being abroad and having a father figure. This whole year I have lived with family where the father wasn’t present. But living with Cacho, Silvia, and Lula here in Laboulaye, I have a father to compare to you. And in that comparison, I miss you and appreciate you more than ever.

Cacho is a really nice, funny man, but he’s so dedicated to his work; He spends all of his time in the office. We only see him at meal times and on the weekends. Apparently it’s always been like this, even when his children were younger. He never makes time for his children. He doesn’t care about their sports games or their school plays. He doesn’t even care to take his wife out to dinner every once and a while or to go see live music. While he is very responsible, and a hard worker, he is not who I would consider a family man, a daddy.

Dad, you have always been so involved, so supportive with Haley and me. My favorite memories of you are from when I was a little girl. You came to as many of my sports games as you could. Track meets, baseball games, basketball, soccer, swim team. I’m sure you missed a few games, but that’s not the memory that I have. When I remember swim meets I think of the splash of the water, the heavy smell of chlorine, the thrill of adrenaline, the warm summer air. But mostly, I remember hearing your voice yelling “GO BEAN!!!” whenever I came up for a breath.

You’ve always been our playmate. You build couch cushion forts with us in the old house. You raced boogie boards with us at the beach. You threw pop flies for me in the backyard and you screamed louder than anyone at Warthogs games. And even as I’ve grown up and only come home on occasional weekends, you delight in renting movies for our family to watch together. I love that you’ve never ignored us. You’ve never been too old to play.

Vacation Man, you organized all of our trips. You took us to Disney World, to New York, to Lake Tahoe to California, and to the beach every year. I remember when Vacation Man and I took a road trip to Tennessee. I remember when we locked our keys in the car and when Vacation Man was clever enough to get the door open with a coat hanger. And I remember standing there, looking excitedly at the bag of Cheetoes (a special roadtrip treat) on the floor of your maroon Honda.(Let´s be clear that I was somewhere between the ages of 3 and 6, for anyone who doesn´t know this story.). When I was twelve years old (or was I eleven?) you took me to Chicago on a business trip. You made that trip magical. Cookies were specially delivered to our hotel room with my name on them. We wandered around downtown Chicago and just enjoyed being there instead of being stressed tourists trying to cram sights in. We had were serenaded on the “L” Train, we stuffed ourselves full of baby back ribs, and we got an excellent caricature done of us. Vacation Man you’ve taken me many places, and you’ve helped me develop a love of traveling and planning. And for all of the places that we have gone in the USA, that trip to Chicago stands alone as my favorite.

There are so many things that you did that other daddies wouldn’t have the time of day for. You became an official Girl Scout so that you could go on our trips. You build a fort and swing set in our back yard. You let us paint your underwear in the back yard. You blew kisses and hugs over the phone every night before we went to sleep when you had to live away from your family and work in Charlotte. You have helped me move in to every dorm room I’ve ever lived in. You taught me how to drive a car.

I feel like I had to really leave home to fully realize how much I love and appreciate every member of my family. And for this Father’s Day, I want to thank you for being so special, for being so unique from other fathers, and for being so important in my life.

Thank you for still calling me nicknames and for treating me like your sweet little baby.

Thank you for always making me feel safe and supported, from “Daddy’s gotchu” on the changing table to driving me to the airport and letting me take this trip.

Thank you for being the person I can always count on with financial questions and important future-deciding decisions.

Thank you for taking pleasure in doing something that many men (especially in Argentina) lack the effort and talent in doing: cooking.

Thank you for going on roller coasters with me and for taking us camping (even when I thought I hated it.)

Thank you for teaching me the value in laughing and making faces during an argument.

Thank you for showing us – and the world – how a truly wonderful, loving daddy should be.

In just two weeks I’ll come home and get to laugh and watch movies with one of my favorite playmates. So, SKEEEEZIX!! I’m ready to come home! I love you so much Dad!

Happy Father’s Day! See you real soon!

Love,

Your first baby, Beeeeeaaaaaan

Conocer

It's been a long time since I've written here in my blog. I can't lie and say that I've been too busy to write, because while I have been busy, I've mostly just been uninspired. My journals continue filling but recently I haven't felt the urge to share what has been going on because mostly it's just petty thoughts and worries. In three days will mark the on month point until I touch down on United States soil and my adventure ends. I remember telling people "I'll be down there for a year" and always hearing "Oh my gosh! Won't you get homesick?!" My response was always, "I've never really been homesick." And let me tell you, while homesickness is no fun at all, nothing feels better than knowing that I'm returning home without that nagging "need-to-get-out-and-travel" ache. I feel so satisfied with what I've accomplished here. I'm proud of who I've met, what I've seen, and what I've learned.

Any regrets? Just a few:
1. I didn't go to Patagonia. But honestly, I feel like Patagonia deserves its own trip. it deserves a full month of my attention.
2. I wish I could have travelled around more of Argentina. I'd like to go to the north: Jujuy, Salta. etc because the culture up there is so different! Maybe that'll have to wait for when I return to WWOOF around South America :)
3. I wish I could have gone to Brazil. Visas to Brazil are only obtainable by winning a Capoeira dance fighting match and then by single-handedly taming a pit full of anacondas. Or something to that degree of difficulty.

But all of that can wait. Right now I am filled with the excitement that I get to finish the year and a half of college and see where life takes me from there. Hopefully it'll take me in and out of our 50 states. People who have traveled to the USA always ask me, "Have you been to the Grand Canyon? Have you been to Vegas? etc etc" indicating the many natural wonders and tourist attractions that my expansive country holds. And shamefully My answers are always "No." When I think about the paces I did have the fortune to go to as a child, I remember not appreciating them. I wish I could have gone to Yosemite National Park more recently rather than as a disinterested 12-year-old.

In Castellano, instead of asking "Have you been to Florida" they ask "Do you know Florida?" It seems so much more personal. So my next goal is to know my country. Because honestly, how can I complain (something I did frequently about the USA before leaving) about a country that I don't even know?

Adrienne and I in Buenos Aires on her 21st birthday. 

Sharing

Everytime I write about my family I feel like I´m speaking for some small part of myself. My family is an example of one of those cases where you can look at a person and glance up the tree to see where his or her traits came from. I´m not only talking about physical traits; I mean emotional, psychological traits. Interests. And right now I want to look over to the other branch of our tree to honor my sister, Haley.

Haley and I are 18 months apart, but as we grow older it becomes more and moer apparent to me how little time separates our ages. I believe that to be a sister is to share. Haley and I toddled through our childhood going from sharing a bedroom, to sharing clothes, to sharing cars, and now to sharing only a brief Skype phone call every once in a while. The other day my mom told me something (verifying a quality that I believe many close sisters to have.) She said that when two girls are born so close in age, their relationship will be very close, but also competitive for the spotlight. With that said, I think that some of the hardest things for two sisters to share are expectations for what life will bring.

Haley, I know that you (probably) feel like you´ve grown up behind a shadow. I don´t say this in a "woo-woo-look-at-me" way, but as a simple acknowledgment of the role that many younger sisters take. The older sister has to go out testing the waters while the younger one waits around to get permission from the parents to enter into only that same ocean. Kind of like some cruel Chinese buffet where you´re only allowed to sample only what big sis has already tried. But you know what? There are some foods that are way too spicey for me, while you eat them with no problem. (That salsa at La Carreta? I mean, I was 17 before I could eat it!) So, like I said, to be in the shadow of your older sister must be hard, whether the shadow be in good or bad light. I can imagine that it would make independence and identity frustrating. Especially because there is an older Haley-look-alike running around out there, a year and a half ahead. Life becomes a question of how to be different from this aged model of yourself.

And you know what? It´s hard for me too. All I want to do is share my experiences with you, but I know that for the sole reason that I´ve done them, you must by obligation take a different path. And because our relationship is so close, it doesn´t help that every year we´re pushed just a little bit farther from each other. I know it might feel like I abandonded you. I left home to live at boarding school before the average teenager leaves. Then I went off to college and wasn´t there for you when you were sad or lonely. I wasn´t the supportive sister that I wanted to be. I was gone all year at college and all summer at camp for two years consecutively. Then I thought I would take myself abraod for my own well-being. But you know what? I´ve really missed you.

I didn´t like not being able to help move you into your first dorm room. I didn´t like not being home for your (or ANYONE´S) birthday. And most of all I hated that our family was split up on Christmas. It´s not Christmas until we´ve gotten our coffee and climbed into Mom and Dad´s bed to eat biscotti cookies. In fact, it isn´t any special occasion until we´ve done that. It´s sad to me that although I´m coming home at the beginning of July, I won´t be able to see you until August.

But you know what Haley-bug? You go do your own thing and find your place in life, under the spotlight and out of the shadows. And as we grow older and spread ourselves over the world, let´s not forget all of those things we shared. Let´s not forget those nights of sumo wrestling, clad only in panties. Let´s not forget that tradition we tried to start of always sleeping in the same twin bed on Christmas Eve. Or of the games we invented with our "stuffed-up" animals. Or of the game where we´d pile each other with Mom and Dad´s pillows from their bed and then body slam each other. Always asking afterwards, "Did that huuuurt?" "Nooo." Or of our fanatical (and goal oriented) roller-blade sessions around Carolina Circle. Let´s not forget how we used to repeat scenes from movies over and over ("Little Women") or play with Barbies in the bathtub. And do you remember how we´d chase each other around the house leaving greasy handprints always on the same part of the hallway? Let´s not forget the dances we choreographed (Think Pink!) nor the Mad Tiger game on the rug.

Essentially when I think of my relationship with you, Haley, I remember how easy it was to play and to laugh. It was so easy to amuse ourselves with our imaginations for hours on end. And now that creativity is expressed only through Skype chats and sharing humorous YouTube videos. I know that a lot of times I am judgmental and close-minded about some things. But I admire that you don´t seem to share those qualities. You always get me (even if you don´t agree where I´m coming from.) I feel like sometimes our minds are just so in sync, whether that means wearing the exact same outfit when we´re in different cities or just by having a very similar sense of humor. And that´s sisterhood, isn´t it? From sharing a bedroom to sharing mindwaves.

So this summer I´ll be sending all of the positive mindwaves and good thoughts that I have in the direction of Chicago. That will at least have to do until August when I can move you into your sophomore dormroom (RA! Geez we´re both so old!) and go back to being your big sister again.

I love you bug-bug,

your Gillibean

"Teacher"

Get settled, this is more than your 30 minute Barney episode.

3/19/10

            I owe it to myself and to at least my devoted readers (Aunt Erin) to write a bit about my most recent experiences. I moved to Laboulaye (a very small city in the south of the province of Córdoba) to work as an English teacher and to “got mitzvah” myself into adulthood. Laboulaye is one of those cities (would probably be considered a “town” in the States) where you can’t walk downtown without seeing absolutely everyone you know. With that being said, my second day here I was interviewed for the local news channel (Channel 2.) I stumbled through the interview (all the while grinning and nodding with an upset stomach) and then thought nothing of it. The next day I was lunching with Claudia and her mother when my bite of chicken was interrupted by my face appearing on the TV screen. My eyes rolled around in my head as I nodded too frequently to what the news anchor was saying (“Ella es Jeelian EsScrum.”) A grin was stretched almost painfully across my face as I was jabbering in terrible Spanish, and to my horror, mimicking a typical “American Southern accent.” I could have died. But what’s worse is that in a tiny town full of people who ALL watch News Channel 2 during their lunch at 1pm, everybody saw it. I am recognized by all, yet I know no one. People pass me on the street on motorbikes and actual bikes and saw loudly “That’s her!! That’s that girl!” I was recognized and blessed by a nun a few days ago. But when you’re the ONLY North American in a town of 20,000 Argentineans, I guess it’s hard to hide.

Teaching English has been like giving your toddler big girl pants just a little bit before she knows what big girl pants are all about. All of a sudden my days are full of lesson plans and games; all the while I’m not really certain how to teach. It’s one thing to teach something that you’ve been taught. When I teach someone to tie a climbing knot, I visualize the method that Mr. Hartley (my 6^th grade theater teacher) taught me. (He also taught rock climbing. Where can I score that job?) But language is one of those things that you are learning before you can even walk. Imagine trying to explain to someone how to not just pee one’s pants. You just don’t. You know not to. And if you do, you suffer the consequences. We grow without learning complicated (man-created) structures for basic, conversational language. We don’t learn rules for when you’d use “I’ll” vs “I’m going to.” To ask the question “Why do you put ‘does’ at the beginning of a sentence?” means nothing to us (to native English speakers.) But then, when you declare that “to do” is an action and “to have” implies ownership, it becomes difficult to explain the following sentence to a non-English speaker:

“Do you think if you had had more things to do that you would have gotten them done, had you more time to have done them?

Oh, and one other odd thing about teaching. In Chile they called me “Miss Gillian” (pronounced “Mees Sheelian” or sometimes just Tía (aunty.) Here in Argentina they don’t call me by my name at all. They call me “Teacher.” Now THAT I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. That’s just a little bit too apple-on-the-desk-paddle-in-the-drawer for me.

The class levels I’m teaching are mixed. Here’s my schedule:

-Monday and Wednesdays: 2:30-4pm I teach two men who are very advanced in their English. Their names are Marcelino and Marcelo, believe it or not.

-Monday and Thursday from 6:30-8pm is a group of 6 11-year-old beginners. Right now we’re reviewing numbers.

-Tuesdays and Thursdays: 3pm-4:30pm I teach a group of 6 intermediate students (ages ranging from 16 to 26.)

-Tuesdays and Wednesdays from 8:15-9:45pm is my favorite group. It’s a group of 8 13-year-olds, mostly girls, who love games and are very motivated. Even the girl who sometimes refuses to play the games told me today excitedly that she was writing a murder mystery in English. It’s nice to know that even if students are not exactly engaged in EVERYTHING you’re doing, that they still have a personal interest and are willing to share part of it with you.

I WAS teaching a 5 year old beginners class, but that has recently be unleashed upon a different teacher. Here’s how the second day of this class went:

We spent 10 minutes copying the date on the board. (I blame myself, never underestimate the excitement of a 5 year old to actually be able to copy something off a board. Also never underestimate the amount of time that activity can take. And then after it’s all said and done, they’ve written “Viernes” instead of Friday (what the board says.)) Then we spent 30 minutes of me saying “Findddddd red!” and various other colors, and then all of us thundering around the tiny room, knocking over metal pencil boxes, jumping up and down on chairs, and searching for yellow (when we were supposed to be looking for red.) But that was a fun game! Then, a note came through that we needed to copy down the new schedule (Copying off the board again!) and it took another 30 minutes to write “Miércoles y Jueves, 6:15-7:15pm. Man was that hard. Especially when we didn’t like how it was written and erased it every time our hand managed to scrawl out the letters. And then we got our foot stuck in the chair. Three times. And then we knocked over our pencil case again. And then someone else’s pencil case. And then we made our grandmother (and the taxi downstairs) wait for us for 15 minutes while we ferociously colored a picture of a pear orange -- What? It’s wasn’t a pumpkin? (I couldn’t be talking about a certain hyperactive little kid!)

Thus far my Fridays are free, but they are soon to be filled with adult conversational classes. I’m told that in April I’ll start tutoring (making monnnneyyy) for several people around the city. So that’s my schedule!

I do have one humorous (and eerie) story from one of my classes. Marcelo, Marcelino and I were reading a ghost story to go over the past perfect tenses (I had been, he had been, etc.). At the end of the story I asked the men (simply to relate to the text) if either of them knew a ghost story from Laboulaye. Marcelo then proceeded to nonchalantly recount (as most non-English speakers do in broken English) the one ghost story he knew of Laboulaye. It went like this:

“Yes, so there was a girl from the United States who came to Laboulaye and then disappeared. People say that she was murdered by this man and then buried in his backyard. We think that she’s dead because people have claimed to see her in front of store windows or sometimes on the side of the highway. Yes, and his family lives across from this Institute.”

As the story continued I began to kick myself more and more for asking such a simple, yet revealing discussion question. I thought (hoped) he was perhaps making it up to scare me considering that he was talking to the ONLY female American currently residing in Laboulaye. But no, it’s been confirmed as true. Virginia (an Argentinean English teacher) explained to me that the woman had been in the wrong crowd, was pregnant, and into hard drugs, so no way would anything like this ever happen to me. But it’s not like I’m a secret anyway. Everyone knows I’m here, thanks to News Channel 2. What a coincidence that an innocent ghost story should affect me so much! But I have nothing to worry about, apparently, seeing as I am neither a drug addict, pregnant, nor poorly seen in the city, yet.

Uruguay

Sorry it's been so long! here's a journal entry from 3/14/10

And now I’m back in Argentina having just gone to Uruguay for the weekend (because you can do that from Buenos Aires) with Adrienne and her friend Nichole. I really liked Montevideo. I’m trying to think of the best strategies of convincing Haley to study abroad there. I just loved that it was so small, with such a similar culture as Argentina, except there’s this special difference: Carnival. And I’m sure if I were there for Carnival I’d think even more strongly about this, but I felt the city’s love of dressing up, drumming, and dancing just from my weekend of being there and from my 15 minutes in the Carnival Museum. I imagine that it’s very much like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, except with a South American twist. (Carnival happens in Brazil, Uruguay, and in northern Argentina as a last hooray just before lent.) Even though Carnival is now over, we still ran into parades of drummers and dancers snaking spiritedly through the streets (in a residential area, not one that was intended for tourists). We also watched a group of face-painted Uruguayans sing and drum their hearts out in the downtown plaza.

(Picture snapped of Carnivalers preparing for the festivities)

Also, I really liked the diversity I saw through Uruguay’s beachy streets. Due to (I’m assuming) the large Brazilian population, the streets are full of people of all colors. Those of darker hues aren’t stared as nearly as much as they are in Chile or in Argentina. And coming from a county that tries so hard to preach its acceptance of diversity (of skin, that is…), my white guilt seemed to heave a sigh of relief.

 It’s funny to actually visit a place for once. I’ve always had such different relationships with the places I visit versus the places I live in. To live in a place, I like to scuff the blankets around a dozen times with my feet and then turn around and around in one place for about 8 hours until I feel comfortable, smoothing out knots and fluffing rumples. (Viña del Mar, Mar del Plata, Laboulaye – in permanent dwellings I’m always criticizing and taking small details into deep account.) But the second I know that nothing is permanent (such as in Perú, south of Chile, Montevideo, places I spend less than a week in), I can easily make myself as comfortable as a cat snoozing precariously balanced atop a set of wobbly clothes hangers. (Do any of you know Scout?)

Reasons I liked Uruguay:

-       feels small and close-knit

-       culture – like Argentinean except with Carnival and with a seemingly greater love for drinking mate (they walk around with their mates and thermoses in hand all day long)

-       beauty – the beaches on the river that seem like the ocean

-       tourism – definitely available but distant. Doesn’t scream at you like in Buenos Aires

-       good wine (who’da thunk it!?) and tasty (huge) sandwiches called “chivitas”

One set back: I had to immediately learn how to quickly divide by 20 (1 dollar is essentially 20 Uruguayan pesos).

 (Uruguayan sunset.)

So I head home to Laboulaye today (I’ve been living there for a week with Claudia, the director of my institute) and tomorrow I stat teaching, officially. OOOOH boy. We’ll see how it goes. It looks like I’ll have little kids and young teens. I’m definitely nervous. I’m not exactly sure at what level everyone is, or really even which book we’ll be using. The book I have right now is VERY British and emphasizes learning British culture as well as the UK geography. I’m not really sure what to do with that. I mean, I’ll teach it. But it’s kind of like an Argentinean being told to teach the culture of Spain. It’s kind of embarrassing how little I know of our “motherland,” excluding the crude accents I’ve been known to flaunt. But if I am supposed to know my mother country, I suppose I should update myself on England, Germany, Ireland, Scotland, Holland, and who knows where else in order to give an accurate depiction of “De dónde soy.”

Destination

So I've been spending the past few weeks doing an English teacher training course here in Buenos Aires (the capital of Argentina) and have just recently found out in exactly which tiny town I'll be stationed. So on March 15th I'll start teaching at a language academy in Laboulaye, Cordoba.

Laboulaye: located in southeast Cordoba
Population: 19,908 (about the size of Carrboro, NC)

I'll be living with a family with two teenagers? I'll be teaching children, teenagers, and adults. That's all I know. Right now I'm up to my neck in past perfect-participle-simple-perfect progressive/continuous-gerund-stative and modal verbs. I'll swear on my grammar books that we never learned this jibber-jabber.